WHAT'S IN A NAME?
WHAT'S IN A NAME?
The problem with frustrations? They tend to compound.
Case in point…
For one, this whole thing is beneath him. He is not a mere retrieval specialist (aka fetching dog), and his burglar days were supposed to be over too. Also, not Bullseye's problem if Normie was dumb enough to have sensitive technology stolen from his R&D lab. (Not his fault either he never told the Iron boss how easy to break into his lab was, but that is another story entirely. He got a lot of money from this bet with Daken. Nuff’ said.)
And still he finds himself in this scorching heat, sweating in his Hawkeye costume, in the largest U.S. East Coast containerport, trying to get into a specific one of those big metal boxes. How the mighty have fallen...
For two, the damn lock on the thing is a nightmare. Give him breaking into sky-high flats anytime instead. Those are as easy as drunk whores.
For three, Daken… doesn’t help. Not that Bullseye thinks the mutant could do anything to violate the lock with a claw. Still. Could have offered to try. But the mongrel seems way too content to look down at him (or on him) while he busies himself. Junior is leaning on the sun heated metal of the container, cool as a cucumber, as his freakitude seems to render him immune to the damn temp'.
To make the matter worse, the punk has angled himself just this way. It means that crouching as he is in front of the lock, Bullseye is almost at eye level with his… abdomen. To be specific, with this insane ridge near the mutant’s hip, all too visible through the flimsy material that’s well enough for a healing freak wolverine who doesn’t need the protection of padding, but whose brown and tan hug Daken’s body like a second skin. Leaving nothing to the imagination… of this place where Bullseye had his face buried just the night before, leaving in that smooth hollow angry teeth marks that now only exist in his memory. The intrusive thought is damn distracting. Also, another effort gone to waste, this trace of him he couldn’t leave on the punk's skin. Another frustration. Just like now with the damn security lock.
"Makes sense. I knew you’d be a nuisance when I first met you. It’s all in the name," Bullseye dejectedly mutters under his breath at this point. Though, if you'd ask him, he’s not exactly addressing the punk. More like venting to himself.
"Sorry?"
And it quite sums up Daken’s character that he doesn’t take the piss but sounds condescendingly amused. Curious of what provoked the sudden outburst, rather. Like he kinda likes being a nuisance.
"Daken.”
That’s not exactly what you’d call elaborating.
"Yes," Daken somewhat inquires after a few seconds, nothing more forthcoming. But a hint of aggravation if not menace seeps through, now, though. Always touchy with his name, Junior is. But Bullseye is not the kind to be careful, even told in so many words. Mere… implication thus won’t faze him either.
"This damn lock. It’s the… brand’s… name. Daken," Bullseye explains at last, his short spat sentences punctuating his repeated abuses of the sturdy metal mechanism.
"Really?"
"Yes. Annoying. Same." As you, he doesn’t say.
Daken laughs, silently, but Bullseye can tell. The wave of his soft hilarity seems to undulate just under his skin, doing interesting things to the parts Bullseye can see from the corner of his eyes. Really distracting. Really not helping. Yup. Just annoying.
And so he renews with a vengeance his efforts to fuck the damn lock.
oOo
Back to the tower. They did manage to get the mission done, after all.
Bullseye deserves this cold beer he’s enjoying, sprawled on the rec room’s sofa. He won’t let the incoming punk ruin this, so elects to royally ignore him. Unfortunately, the mongrel zeroes on him, like ready to engage. It would almost make the hitman perk up in spite of himself with this conflict to come. But Daken seems to actually shy away from actual confrontation.
"I knew I’d have fun with you when I first met you. It’s all in the name," Daken simply parrots, leaning from behind over the couch’s back, way too close to his ear. His whisper like a frustratingly unborn caress on skin.
"Whut?" And Bullseye plays up the outrage, too, straightening up and trying to regain some semblance of personal space. But he’s not exactly surprised at Daken’s selective obtuseness, as the punk simply follows, settling himself on the top of the couch and intruding again, on the guise of letting his phone drop on the hitman’s lap.
Bullseye… knows all about cats and curiosity. He also knows about the nine lives thing, though. So he still ends up looking at the tiny screen. It takes him a handful of seconds to understand what he sees of the listed item on the eBay page. Which is indeed called Bullseye. SATISFYER - BLUE APPLICATION BULLSEYE RING VIBRATOR, to be precise.
"And it’s blue," Bullseye finds himself absurdly saying, aghast, because to add to the outrage, the color is not that different from his Bullseye costume’s one either. "A sex toy? Are you fucking kidding me?"
"I'm totally fucking with you," the punk agrees.
Except when Daken says it, even with the straightest of faces (obviously lying, then), the way he looks at you, eyelids heavy with lust, all you can hear is, I’m totally fucking *you*.
"Yup. First time I saw you, I thought boy toy indeed. And booooy, was I right,” Daken adds, because the mongrel is a cruel animal who can’t help but add insult to injury.
Bullseye lunges, of course.
And when the punk bolts to evade him, Bullseye can’t help but give chase. A heady chase that unerringly leads him to Daken’s bed.
Annoying, he tells himself once again the next morning, seeing Daken's satisfied indeed expression. Like the mongrel is the damn cat, this time. The one who ate the canary.
The end