LOUD IS HIS BARK
LOUD IS HIS BARK
Daken can feel the menace approaching. The familiar tang of unhingedness and meds unmistakable to his nostrils. He'd thought Lester would curb a bit his stalking habits, after blowing him up. Must have been wrong. It's kinda flattering, though. He wanted more too, after all. Literally told the little man so. But this is not the place for the little man's shenanigans. This a museum's gift shop.
So Daken sighs, and plays the three little monkeys all at once, seemingly deaf, blind and mute to the arrival in his back. He has a nice bounty, a neat little pile of artbooks on his arms, the one on top open. He's already perusing it, and is waiting to pay for his purchases.
Something falls on the pages, rolls towards the crack of the book's binding. A small cardboard package, apparently containing an on scale reproduction of a little piece Daken remembers having seen in the museum. A nice neo-assyrian little dog made of clay, nicely detailed and expressive.
"I'm taking this," the Dark Hawkeye says.
Daken ignores the nuisance. Keeps reading.
"Pay for me, or I kill the pretty cashier."
Daken sighs. Again. Any other occasion, he would have said: who cares. One can feel pity for the help, sure, but there's limits. But… Well, the museum is kinda under their responsability, tonight.
"You're lucky the last thing I need today is an earful of Normie's rant on PR if there's a death during a Dark Avengers sponsored art gala event."
Daken has nice books to read, dammit. He has no time for this.
"Fine," he grits through his teeth.
"Heh."
Bullseye's Heh is way too satisfied. So, Daken has to retaliate. Obviously.
"You realize that makes me your sugar daddy, dear."
Oh, the fine senses of a wolverine… The little man's shock is almost loud to his ears. It's delightful.
A hand, gloved in blue, appears in his field of vision. The little box is carefully removed.
The last minute of wait is blissfully uneventful.
Purchases are dutifully paid. By the both of them.
No murder occurs. Daken has lingered a bit, waiting for the Dark Hawkeye, and feels faintly disgusted to have felt the need to check and enforce Normie's rules, though.
"We going?" he snaps more than says, in reason of his souring mood.
"Here." Lester keeps from answering but drops again the little box on his books.
"Am I your sherpa, now? I don't think so, little man."
But Lester's offensive smile is way too large when he says:
"Nope, it's for you. Reminded me of you. A mongrel with a tattoo on his left flank. He's juuuust like you. It's written on it, too."
Daken knows he'll regret this, but he has to look. On the cardboard package, the cartel accompagnying the little sculpture in the exhibit is reproduced. LOUD IS HIS BARK is the transcription of the characters engraved on its side as if the little dog had its own tattoo, indeed.
"Yup, just like you. No doubt his bark is louder than his bite," the little man adds, oh so proud of himself.
"Oh, Lester…" Daken says in a tone of pity that sure rises the hackles of the Dark Hawkeye instantly.
The Dark Wolverine, gracefully balancing his books on one arm, raises his hand to his teamate's face, fingers feather light but intrusive, finding an opening to slither under the high tight collar of the Hawkeye's undershirt, only to tease a very specific spot.
The little man stills, remembering the mark there, a startling memory of the previous night…
"But we both know I do bite, dear…" Daken whispers to a shocked ear.