#also this is my first time drawing Dex without his mask

[cryptidofthekeys]

I still have to fucking screenshot this shit bc my ipad's locked my fucking gmail out :/ fuckin asshole-

but anyway

SPOOKY MONTH 6 SPOILERS

Also TW: Some blood and gore, its v cartoony looking but still

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(You can't see it bc screenshotting shit sucks ass at the bottom of the father gregor drawing- there's an orange-ish glow

it also sucks bc zooming in and seeing all the lil details I put in the background are kinda hard to see

but here it is!! fbgdfjkgdjf y'all- you have no idea how much that scene with Father Gregor and Dexter utterly destroyed me- like it legit utterly fucking killed me to see my boy, to see Dexter like that

[randomnoteforfuturereference]

It’s the Little Things: I

ForFutureReference

Words: 1525

Summary: It’s common knowledge that Dex has a multitude of skills tucked away. That doesn’t mean there aren’t times when he brings out a skill that catches Nursey off-guard. Especially when Dex helps Nursey with said skill. 

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | …

Author’s Note: Finally made my first CP fic (and my first fic in a while), and of course it’s a Nurseydex (though pre-romance). While Year Four hasn’t happened yet, this is vague enough to hopefully be canon-compliant. Special thanks to @kleeklutch for beta-ing. Hope you enjoy!

A bump… A snag… A tear…

At the sound of ripping fibers, blood drains from my face, and my chest constricts as I peer hesitantly at my sleeve and hope against hope that what I think just happened didn’t.

Despite that hope, a small jagged hole mars my sleeve and sends a jolt as painful as a check to the solar plexus.

I take a few steadying breaths as I trudge the rest of the way to my room. No big deal. No big deal at all. Doesn’t matter that this is the cardigan that my grandma gave to me right before I went to Samwell. Doesn’t matter that it provided comfort on days when I didn’t feel like facing the world. These things happen. It’s alright. It’s fine. It’s…

A bump… A snag… A tear…

At the sound of ripping fibers, blood drains from my face, and my chest constricts as I peer hesitantly at my sleeve and hope against hope that what I think just happened didn’t.

Despite that hope, a small jagged hole mars my sleeve and sends a jolt as painful as a check to the solar plexus.

I take a few steadying breaths as I trudge the rest of the way downstairs. No big deal. No big deal at all. Doesn’t matter that this is the cardigan that my grandma gave to me right before I went to Samwell. Doesn’t matter that it provided comfort on days when I didn’t feel like facing the world. These things happen. It’s alright. It’s fine. It’s…

“Chill.”

Of course I utter that word in the threshold of the basement while it’s occupied by my new roomie.

The word might as well be Pavlov’s bell. As if by instinct, two rings of molten metal look up to shine at me from darkness beyond a window. Dex says nothing, but he probably wishes that he could make the figurative flames in that glare literal.

And things just keep getting better…

I hoped that it wouldn’t be this way. I’ve been hoping that we figured things out by the end of last semester. Nope. The semester started as an uneasy truce. Then I had my little spill, and the whole situation deteriorated exponentially. One thing led to another, and before I knew it, Dex moved out. I mean, yeah, I told him that he'd leave by fall, but I didn't think he'd actually do it.

Whatever. Right now I’m tired and don’t have time for this shit. Instead of acknowledging Poindexter’s perpetual pissiness, I move for the washing machine so I can get things over with, call it an afternoon, and be done with this day.

“Wait.”

Dex’s word, and the sound of his window being slid up, is a barrier that stops me before I can even take two steps forward. It also makes me stumble and almost crash right into the washing machine.

If he notices, he makes no mention as he usually loves to do. In fact, I notice that his eyes no longer point at my face but have shifted down to torso-level.

Before I can blurt out an obligatory chirp, Dex beats me to the punch: “You hit that spot by the top of the stairs, didn’t you.”

It draws me up short. “Yeah. How—“

“I need to fix that soon before somebody ends up cutting themselves open,” he sighs before nodding at my sleeve. “You have some way to fix that sweater?”

“It’s a cardigan.” Because a petulant correction is really the only reasonable way to deal with this surreal scenario.

Surprisingly, Dex doesn’t take the bait. “Whatever. Question still stands.”

“Not really.” I’ll probably find a place to get it fixed once I return home. I know Geema’s not going to be angry or anything, but that doesn’t lessen the feeling that I’m letting her down.  

Dex stares at me for a couple seconds before heaving another sigh and looking back down to his computer. “Lemme finish this paragraph first.” Without looking up, he makes a grabby motion in my general direction.

My body responds before my mind can catch up. As soon as the cardigan’s off, I lob it towards Dex, who snatches it from mid-air with one hand while using the other to save whatever he’s working on.

With his full attention now on the cardigan, Dex’s eyebrows furrow into another scowl — more confused than the previous pissy —  as he handles the garment.

“The fuck is this? Alpaca?”

I have to keep my eyes from widening at the fact that Dex even knows what alpaca fleece is like. “Qiviut, actually.”

For a second, Dex freezes. Then grumbles, “Of course.” Great, is this going to be a rich people thing? Because— “Leave it to you to wear the fluffiest shit.”

“What can I say, Poindexter?” I lean up against the surprisingly sturdy wall of his subterranean bungalow and offer what I hope is an easy grin to masks my continued shock. “It’s the fine things in life.” It also helped got me through today, which was just… off for no real reason. It goes without saying that I’m not going to blurt that fact out. At least not now.

Dex snorts at my comment but, at the same time, still runs his hand along the fabric and nods in clear appreciation. Unaware of how much those little reactions reveal. Then again, William Poindexter always seems to have surprises up his sleeve.

“Should be an easy fix.”

Dex’s voice knocks me out of my reverie, and I respond accordingly: “Wha?”

“I said that this should be an easy fix,” he huffs while holding the now-inside-out cardigan up. “I mean… if you want me to…”

For a moment, all the hard lines and jagged edges melt away, leaving Dex looking strangely hesitant and vulnerable. As if he’s unsure where to go from here and is leaving the choice up to me. I have a foreboding feeling that the choice I make will either open a door for me… or lock it forever.

“Sure,” I drawl and pull up a box to sit right by the window. “I’m up for it.”

I don’t know if my choice is in the right, but either way the moment passes, and Dex gets up and strides with business-like purpose over to a shelf that holds his toolbox.

“Going to nail it closed, Poindexter?” I chirp. Because I have to.

He puts minimal effort in flipping me off before grabbing a different container. It’s one of those fancy assorted Danish cookie tins. Before I can ask, he sits back down by the window and pops the lid off to reveal what might as well be an entire craft store.   

Without pause, Dex grabs two spools of thread of similar color, holds them up to my cardigan, tosses one back into the tin, and cuts a length from the other before tossing it back in as well.

“Not a single word,” he growls while plucking a needle from a pincushion. A lobster pincushion.

“Hmm…” My not-word doesn’t make Dex stop, though he still narrows his eyes at me as he needles the thread. Or is it ‘threads the needle’?

Then he gets to work.

It’s hypnotizing to watch. When you see Dex’s hands, it’s hard to not notice the calluses, cracks, and scars. Things that hint of hard work and strength, be it hauling lobster traps, hammering out a stubborn nail, or hitting an accurate slapshot.

However, those same marred hands move with a swift but delicate grace as they guide the needle where it needs to go with little pause. A fluid elegance that hints at the softness of his puck handling and precision of appliance repairs.

The whole time, Dex wears yet another scowl. The same focused glare he brings to the ice to concentrate on the puck and intimidate the opposing team. It’s as if he’s daring the ever-closing tear to resist.

These little connections to what I know about Dex don’t lessen the wonder that I feel in watching him now.

“It’s a useful skill. ‘Be prepared’ and all that.”

If I didn’t know any better, I’d mistake Dex’s mumbled comment for mind-reading. “You better stop reading my mind.”

Another huff. “Like I’d want to hop into that hipster hellscape,” he says before wincing at his own words.

I don’t let it go: “Aaww… that almost sounds poetic, Dexy.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he shoots back. “Anyways you were just very obvious in your surprise when I brought out my kit. That’s all.”

“Oh…” It still catches me off-guard whenever he gets a read on me. “How long have you been doing this?”

Dex shrugs as much as he can without disrupting his work. “Long enough. How else do you think I’ve kept the same clothes going?”

I don’t have any answer to that. Instead, I continue watching him work. Before long, he creates a knot, pulls it taut, and trims away dangling ends.

Dex declares completion by sending the cardigan flying straight into my face.  

As I unwrap the garment from my head, he’s already going over the contents of his kit. “Hope it works,” he mutters while shutting the tin and putting it back in place. “Let me know if anything’s off. It’s my first time handling qiviut, so…”  A shrug.

It actually takes me a while to relocate the tear. When I find the little wrinkle that betrays the now-closed hole, it’s obvious to me that the blemish will become lost within the overall texture of the fabric.

“It’s… It…” It’d be great if my damn throat could open up and actually allow me to say something. “Thanks,” I finally breathe out, holding the cardigan tight to my chest.

The only affirmation I receive from Dex is a dismissive wave and grunt as he grabs his window and slides it shut.

If I notice some redness creeping up his ears, I make no mention of it.     

Continue on to Part II