ALL MAD HERE
It’s the thickest glass, that shields the Iron Patriot’s office from the elements. Still, nothing's ever perfect, right? There’s a broken window panel, though. Well, not exactly broken. The damage is so minimal nobody noticed. You’d have to squint like mad to see the hair-thin crack. You’d have to never miss. Well, Bullseye is mad, never misses, and still he didn’t even see it right away.
Himself did only notice by accident. It was Daken’s profile, he found himself staring at, in fact, rather than listening to Normie’s rambling. The faint shadow of contempt curling the punk's lips while he tried to sell servile obedience and acute attention to the boss’ words with his face. Except there was also this capricious little strand of hair, quietly undulating in the air against the punk’s temple. Its gently moving shadow on the punk’s cheekbone. Bullseye had instinctively sought the source of the almost invisible draft, of course. Noted the weakness in the glass.
Then got distracted again. By the involuntary gesture of the punk’s hand trying to move the hair away from his eye. He loves Daken’s hands. It’s the only one of the punk’s multiple deceptions that doesn’t rub him the wrong way. The manicured black-nailed butterflies? They draw attention while making you forget they’re the ultimate sheath for those as dark claws. Biologically concealed weapons… What a beautiful thing…
Bullseye is starting to think of a way to annoy, to make the punk mad enough to snikt. He wants to see the claws so bad, suddenly.
“They’re not that different from cats’, Lester, you obsessive little man,” Daken had once taunted, spotting his… interest. “What’s next? You cooing at fluff balls? I’ll find you one day taking your hero job seriously and saving kittens from trees to look at their little paws?”
“Fluff ball yourself, punk,” he’d muttered, embarrassed to be caught staring, once again. So, of course, he’d gone on the offensive, reaching out with his hand to mess up the mutant’s wild strands of hair… It’d been uncanny, the softness between his fingers. Utterly mystifying, belonging to a cold hard man like Daken… (He still felt the tingling of this contact for hours after.)
And yes, the mutant had looked affronted like a cat, that day. And the hitman hides his huff behind his hand at the memory, only to see Daken glance at him from the corner of his eye, knowing at once he should be annoyed at him but not quite sure why, it seems. Bullseye lets his hand fall, doesn’t bother to hide his grin, delighting in the furrow of the suspicious punk’s brow.
And now he’s looking at the little strand of hair again, loses a few minutes entirely, like that. The Iron Boss or the rest of the team don't even exist anymore in his mind.
But also, Bullseye’s starting to think of this as a hobby, poking the tiger… Can’t help himself, eventually.
So he reclines in his own chair, props his feet on the punk’s seat's armrest. Soiled soles a hair-breadth away from the sleeve of a designer shirt.
Daken does snikt at the indignity. Instantly. Derailing Normie’s debriefing. Totally. And though Bullseye has to work hard at avoiding the claws, it’s worth it. Just to see them appear. (Making the punk lose his cool is just cherry on the top.)
But yeah, a bit later, he’ll remember the crack in the reinforced glass of Normie’s office. His old burglar’s instinct will wake up. Playing the idea of how it could be done, soon to be replaced by the idea of Let’s do this. The bragging rights he could derive from this stunt…! Maybe he’ll even tell Daken, after.
oOo
It’s a pretext to get out the Bullseye costume, too. Feels good to don the more familiar get up. Access to Normie’s office is absurdly secure, when they're not invited to fawn, there. All biometrics he can’t hope to bypass. Glass thick enough normally to render it basically bullet proof, as is the standard in the tower. Plus, the windows there are sealed in the building's structure, impossible to open. This office is a sealed box, basically. But you know, this guy of the Inhumans with the weird eyes and skull, who can see the weaknesses in everything, Bullseye has heard? Whatzisname, Louxor? Well, Bullseye is a bit like that too. Since he never misses.
A few floors up, the rec room windows do open. Usually, do not recommend: after all the draft that high is just too strong.
(Bullseye did, once, though, just to make the punk lose his page while reading and even the book actually fly from his hands, and oh, the tiff they’d had that day… A claw nicked his back, he remembers, and he could feel the little wound reopen countless times in the next days, because he was just too lazy to go see the tower’s docs and get stitches. He still can feel the little tugging of the scar tissue when he rolls his shoulders, to this day. Ah, memories…)
Yeah, the blast of air hitting his face is fierce today too, as he slides the panel open. He throws himself in the void anyway. He loves the sensation of the free fall… Rappelling gear is for cowards.
(The look the punk would sport on his face seeing him! The same startled and disbelieving one Daken gets every time he jumps off the gliders from absurdly high to get the literal drop on his foes…)
Bullseye has ridiculously strong fingers too, from his long gone days as a Olympic-grade gymnast. How he manages to twist himself midair and grab the insignificant ledge outside Normie’s office is a work of art. But here comes the difficult part.
(But he’s never minded the hard way, Bullseye…)
Can’t use even a tiny amount of C4. Detonation’s vibration would be too strong and set off the seism alarm of the whole building. But the setting had to take into account the number of dumb NYC birds going for concussions continuously against the glass panels and has to ignore lesser shocks.
(Pigeons are indeed dumb and so are you, you lunatic, Daken would probably say. But considering the number of times he’s seen Daken snap his claws during combat while going at metal panels, allow him to laugh. Yes, the number of homicidal machines an Avenger, even Dark, has to confront is quite ridiculous. On the other hand, considering the number of times said claws still managed to go trough said metal paneling, were he the Iron Patriot, Bullseye would be a lot more worried about Daken than Normie seems to be. But been there, done that, no use warning a boss who won’t listen. And he’s the one they call insane? His buffoon boss shapes up to become actually worse than him, he sometimes think. So, getting inside his office? Getting himself some insurance in case Normie’s initiative goes all pear-shaped? Yeah, not a bad idea.)
Like everyone else, he's seen the advertising on TV. A crack on a windshield doesn’t need much to get worse. Norman Osborn’s window either, when you’re determined, long-suffering, incredibly good at targeting a weakness and possess a diamond to help which was a nice memento from a particularly good robbery.
(But don’t tell the punk about this modified ring piece, or Bullseye wouldn’t hear the end of it, as he keeps harping the metrosexual punk about this steel jewelry he sometimes wears.)
He has had it mounted to have the point of the stone face out. And yes, throwing a fist with a ring? That damn hurts, even more than were he to slam his fist directly against the glass. But when the first spiderweb appear, he knows at once it’s only a question of time before he can get an opening wide enough to get in.
He’s not afraid of any camera inside.
(Daken, who apparently has had a lifetime of making powerful men miserable and fucking them – literally and metaphorically – on their place of business a lot, once told him: the more powerful they are, the less chance these men will allow security cameras in their office. Power, means secret, means paranoia, Lester. I guarantee you. Normie would trust no one else to see what happens in his office.)
Also, even the worst people can be awful predictable. Or perhaps no one apart from a mad man would guess how much Norman Osborn might actually love his son in spite of everything. Because the password of the computer there is simply HARRY. Still, even the five keys are hard to type: his hand took some damage… Joints uncooperative now, and fingers feeling awful constricted in his glove. Ah, he’s got worse. Moving on.
And here they are, all of them neatly laid up on the Iron Patriot’s desktop screen in the form of nice (ridiculous) little icons, one for each Dark Avenger. If the Hawkeye wanted to access his own file, it derails him a little, the file with the wolverine mask. He had a target. Sure. But he wouldn’t be a killer worth his salt if he couldn’t kill two birds with one stone, huh?
(But truly. Simply put. He can’t resist. It's Daken's file.)
Daken has been his personal little conundrum from day one. That guy nobody knew even existed before and still presumed to look down on him. Who doesn’t even have a proper name. He had a reason back then, to be wary of the freak, of his scams which could endanger a very nice gig for him… Does he still has one, nowadays, when his eyes can’t help themselves straying to the punk more often than not? Who cares... He opens the file, of course.
Like the punk himself, it reveals itself more than frustrating. Hard Intel about Daken is pathetically thin. Too many suppositions and guesses. Even the date of birth is a mystery. A voice recording’s been analyzed of the punk speaking Japanese, giving only 70% chance the punk might have been born in the Sendai era. Whole decades empty of info. Some spectacular killings attributed to him, but with no real evidence. A few blurry snapshots of a wild-haired and tattooed silhouette on various theaters of war. That's all. It’s a total bummer...
And there’s a nagging suspicion. Because Bullseye never misses. Too many blank spaces, like somebody’s been here already, erasing a bit of the already meager Intel. He still copies the whole file on impulse. Pain flares in his index as he hits the trackpad with a little too much force, makes him wince. He blames it on the punk.
His own file cheers him up the tiniest bit. It’s like reading his greatest hits, and he’d almost miss pop corn to go with his perusing of his most memorable kills. And he’s positively tempted to add more to his list of exploits, actually. Make the file complete. Not missing a thing. He abstains, though. Who will read this, anyway, besides Normie? He’s past trying to impress the man, these days, and it might incriminate him for this B&E. Let people believe a flyer with a strong fist did this.
But Bullseye had something else to check; and this file is a little harder to find, better hidden from sight in a archive of the hardrive. That’s what he also actually came for. Too many times has Norman presumed to leash him, when he was a Thunderbolt. He hasn’t forgotten, in spite of Normie's assault of charm and recompenses when he roped him into this Hawkeye scam. Even now, the guy plies him with meds, which sometimes help, sometimes don’t, and maybe he should pay better attention to what’s done to him. What he’s the guinea pig for. Because it’s been too many times he’s seen the punk’s nostrils flare, and a frown mar his face as he heard the sentence You changed meds again? in his mouth. It gets a guy wary.
Safety measures, the tab is called. Yeah, must be it.
And yes, so many substances have been tested on him there’s a fucking spreadsheet of side effects derived from meds’ interactions, there.
Also… No, no. NO. Nononononono.
Intense cold slowly courses through his veins like heavy lava. Burning bile comes to his throat.
NO.
oOo
He’s made his way back to his rooms mostly on automatic.
The mere contact of his costume on his skin has become unbearable with the sensation that crawls under is skin, now. He drops the pieces of it and all over the room as he makes a beeline for the shower, even the pricey ring. He turns the water as hot as he can take. The pressure as strong as is possible. Like he wanted to get rid of something on him, wash it away down the drain, even knowing how absurd the impulse is, how impossible it is. He hugs himself under the powerful spray hitting his shoulders and back like a punching rain that can’t conceal entirely how he’s shaking. His abused hand pulses with renewed pain in the ambient heat and because of the way he squeezes his own flesh. His forehead is pressed against the window paneling of the stall. He’s almost tempted to bang it here in his distress.
His anguish needs an outlet, and the screaming comes, but it’s not enough. He needs to break something, when he can’t destroy what’s still hidden inside himself.
It’s reinforced glass, that shower cubicle. Probably not as thick as the one on the exterior of the tower, but still. Almost the same that the one which protected Normie’s dirty little secret.
And since it’s not Osborn’s face he has at arm’s reach for now, it’s on the cold material he takes his revenge, beating it with his bare fists, beating his fists to a pulp against it, in a feat of downright furor. Indifferent to the damage he brings on himself, with the way he doesn’t even bother to hit right, protect his fingers even a fraction. He smashes through the glass door, at one point. Taken aback, he has to take a few steps back to avoid stepping on the fallen shards, finds himself cornered in there. He lets himself slide down along the wall, managing to fold himself in the tiniest ball possible in there. Gathering his destroyed hands to himself, and shivering like mad, now that the water has turned cold… But he can’t bring himself to get up and turn off the faucet. Isn’t even sure there’s even enough strength left in his digits.
Breathing hard, impossibly tired, he looks down at himself. Bruises, all other his hands. He can hardly flex his fingers, his joints are even more swollen now. But he tries. His knuckles have burst open in some places. And there’s a few real cuts too, from when the glass broke and it’s tempting, looking at the bleeding, to imagine these damn nanochains, which are still there inside him in spite of Normie’s promises, getting out..
Bleeding. Yeah, it makes sense. Get rid of these things that could hurt him, paralyze him, turn his body into a prison. Never again. NEVER AGAIN. He’s already reaching out for a promising shard of glass that looks a bit like a sickle. His hand never gets there…
He catches a movement from the corner of his eyes.
A faint dimming of the light makes him blink, as a shadow falls on him.
Oh.
Punk’s there?
The literal cold shower hadn’t even iced his blood as much as this sight does.
He stands there for a long time, that punk, simply watching him without a word, casually leaning on the wall, but clear gaze cutting him like a blade.
“That’s... not like you…” Daken slowly says after a while. "Even when you’re… pissed…”(At me, is not said) “when I get the better of you, you never look… like…this…” (Defeated, is not said either, but it’s all in the punk’s reluctant tone of contempt).
Bullseye has broken a lot of times without warning in front of other adversaries. Can’t even trust the soundness of his mind, often, when he fights the Devil. But he realizes it’s the first time Daken has seen him like this. It’s more than mortifying. And Bullseye, who is used to the punk’s casual cruelty, who is so used to be himself and use everything as a weapon, especially weaknesses handed on a plate by a foe, can’t explain how this instant hasn’t been used against him already.
And it’s awkward how the punk averts his eyes from the sight entirely after a moment, giving up on trying to cross his eyes, as if conscious as well something’s not exactly normal, in their interaction right now. Like they’re going off script.
“Fuck it,” Daken says so very low Bullseye almost misses it.
Even the punk’s body language is all wrong, as he comes closer. Cautious. So… careful… not to spook him. Telegraphing all his movements.
It doesn’t help, not really, when you’ve had a childhood when you periodically hid in the bathtub to escape your father’s drunken wraths, and you had to hear him call from outside the room and trying to coax you and your brother out from there with saccharine words who wouldn’t protect you from his fists once he’d found you. Bullseye as good as tries to burrow himself into the tiled wall in his back. He’s experimented betrayal already once today. He won’t get owned twice.
And then he’s there, that punk. Very, very close. Bullseye was stupid enough to put himself into a literal corner and there’s no escape. And though the uneasiness grows, the panic doesn’t come, cushioned by an eerie sensation of calm that falls on him like a warm blanket. The hitman can’t really explain what’s happening. Dumbfounded, he simply watches the mutant reaching out above him to cut the water.
“It’s just a time out, Lester. So we can get ourselves some more fun sooner rather than later, hm?” Daken very quietly says.
Bullseye feels himself relax all at once, letting himself melt against the cold ceramic of wall and floor. He closes his eyes, even. Uncaring of what the punk might do with this window of opportunity. (Unworried.) Because if it appears they want the same thing, it means Daken would be a fool to act against him, against his own goals. And the punk has always been a self-serving bastard.
But also, it means something else. And though it’s hard to get the words past his raw throat, he has to reply to that:
“Heh. So you have fun too.” He tries to inject taunt, or triumph, in his tone. Doesn’t quite manage it. Sounds more like wonder, this quiet discovery.
“You provide… decent entertainment, Lester.”
Bullseye huffs, because this tone is a work of art: putting on a lie of casual disdain. Oh so diplomatically. To mimic their usual wordy sparing. Also, Daken has always been a little liar who lies, and Bullseye has known from day one. Which means he was actually sincere. Also:
“There’s nothing decent about me,” the hitman mutters, almost insulted.
Daken is not quite quick enough to hide a flash grin of fond amusement that startles the hitman a bit. It was blinding, like light on the edge of a blade. (Also, the punk seems to think it means it’s okay for him to get closer, improbably. And falls on his knees near him, uncaring of the glass littering the floor of the stall.)
There’s nothing decent either about what Daken does to him. Usually. The way he fucks with him and fucks him, in all the possible ways.
But this? This, Bullseye doesn’t understand.
The way the punk gathers his wounded hands in his, gazing down at them like little wounded animals. He hasn’t the words, because tenderness is a totally foreign concept to him. He’s never been handled not even as something fragile, but as something precious.
These lips, then, suddenly on his fingers? They’re too fervent and intent to be able to call this contact a kiss. Like there’s an hidden agenda at play in there.
The tongue darts, sometimes. Shy. The taste of his skin makes the punk’s nostrils flare. There’s something very animal in all this. Which Bullseye would be inclined to trust more than the punk’s twisted intellect.
“I don’t know if it’ll work… Blood does. Why not saliva, after all…” Daken says. Bullseye still doesn’t understand.
“Feel something yet?” the wolverine asks.
And then only does the hitman gets it. The healing factor… It’s what the punk is trying to share with him, and it leaves him somewhat floored.
Also, yes, he sure feels something now, not just this faint unknown tingling on his skin. But he sure doesn’t know what’s this feeling. (
Safety, being taken care of… What does he know of that? Nothing.)
Abandoning the hitman’s hands, the mutant is now busying himself elsewhere, not noticing the stricken face of the hitman at the sudden loss of all contact.
“You’re incorrigible,” Daken mumbles, still crouching. He goes at the slivers of glass everywhere to get the most of it out of the way, oblivious of the cuts he gets on his owns fingers for his trouble… Thin lines of red who disappear right under the very eyes, almost as soon as they appear, maybe even more magic, in a way, than the grisliness of the more gruesome wounds Bullseye often sees on him, some (or most) he's usually the one to inflict.
He’s a pragmatic man, Daken. And after a while, realizes he can use the minute amount of blood on his fingers and starts rubbing it in Bullseye's own little wounds. Even the bruises seem to have already subsided somewhat. Color less blue-rainbowy than before. The tingling is more pronounced on the hitman’s skin, this time. How different of the sizzling of the nanochains… The complete opposite, in fact. Healing instead of destroying.
“I don’t even know how you survive this gig,” the mutant even mentions. “Getting yourself banged up so often and taking so long to mend. How do you even do this? Not even being prudent. You’re as insane as they say, are you?”
Bullseye doesn’t really listen to him, too engrossed by these sensations in his fingers and the gestures of the punk’s hands. He grabs one of them, to see better (or not see) the damage that’s already gone, and Daken, incredibly, lets him have his full of the sight. The difference is uncanny with the state of his owns hands.
“I’m good,” Lester answers eventually. Absentmindedly.
And the mutant smirks discretely in somewhat fond disbelief. Might mean his little man feels better. Might mean, he’s the best at what he does and doesn’t really care about the price. Daken doesn’t bother to decipher, honestly, simply staring at the man staring at his hostaged hand.
“I don’t deny that, little man. Have I ever?” he still testily replies. Because the contrast is even more alarming, with his hand just right beside Lester’s. His thin and long white fingers, while on Lester a mess of contradicting hues draws the eye. Like an oil spill on water, these bruises in various fading colors already, including the more abraded skin with the last mess...
Bullseye realizes he’s still cradling the punk’s hand, even though the minor wounds of his have already disappeared, forcing him to contemplate that he is the one who is holding onto the punk, now.
He lets go, then. Embarrassment rearing its ugly head.
“But you do tend to get in trouble, dear. Wasn’t it only last month your darling Elektra kebabed you and you had to come back with your tail between your legs?”
Daken can’t see himself. How he minutely shakes his head in somewhat desolation at such a sorry state, but Lester does see. It looks like Daken is mourning the trouble he got himself into with his shower stall tantrum, like the one of a misbehaving child. It’s annoying.
“What you going to do!? Frame me up on the wall, just to keep me out of trouble? Yeah I’d like to see you try.”
For one second, the punk’s face remain utterly serious, like he’s actually considering. But then this thin smirk (that Bullseye will never admit he loves) appears, an overture before the stab of a sharp tongue, obviously:
“More like fuck you against the wall, mind you. Keep you…occupied. But yeah, frame you, I wouldn’t mind either. You’re beautiful to look at.”
It’s a thing to know the punk is a liar. It’s another entirely to hear an accent on truth in his words. Or rather, the absence of accent. Because that last part…? (Beautiful?) It’s a line said just like that, almost a throw away line, like it doesn’t matter really. Like it wasn't intended to be uttered. And what could the punk gain from saying…that? The mounting flush Bullseye oddly experiences reminds of the warm sensation of the healing factor...
But then again, Daken has to ruin that second of candidness. Or perhaps he had just noticed as well he’s let slip something a little too sincere, and has to cover it up. With a thick layer innuendo, of course. But do you call simply innuendo the work of a tongue who is not words? Because Daken’s mouth on his fingers, this time, paints an utterly suggestive picture. This, is a blatant invite. The seducing equivalent of blunt force trauma.
He gets it, Bullseye, that that punk is getting them back on tracks, shedding this strange mood they weren’t quite sure what to do with.
“What’s the saying, already?” Daken silkily whispers around his fingers. Holding his gaze in an almost physical lock. “You know… When you look at the abyss, the abyss looks back at you. I wouldn’t mind looking at you all day too, dear,” he even winks, the asshole. “Or not just looking.”
And Bullseye flushes again, feeling found out. He'd thought he’d been discrete enough, most of the times, that the punk hadn’t noticed how much he actually watched him. (Perhaps even wanted him.)
“Don’t fret, Lester. I won’t use your queer little desires against you. I’m not Normie. I have no interest in controlling you. I want nothing from you. You’re way more entertaining remaining the ticking little bomb that you are, dear.”
Something twists in Bullseye. Nobody’s ever said that to him. Embraced his mayhem like this. (Embraced him.)
(And if he knew Daken, really knew him, not just this surface uncaring guy the mutant shows to the world, maybe he would understand how Daken can say this with such a straight face, such conviction. It’s how the wolverine would want to be loved too. Absolutely. And without limit, or judgment, or ulterior motives. But Daken is a liar, and it’s a truth he’ll never utter.)
“The nanochains are still there, inside me,” Bullseye blurts. He didn’t intend to. Like a beaten dog showing his chain to a man who says he won’t (ab)use him.
It’s… It’s a bit unnerving how unsurprised the punk looks at that. But then Bullseye remembers, this faint intuition earlier that someone had been through Normie’s files before him. It stings a bit that the punk found a way to beat him to the punch. And then he’s reminded that from day one Daken had it in for Normie. So, somehow, it makes sense, that Daken would seek the same files he’s seen. And if he was there before him? Whatever is left in the punk’s file musn’t be that important or revealing that he didn’t even bother to corrupt it entirely. Or maybe he had destroyed already what could have been compromising. Bullseye's mind is spiraling on the soft waves of paranoia already, thinking of what Daken might have taken from his own files…
“Damn that man,” Daken mutters, with staggering feeling. It cuts through Bullseye’s musing all right. “Should we kill him?” It’s very seriously asked, the hitman realizes with utter stupor.
It’s a tough decision. But he knows the sad answer. Even killing Normie wouldn’t magically drain his bloodstream from the goddam nanites. And a job is better than none. He’s stuck. It sucks.
In frustration, he sends his hand flying, going for hitting the wall. It hurts, of course. His hands are still damaged in spite of Daken’s… help. But not as much as it should. His fist is nested in Daken’s palm. The punks reflexes are uncanny. He has managed to insert his own hand between the wall and his before impact. It must have hurt him too, who took the brunt of the damage. But his face doesn’t express a thing. He simply shakes his extremity a little, not even looking at it. He’s looking at him.
“Permission to investigate and find a solution to this nanochain conundrum then, Lester?”
It floors him a little Daken seems to wait for his permission.
“Punk, I’d put my mouth on your dick for that,” he says, half in desperate jest.
(Half serious.)
And the punk’s smile gets positively predatory.
(Beautiful.)
“What you say if as an advance payment I put my mouth on your dick, dear?”
It’s almost insulting how easily Daken, indifferent to the remaining glass crunching under his shoes, picks him up from the tiled stall’s floor to get him to the bed.
“First,” he adds. “Then only, will I fuck you into the wall.”
It’s scary how much Bullseye wants this. Wants to lose himself and his residual fear in this.
Better get eaten alive by the punk than by the damn nanomachines...
oOo
He has neatly broken Lester. Ridden him with stubborn single-mindedness. Sent him into blessed oblivion from the sheer overloading of his senses. The hitman is neatly passed out in a mess of limbs, abused fingers still loosely gripping the sheets.
It’s been different. Usually, when they tango in bed, they rather tangle with each other, which is only a continuation of their never–ending little feud for dominance and possession. (Or their self-possession.) There’s always something so overwhelming to their frantic mating. So different from the mechanical and efficient way Daken usually uses his body as a bargaining chip to get what he wants from his marks… But this time, Lester let him storm the castle with an almost total abandon. It’s troubling. Daken surprised himself being more mindful than he usually is in his treatment of the little man. Not that he didn’t let a copious amount of traces on him. He likes to mark what’s his, after all…
The mutant gently pries one of the little man’s hands free. Manipulating it with an uncharacteristic gentleness, even more pronounced than before in the shower. Something he wouldn’t allow himself were the absurd carny awake. Taking in the bruises which even he wasn’t able to make totally fade. Lester has made a number on himself, truly. What had he been doing?
He’s a fragile little man, his Lester. It’s a truth he has always trouble wrapping his head around, when the damn moron keeps acting as if he were as indestructible as him. And Daken doesn’t know how Lester does this. Keeps up with him. With them all, actually, the gods and monsters of Normie’s ragtag team. It’s not even the first time he wonders. (Asks himself and marvels.) When he’s not easily impressed, usually, Daken. Since the beginning and the endless assault of Morgan Le Fay and her monsters, in fact. Their Hawkeye had held his own beautifully, back then...
The little man’s busted hands aren’t the only recent harm that has come to this body. It’s fascinating to observe, all these bruises which takes weeks to fade from this almost too pale a skin, passing through all the colors of the rainbow… For a while, Daken allows himself to explore and worship with an all-consuming attention.
He wasn’t coming to see the Dark Hawkeye, earlier. He was just passing through there, en route for a bit of mischief, a little scheme he had in motion these days and would require a bit of intimidation toward a HAMMER grunt to get some useful piece of Intel, before getting derailed into Lester’s rooms. He has probably missed his window of opportunity, now. Shame. Might as well get something for himself instead, then.
He’d made out screams, while walking this corridor. Most wouldn’t have heard at all, the tower is mostly soundproofed. But he is a mutant with uncanny senses. And he has a particular… interest... in the little man. He would pick up his voice from the attack of ambient sounds a wolverine daily labors to ignore with no problem. Daken wouldn’t admit to having picked up the pace, of course. Or acknowledge the minor detour that took him to the Hawkeye’s door...
Couldn’t pass his the place without listening in a bit, straining his wolverine senses. Hearing a heartbeat, rabbity and irregular. Even from the outside, he could smell fear and adrenaline, the same pungent scent he’s been following till here. It’s the sound of broken glass, though, that had properly alarmed him. He couldn’t ignore what was happening in there… It’s not caring, he tells himself. What a ludicrous thought! He’s just… curious.
He has the code to this door, of course. Has had it from the first week here. Blackmail is a wonderful thing. Fragile masculinity another. He wields both expertly and he hardly has to do more than bat an eyelid to lead his preys into temptation. One little security agent at the bottom of the food chain still was able to point him to the database server with all the security codes and biometric datas to the building. Even the Iron Patriot’s office.
What does it say of the little man that he probably thought a locked door could let him be safe from the inheritor of the Earth? He’s never bothered before to disabuse Lester from the notion, before. (Not worth it, and a potential advantage under his sleeve for later.) Also nobody’s ever safe from the world, Daken thinks, odd surge of bitterness coming from nowhere.
The mutant doesn’t bother calling. Knowing at once where to find what (who) he seeks. Naturally silent, like a cat, he goes straight to the bathroom, only to stop dead at the state of wreckage of the place, and the sad one of his fallen little man. It’s weird, this pang the sight elicits in him, that leaves him speechless, even though he retains the presence of mind to keep a mostly condescending expression on his face.
“Tss, tss, little man. If you’re not taking care of yourself, who will? Look at this. They’re your work tools!” he chides, speaking of the state of the man’s poor hands. Plus, turnabout is only fair play. How many times has the infamous Bullseye tried to call him unprofessional, hm? And what’s more unprofessional than not to take care of your own assets?
But Lester seems so caught in his inner turmoil, it’s like he hasn’t heard or noticed him at all. He keeps staring at his damaged hands, the tiny rivulet of blood dripping from one of his fingers, in a kind of stunned horror.
Can’t help his instinctive gesture to stop him, when he sees the naked man under falling water reach for a mean sliver of glass, in almost manic urgency. It’s this move that finally registers his presence to the little man.
Can’t help himself getting closer, Daken, in spite of the little man’s uncomfortable glower.
Can’t. Help. Himself.
It’s what define the best the current state of his (not love) affair with the little carny.
And not only today.
When you look at the abyss, the abyss looks back at you.I wouldn’t mind looking at you all day too.
It wasn’t a lie, earlier.
He had looked back.
It had all started innocent and harmless enough. (Harm will come later, the closer he manages to get to the little man, of course…)
It was simply tempting, at first, for the perverse pleasure of simply turning the table on the dear little stalker... So adorable, thinking he couldn’t catch his scent or hear him close when Lester was trying to be discrete while tailing him even when off the job… Or he was just being careful of the little man’s antics, if only for the preservation of his plans, lest Lester would see something inconvenient for him and tattle-tale to the Iron Boss... And yeah, the little man is still, to this day, the most probable spanner that could come into his works, the most susceptible to mess with his plans, and maybe it’s been only common sense at first to keep an eye on him...
Daken had not kept at it only for this reason, though. Getting closer and closer wasn’t common sense. Daken had discovered he liked what he saw. Triggering Lester had become a pastime. Awareness of Lester a second nature.
That ticking little bomb of a man might be unhinged and about to explode to his face (Hell, he’s felt that blast already...), but what he truly sees in him is a free spirit. And for one who has lived under one immense shadow for so long like Daken, and is trying to get a taste of the light, however modest it is…? The sight is… heady.
So, Daken has made his peace with that: he will pay the price, but he will enjoy the little man’s (bad) company. He can take the punishment, after all, like he was made to be able to weather the little man in all his glory…
…And when Lester is down?
That’s how Daken realizes how deep he’s let himself get swallowed by this infatuation of his. Because he can’t avert his gaze or wash his hands of the matter of the (usually so delightful) little man’s state.
Obsession makes little things immense, and right this second, there’s nothing more important than the little man’s hands: their cracked and bitten nails, their cuts and abrasions, swollen joints, and scars… So many, many scars like a spiderweb of thin white lines crisscrossing skin in a mad net of survived danger… A thousand cuts wouldn’t down Lester. So what had, then? He had needed to know.
Daken often mocks the insane little carny for not being able to look away from him... Omitting to tell him all the ways he cheats to make sure of that. But the mutant comes to realize… Lester is catching. Because he can’t shake the need for this (little man-shaped) indulgence of his either…
oOo
Daken doesn’t sleep all night, watching over his little man's slumber. Murmuring soothing nothings to his ear when he seems to stir in the throes of some nightmare. He has gathered Lester close. More that he usually would. Perhaps not only for the hitman’s unique benefit.
He knows at once when the absurd little carny wakes up.
First, the pain. Familiar, but no less blinding.
Then the words. Daken has heard them before.
But every time, Lester sounds less surprised and more confused:
“You stayed.”
There’s no rule, concerning in whose bed they fall. Or rather, it’s part of their game, not knowing in which room they’re going to end up. Depending whether the Dark Wolverine will manage to up the Dark Hawkeye’s desire of him till the little man comes looking for him on his own turf; or force the barrage of Lester’s own room and break the wall of the little man’s odd reluctance to admit what he wants when he comes knocking.
But there’s one concerning the aftermath. Bullseye always leaves before dawn. Daken always stays.
And frankly, Bullseye doesn’t understand, because the punk couldn’t not have known what he was going to do, startled as always by the presence near him when he wakes up, every single time. Stab.
“Yes, I stayed. And here I am, reminded why it was a bad idea,” Daken says, sliding the blade off the wound with a low hiss.
“I’ll always stab you,” Bullseye informs. “That’s the definition of madness, yunnow, punk?” he adds after a short pause, trying to sound gleeful, but maybe a tad inquisitive. “Always doing the same thing and expect a different result.”
“Believe me, I know, little man,” the mutant says, dropping the soiled blade on the hitman’s lap. “I sincerely don’t know why I put up with you. We’re all mad, here, it seems… Qui se ressemble s’assemble.”
Perhaps he’s even the more insane of the two, the mutant muses. After all, he’s waiting for the day no knife will dig itself into his flank. Even knowing it’ll never happen. And still comes back for more, every single time.
It’s how deep the obsession runs.
“Hey, I’ve read Descartes, that solipsistic asshole, in the original. I know French, you arrogant asshole.”
“Case in point. Me too!”
The bickering, as usual, eats the truth none of them has the guts to face. They do assemble. Not just the Avengers way.
But when no one dares to acknowledge how this obsession (or these feelings, that dreaded word) goes both ways, how deep runs the attraction, of course they’ll believe till bitterness ensues there’s no hope for this thing between them.
Some moments will find them so close it feels like it’s them against the whole world, but just as soon they’ll get torn apart by resentment when neither of them will own to what they really want...
Perhaps obsession, when you don’t dare call it anything else (don’t dare call it love), is simply the fancy word for hope’s cessation…
The End