immediately after killing Matt Murdock, D&L settle into an apartment.

warnings: slash. Earth-339 (the Waking Man universe). minor 616 reference undercurrents of dom/sub. reference to sex. brief descriptions of violence. language: r (primetime tv plus g**damn, f***, and f*g).

pairing: Daken/Lester (Daken/Bullseye).

timeline: 2013.

disclaimer: the characters belong to Marvel; the AU is mine.

notes: 1) the title comes from the Nine Inch Nails album "Pretty Hate Machine," and the song referred to in the fic is "Head Like a Hole," which is on later releases of that album (but not the original release). Trent Reznor is the mastermind of NIN. 2) ever wonder if that feeling people call "having a goose walk over your grave" is you dying in some alternate dimension?


Hate Machine

Many things changed when Matt Murdock died.

Having effectively erased the top ten names on his list, Lester expressed something like a desire to settle down.

Daken was surprised, but took it in stride; after all, they both had more than enough money for it. A nice flat was made conveniently vacant, some nice furnishings replaced the tackier pieces, blackout curtains were set up in the bedroom for Lester (who was not a morning person under the best circumstances). If pressed, he would admit that there was something like comfort attached to the idea of staying somewhere besides a hotel for more than a few days. They could accumulate personal items, things they preferred over whatever happened to be at hand. A comfortable chair (his favorite simple indulgence no matter where he goes). A decent DVR (because Daken hates watching television and Lester hates watching it on somebody else's schedule). A nice stereo with some loud music (Lester likes Nine Inch Nails, because it's profane and has a heavy beat).

"Ever feel like you just dodged the bullet?" Lester asked, lying across the foot of the bed while the sounds of angry American electronica washed over the flat.

"I don't generally bother," Daken replied, playing dumb to get a rise out of his pet.

Lester glared. "I mean…" He gestured expansively. "This weird feeling like you barely got away with it."

"I always get away with it, and always by a healthy margin."

Lester threw a pillow at him.

He hugged the pillow and grinned. "Murdock was off his fucking rocker. If you hadn't gotten him, there would've been a long line of goody-goodies waiting to do the job."

Lester just looked at him for a long time. "What d'you think would've happened if I hadn't found you in Rome?"

Daken shrugged. "You would've found me a month later in Vienna."

"No. If…if you hadn't been there when I found Murdock the last three times."

Over the unfamiliar scents of the room, Daken could smell black depression. He stood slowly and approached the bed, dragging the pillow by a corner. "I wouldn't have let him hurt you, precious," he promised. His free hand wandered to Lester's hair without asking his brain for permission, but he let it linger there. "You belong to me; you're mine. He would never have stood a chance against both of us at once."

"Good," Lester said. "Because I thought he almost had me, a couple of times. And it ain't like it used to be—I don't think he woulda let me go this time. Probably woulda killed me. And I don't like being killed."

Daken finds death to be overrated—both the experience itself and its aftermath. So he only shrugged. Then he noticed the track playing on the stereo and smiled again. "They're playing our theme song."

Lester laughed. "It's about whores and sellouts, not mercenaries."

Daken tossed the pillow back onto the bed. "There's a difference? Don't pretend you don't like the song."

"I like the whole CD, that's why I bought it," Lester retorted.

But the somber mood was gone, and that was good enough for Daken.

So he just sauntered away from the bed and moved his hips to the music, completely unsurprised to be tackled to the floor fifteen seconds later. They fucked on the carpet while Trent Reznor complained about corruption (and then they climbed up onto the bed and went for another round).

The next day, it was like someone had flipped a switch inside Lester's brain.

He had been obedient for a long time already (even if that obedience was often accompanied by complaints or protests), but the death of Daredevil seemed to have drained all the initiative out of him. Before, he would have been out the front door after breakfast, looking for someone to kill. Instead, he was idle…curiously pliant, and…yes, perhaps even affectionate.

"We going anywhere today?" Lester asked, crowding close over Daken's shoulder while he sat at the table with a book and a cup of tea.

"Are we?" Daken countered, slightly nonplussed.

"We need to stock the fridge. I don't feel like getting up and going out for every meal."

Daken sipped his tea and returned his attention to his book. "Have fun, then."

Lester didn't move.

"You know how to shop for groceries," Daken pointed out.

Lester still didn't move. He smelled frustrated.

Intrigued, Daken set his book down. "Would you like me to come with you, darling?"

Rough hands slid over his bare shoulders. "You'd have to, wouldn't you?" Lester said in a tone of false confidence (Daken could hear the uncertain thud of heartbeat, could taste an unspoken plea, could feel the fine tremor in fingers that were always steady). "This bout of insanity might wear off—I might run away."

"I certainly wouldn't want that," Daken replied.

Those wonderful hands slipped across his chest, settled over his collarbone and his heart. Lester leaned down and pressed his forehead against the crook of Daken's neck.

Smirking in satisfaction, Daken traced swirls and spirals over the back of Lester's right hand. "You know, you could come over to this side and do that."

Lester hummed thoughtfully and drummed out a rhythm with his fingers that vibrated through Daken's heart. "What would I get out of it?"

"You've never yet complained after I kissed you."

So Lester tugged the chair back to make room and slid into Daken's lap, waiting for his promised kiss.

The memory of Lester laughing and covered in Murdock's blood stirred a greedy little thrill of possession in Daken. "My beautiful murderer," he purred as he dragged his thumbs up Lester's inner thighs.

And Lester stared into his eyes, wearing once again that odd, desperate 'please tell me what to do' look he'd worn the day Daken had finished training him. An expectant hush settled between them, punctuated by Lester's nervous breath and racing heartbeat. Blond eyelashes fluttered—

Butterfly wings…

—and he leaned close, lingering just shy of a kiss, tense and poised and flawless and entirely too goddamn demure.

Daken slammed his hands down on the table and surged forward with a snarl. Lester was left in an awkward sprawl half-on the table with only quick reflexes and a leg over Daken's hip saving him from falling.

Lester didn't even flinch.

"Not bad," Daken said. "But how about showing a little fire, hmm?"

Lester's left hand, which had still been lingering on Daken's chest, crept slowly upward before tangling viciously in Daken's hair. "How about you fuck me into this nice new table before I get bored and use your faggot little teacup to cut your pretty face off and hang it on the wall?"

"That's more like it!" Daken laughed.

.End.