Bullseye understands what house-cats do: being a pet is epic win.
warnings: slash. Earth-339 (the Waking Man universe). undercurrents of dom/sub. mention of mental illness and controlled substances. veiled reference to violence. crack-tastic villain. Language: r (primetime tv plus s***, f***, and c**k).
pairing: Daken/Lester (Daken/Bullseye), with a dash of Karla/Mac (Moonstone/Venom).
timeline: June 2012.
disclaimer: the characters belong to Marvel; the AU is mine
notes: 1) yes, the title is a reference to the song "Your Love Is My Drug," by Ke$ha. shutup,ilikeit 2) the Marvel universe sure has a plethora of assorted mercs and wannabe-baddies. it was tempting to stick T-Ray in here, just to make fun of him and his twinkly magic sword, but it killed the pacing. 3) i can't be the only one who thinks Wonder Man is a complete tool. die,WonderMan,dieeeeee 4) i have no excuse for Schmooples and her human keeper. i just thought it would be a hilarious segue into Nightmares and End of Dreaming. so. now you know. 5) wonder if Bullseye would still be so wary of Cable if he knew the big guy didn't have his mind-floaty powers anymore...
My Drug
Bullseye knows that he has a predisposition for addiction. Things he likes quickly turn into things he needs (goes batty without).
He likes thrills, excitement, violence, pain (in the right amount and situation).
He likes Twizzlers and Amp (sometimes together, because Twizzlers are conveniently straw-shaped).
He likes his meds (especially the aripiprazole, because he turns into a fucking space cadet without it).
And he likes being Daken's pet. (He's starting to think of the prick as Akihiro lately—he saw it written down forever-ago in Osborn's files, and the kanji for it amused him, attached a human aspect to that egotistical jackass.)
It was annoying at first—having his decisions stolen from under him (his clothes, his meals, his goddamn bedtime), being called a name he associates with all his most miserable memories, losing any semblance of privacy because Daken can always tell where he's gone, what he's doing, what he's thinking.
But after a little adjustment (Daken probably thought of it as 'training his pet'), Bullseye settled into it, just like getting used to the balance of a new knife.
He knows now that pets have got it made. Daken provides food, shelter, clothes, meds. Daken protects him (on the rare occasion that he actually needs it). Daken buys him toys, plays with him, takes him for walks. As long as he follows a few rules, Daken will give him any goddamn thing he whines for.
Bullseye laughed all afternoon when he figured that out.
Now, a year after getting rid of Osborn, they're sitting in some kind of expensive high-tech conference room while various big-name mercs file in to join them, all because Bullseye said he was bored with waiting for Murdock to show up again (the bouncy little rat-ass vanished after the last time Bullseye almost killed him).
Bullseye recognizes several of the mercs in the room—all with histories of taking jobs that aren't strictly heroic. Tiger-Shark, Taskmaster, the B.A.D. Girls (dorky name, hot chicks), half a dozen former Thunderbolts. Thieves, assassins, bodyguards. He spends five minutes idly deciding how he'd go about killing each and every one of them.
He's starting to feel impatient, but that's probably what their prospective client wants. Anybody who'd live in an evil lair on a volcanic island would probably love to see them get pissed off enough to start brawling among themselves. Weed out the weaklings without having to bother with subjective things like reputation. Hell, the guy might even be planning to force the contenders into a single-elimination duel-to-the-death tournament—that's the kinda shit people who dress their henchmen in black suits and bowler hats do, after all.
Half the men in the room start cat-calling and making lewd comments—a glint of white and gold draws Bullseye's attention as Karla settles primly into a chair across the big conference table from him. She smiles (and damn, the girl can smile).
"Long time, no see, handsome," she says.
"Way too long," he agrees with a smirk. "Where's Mac?"
"Around," she dismisses with a shrug.
Some nameless upstart leans over Karla with a charming smile. "Wow, it's Moonstone, right?" he says, and Bullseye is reminded of every effortlessly popular asshole he's always hated (like Wonder Man, ugh, gotta off that tool soon). "Then it's official: the quality has arrived."
"Glad you think so," Karla replies with an unimpressed roll of her eyes.
"Really, now, what's such a fine example of womanhood doing in a place like this? We could get outta here, you know…go grab some drinks and get better acquainted."
The blonde laughs. "Back off before my pet eats you."
Bullseye can't help but smile when Mac slithers down from the ceiling like liquid shadow and snaps huge fangs inches from the guy's face. "You heard the lady," Mac growls, looming in a shifting nightmare-shape like some demented cross between a slime monster and the Cheshire cat. "Ssssscram."
Karla's admirer retreats with impressive speed.
"Holy shit, what's wrong with your wrists?" Karla yelps, leaning over the table.
Bullseye suffers a moment of confusion until Daken leans back and crosses his arms.
"Nothing is wrong with my wrists, Karla," Daken says in that dangerous tone that means further questions will be met with violence.
She huffs and plops back into her chair. "Jesus Christ. You see a guy for the first time in two years, show a little concern, and he gets all snippy. What the hell did I miss, Bullseye?"
Bullseye grunts and says, "Leave me outta this. He won't even tell me what happened. Anybody else find it rude that our host ain't even left us a cooler of water? I'm thirsty. I'll give him five more minutes before I book it for the nearest mini-bar."
"Who the hell is the client, anyway?" Karla asks. "All my fixer had was a meet location. I figured I could use a little excitement, and Mac would handle any riffraff."
The half-formed black mass resolves itself into the hulking shape of Venom, eyes reddish and twinkling, jagged fangs forming a smile. "Tasssstes like chicken," he snickers.
Bullseye gestures to the conference room as a whole. "Some guy new to the gig. Thinks James Bond tropes are impressive in a supervillain. Probably monologues and cackles and pets a white cat."
"Sounds like my last three bosses," Karla mutters. "What are you two doing here? I thought you didn't take 'unspecified high-pay contracts.'"
He shrugs. "I was curious why somebody'd offer that much green to come out to the middle of the Pacific for a weekend. Seemed a bit Bruce Lee, so I was hoping for conspiracies, espionage, and murder. Well, I'm always hoping for murder…"
A door opens, and all the room's conversations taper off. Two big bodyguards escort a freckle-faced little blonde girl to the head of the table, where she sits in an enormous chair.
One of the big guys passes her a fat white cat, and it's the last straw: Bullseye starts laughing.
"If Mithter Bulltheye will pleathe control hith outburtht of inappropriate mirth," the girl says crisply, disdainfully (the lisp makes him laugh harder), "I will enlighten you all ath to the nature of your potential contractual employment."
"Sorry, sorry," he says, clearing his throat and biting his lip. He wants to ask her to say 'suffering succotash,' but she probably wouldn't get the joke. "Go on."
The girl strokes the huge cat. "Schmoopleth requireth appeathement."
The cat's name is Schmooples. What. The. Fuck.
Bullseye sputters on the edge of hysteria. "Of course he does."
"She," the girl corrects with an annoyed furrow of her eyebrows. "And she hath demanded a very particular object—a crythtal thphere, approxthimately three incheth in diameter, made of an unidentifiable photoreactive thubthtanthe. It currently rethideth on the island of Manhattan, in New York Thity, New York. The firtht one of you to retrieve the object and return it here will retheive two-hundred million dollarth in thmall, unmarked, non-thequential billth, no quethtionth athked."
"By 'no questions asked,' you mean we can kill anybody that gets in our way, right?" asks someone in the crowd.
"Yeth," the little girl says. "The liveth of inferior organithmth do not conthern Schmoopleth. Only the object conthernth Schmoopleth."
"There's a catch," Tiger Shark sneers. "There's always a catch. We'll get there and find out that Hulk thinks it's a unicorn egg and he's trying to hatch it, or some shit."
"That'th prepothterouth," snorts the girl, and the fat white cat hisses. "Unicorn eggth are white, you imbethile. The object ith perfectly tranthparent, though it luminetheth when exthpothed to thertain high-frequenthy vibrationth thuch ath light."
Bullseye bites down on his knuckle to stifle his laughter. Clearly, Daken put something really good in his meds when he wasn't looking. It's the only explanation for the girl and the cat and…and everything. Any minute now, some seven-foot-tall guy with metal teeth is going to show up.
Karla has a thoughtful frown on her face. She jabs a finger onto the table. "Why cast such a wide net with such big bait? What the hell is guarding this thing?"
The question seems to vex the little girl. "At any given moment, the object may be thurrounded by theveral powerful mutantth or meta-humanth."
"Whoa, lady, I don't do muties," calls somebody else in the crowd. "Racial kinship thing."
"You know where the door ith," says the girl, making shooing motions.
"Where is this 'object,' that it's got that kinda security?" Diamondback demands. "Friggin' Avengers Tower or something?"
"Schmoopleth requireth the remote!" the little girl barks, and one of her guards hands her a remote. At the press of a button (from the cat, in fact, and Bullseye nearly falls out of his chair), a holographic projection of Manhattan springs to life in the middle of the table, dotted with red in places. "The peculiar energy thignature of the object hath traveled around the island, but it conthentrateth where the red dotth are denthetht."
One of the seedier apartment districts.
Taskmaster abruptly stands and leaves.
Bullseye frowns, eyes the map a little longer, and then understands what Taskmaster must have seen. "Well, I'm out."
Daken arches an eyebrow, and everyone else in the room stares.
Bullseye points to the map. "That's Deadpool's place. Dealing with him and that Cable jackass and all their happy-fun-time pals on his home turf is not worth two-hundred million."
The little girl frowns darkly. "Your athertion dithpleatheth Schmoopleth."
"Schmooples can go lick her ass," Bullseye scoffs. "I wouldn't put up with that kinda shit for a diamond the size of my cock, let alone fucking two-hundred mil. Fuckin' insulting. To us and Deadpool."
When he pushes away from the table and stands, Karla and Daken do the same.
"Interesting," Karla comments as they walk down the hall. "I thought you wanted to kill Deadpool."
"More fun almost killing him," he admits. "And imagining killing him."
And Daken doesn't mention it (never mentions it, hasn't mentioned it in two years), but whatever happened while he was playing with Romulus and Wolverine fucked him up.
It doesn't take a rocket scientist to notice things like the way Daken is still so careful about how he moves his arms and how much he carries. It's been two years, so whatever made the scars would have healed even on a normal human—but healed injuries can still hurt if they heal wrong, and a scraped knee can bug the hell out of a guy years later if he got it because of someone he hates.
Bullseye isn't going to risk getting them into a fight they might not be able to handle, not just to cure his boredom.
"You know most of the idiots in there will think to themselves, pretty justifiably, 'oh, I've heard of this Deadpool guy, he's a total retard,'" Karla points out.
"Wilson is a tough fight," Bullseye admits grudgingly. "Depending on how well his brain's working that day. But since Cable got back from wherever-the-fuck he went, they've been fuckin' attached at the hip. I don't like the odds against a seven-foot-tall guy whose left side is made of metal and whose childhood was spent not getting annihilated by Apocalypse. Guy's fuckin' scary. Almost Bob-scary, but a different kind of insane."
"So what are you gonna do?"
Bullseye grins. "I was thinking of going to hang out around Wilson's place to watch the fireworks. I figure a dozen dumbasses with dollar-signs in their eyes trying to get Wilson on his home turf now that he's practically tripping over X-Geeks…that's gotta have a few laughs in it, right?"
"I wanna know what that thing does, that she wants it so bad," Karla says. "'Unidentifiable material' is a pretty promising phrase, in my experience."
"What if we waited until they dissstracted him and then we sssstole it?" Mac suggests.
"Now you're thinkin', Mac," Bullseye praises. "And if the opportunity never presents itself, big whoop. We just sit back with our popcorn and enjoy the show. Maybe somebody on my list will pop up to 'save the day,' and we'll get the added entertainment of ripping somebody's intestines out."
.End./