Work Text:
Precision was key when you were jumping off a plane to catch a moving ship in the middle of a moonless night. Bullseye never missed a target, and he damn well enjoyed the fall as he cut through the night, before pulling his parachute in the last possible moment to dampen his fall to something he could survive. The rush was real, and the grin on his face would have told any onlooker that the assassin enjoyed not only bloodshed but the thrill of it. Bullseye cut the lines as he was only a few feet away from the deck, making a rolling fall as his chute disappeared into the ocean once it was rid of the excess weight of its passanger.
No alarms were raised, no rain of bullets assaulting him.
So far so good.
Bullseye moved on across the deck quickly, knowing that he was still exposed, but once he reached the shadows of the cargo holds and accommodations he was set. He’d memorized the layout and placement of the targets, but there was still some sneaking around until he could commit to the carnage that he’d been commissioned for by Norman.
First, he needed to get eyes on Mr. Mitchell, and more importantly the briefcase he was carrying. Bullseye had stared at the man’s photos and film clips long enough to recognize him anywhere; it was a combination of learning movement, appearance and mannerisms — a useful trick when you needed to kill a target in crowded places without a clear line of sight or one who thought to disguise themselves by simple means. Bullseye didn’t care why Mitchell had to die or why he had to acquire said briefcase to Norman; or even why Norman preferred that the crew who knew about Mitchel should meet their demise as well. It was fun, and he was getting paid.
That is until Bullseye found himself crammed between two shipping containers, bleeding all over himself, said suitcase in hand. The bullet wounds were non-lethal in themselves, but he could tell that he was losing way too much blood and he was no closer to getting off the ship than he had been an hour ago.
Killing Mitchel hadn’t been hard, but the asshole had handcuffed himself to the metal briefcase, which was what Osborn wanted to get his hands on bad enough to kill for it. The time to hack off his hand was all his bodyguards had needed to get their fucking act together and start shooting at him, starting the wild chase that had pinned him in the cargo hold.
Another shot ricocheted off the containers, the noise enough to make him flinch and ache as every movement reminded him of the multiple bleeding wounds he had sustained.
It was a fucking clusterfuck.
Still, with a grin on his face, Bullseye shot back, calculating with barely a thought his targets’ placement based on how the shot had come, sending his own down a path that would have been impossible for most marksmen. Bullseye didn’t know how he knew what he knew, or how he could backtrack seemingly insignificant data to a specific target and to replicate that path with a bullet without even seeing where it was going. He just could. He loved that he could. He loved the scream of pain and the drop of a body as it echoed in the ship's hold.
Did he even need to say it?
“Bull’s eye,” he whispered with a bloody grin. It was the little things, ya know?
An explosion echoed from somewhere else, which soon became a bigger issue as everything rocked and groaned, making him stagger out of his cover as the ship lurched hard enough to slam him against the hull. Shots echoed as Bullseye threw himself for cover, blindly shooting back, hoping that he’d hit someone. It became an odd sort of game to kill each other as the ship made it as difficult as possible. He didn’t know who was responsible for the latter, it might have been either as the dogfight had gotten seriously out of hand. Bullseye had some respect for the fact that the mooks were well-trained; he could feel Taskmaster’s touch on them and kinda entertained the thought to call Tasky to complain.
However, he needed to finish them off and get going before the ship sank.
The next few minutes existed in a sped-up haze of killing and running to get to the lifeboat; Bullseye existed in that adrenaline state so hard, he barely registered the explosion that went off as he dropped the boat to water. The entire thing capsized, pulling him under as the surface seemed aflame and he could feel the shock waves through his body, pushing him deeper down as he struggled upward in the illuminated night. His lungs ached and his body felt so heavy, struggling with the damn briefcase, with the weight of his metal bones, and the throbbing pain of his bleeding wounds.
But he wasn’t any damn quitter, pushing himself to the surface with frantic kicks, drawing breath only to be pushed under again by the waves and the chilling cold. There was a hazy peace under the waves and he had to struggle with the cold shock, knowing to expect it and to push through. Single-minded motion kept him alive long enough to spot the lifeboat that had been pushed away by the explosion and righted itself.
With agonizing movement, Bullseye swam toward it and tossed in the damn metal briefcase, clambering in after it with shaking limbs and sucking in air in huge gulps and coughing fits. Flopping down, he continued coughing and breathing, vomiting out sea water and what little he had in his stomach. Fucking hell it hurt as every breath seared his lungs and throat. Bullseye actually realized how damn close he’d been to drowning as the adrenaline left his body, leaving him weak, trembling and half-numb.
"I still did it," he told no one in particular.
It wasn’t until he started to have a hard time keeping his eyes open that Bullseye forced himself up sitting with an agonized groan, peeling off parts of his suit to stop it from chilling him further. The wounds were still bleeding too much, and he was risking hypothermia in the chilly night, he diagnosed with practiced ease. He kept himself moving, checking the boat for a medical kit but finding only a half filled one, taking what little was useful. The lifeboat was of the open variety which had no real cover, barely any supplies, and he hoped the crew had at least made sure that the damn engine worked, as he had no desire to row the damn thing in his state.
With a hiss, Bullseye prodded his wounds and dug out the bullet from the sucking wound that was shallow enough to do so with, dressing his injuries with trauma pads, pieces of his costume he cut into strips and the singular roll of bandage he’d found. Blood was everywhere, so he dipped his hands into the sea, the cold, together with the pain, bit him hard enough to give him some clarity.
Bullseye looked up into the cloudy sky and wondered when his evac would arrive; he didn’t like his odds if they didn’t
“You really fucked up, didn’t you?” A smooth voice hummed, barely a question.
“Nah, I finished the job,” he rasped out and grinned a challenge into the night air, a baring of teeth more animal than anything else.
“You’ve lost too much blood. Hypothermia is setting in. You should have let the water take you, it would have been faster.” The words a caress, as if the cruelty was a mercy.
“I won't give up.” He huffed out an exhale and chuckled, the strain hurting him from the inside out.
“Liar. You’ve given up on so many things.” He could nearly feel him now, but Bullseye knew better than to look for him.
He was not that far gone yet: he knew he was alone.
“I didn’t give up on you--” barely a whisper into the emptiness, but, of course, there’s no escaping the judgment and scorn.
“You ran, darling. You run away from it still. Just because you can’t look at me without feeling shame and fear.” It really sounded like Daken, from the lilt of his words and the mocking smile that colored them. “You could have asked me to come with you. You could fight to get back and do something different. Even now-- you could kiss me.”
“You’re not real.” Bullseye looked now, and there he was, pristine and dressed in a suit sans the jacket. The white of his shirt stark in the night against his darker skin and the loops of the tattoo. Immaculate, something he could impossibly be if he was there.
“Maybe.” A shrug and a flash of teeth. His lips were soft and plump and Bullseye stared at them. “But if you don’t start that engine soon you’ll forget to even try, dear.”
Blinking, Bullseye struggled up and reached for the back, nearly dragging himself forward, to reach the engine. The wound in his side screamed as he moved, the one in his thigh echoing the pain, the only silver-lining was that the pain woke him up a bit and gave him a touch of adrenaline to keep himself awake. Still, he struggled with numb fingers to engage the clutch, to free-run the propeller, hoping that it’d still work.
The engine sputtered and stopped.
“Fuck. Fucking fuck--” He groaned, a harsh shiver going through his body. Of course the crew hadn’t run proper maintenance on the lifeboats; he’d seen the state of the supplies.
“Try again, Lester. Keep it going, you need to decompress it and crank it. You know how to do it, don’t you?” Mocking, always mocking him.
“Course I do-- fucking bastard thinks I can't--” he grumbled back, trembling fingers repeating the right motions and trying to get some life out of the engine. After several minutes, he got it going, and it pushed the lifeboat forward through the waves.
“Compass, darling. You need to check it. Don’t disappear out into the open.” It was more of a whisper now.
“I’m not stupid--” He checked it and adjusted the tiller and rudder to turn the damn thing toward the closest shore. He locked it in place. It was better than nothing to head toward the shore, even if he might not survive to see it.
“Flares --” Even quieter now, more like his own thoughts.
“Yeah-yeah, you’re not the boss of me--” Bullseye rummaged in the supplies that were left, finding a few flares in the cockpit locker. He got distracted by his hands. They were white in the dark, a shining brightness nearly and it was hard to use them, as if they belonged to someone else.
“Lester. Don’t stop.” Closer again -- realer --, and it was nearly a warmth in them. He glanced over his shoulder and Daken was there.
“Why?”
“Then you’ll never know.” A smile pulled those lips tight over teeth and he knew the promise.
“Liar. You’ll never tell me.” He sighed and leaned back.
“Maybe.” Then Daken was on his lap and the clouds broke enough to illuminate him in the cold light of the gibbous moon. “But don’t you want to try?”
He raised a pale, trembling hand to touch his cheek, but he was too numb to feel much more than the cold and the silky touch of a light breeze. “Liar--” he repeated.
“Stay with me --” Bullseye stared up at the dark clouds and the patches of sky. He closed his eyes lest he truly remember that he was alone.
He didn’t feel cold anymore, though a part of him, which sounded so very much like Daken, reminded him that that wasn’t a good thing. But he was tired and there was nothing he could do.
The boat lurched and Bullseye drew in a breath, adrenaline forcing him awake, that hammering reminder he was still alive beating in his chest.
“You fucked up. Idiot.” That same voice berating him and he stared up at the sky again, relaxing a little and allowing that beating drum to settle into a less painful hammering against his ribs. It was lighter now, the clouds lined with gold and pink.
“Got the job done--” he repeated, a smile cracking his lips. They’d already had this conversation, hadn’t they?
“You might even live long enough to have Osborn kill you for fucking up--” Another lurch and the engine was live with a cry. When had it stopped?
“Nuh-uh, I have the case.” He giggled now. It turned into a cough. He fumbled for the handle, but found himself without the strength to lift the chrome case up to display it as triumphantly as he’d intended.
“And you caused a massive incident. It wasn’t exactly discrete, darling,” Daken remarked, snidely. “And since we're no longer in international waters, even a rescue helicopter would draw too much attention. You’ve quite ruined my day. I hope you’re grateful.”
Something felt out of place. Bullseye pulled himself sitting up, leaning hard on one side as everything hurt, but some things at least cooperated. Daken sat at the tiller, and he wasn’t in his suit now, his hair was plastered across his scalp and side of his face. A strand had stuck to his cheek and Bullseye reached forward to push it away, feeling it wet and clingy to his fingers.
“You’re bleeding,” Daken remarked with a tilt of his head, his cheek touching Bullseye’s still outstretched hand.
“Yeah, no biggie,” Bullseye hummed back and settled his hand against him. It was warm. Daken felt so warm, it nearly burnt him. He wanted that. Leaning forward, he pressed his mouth against Daken’s lips, and they were warm and soft. There, he’d not run away and it wasn't as if it was real--
His free hand landed against Daken’s chest, feeling and finally registering that he was wearing a wet suit and a harness. Pulling back, Bullseye finally really looked at Daken. He was solid and real; soaked in seawater but dressed for it.
Bullseye’s mind moved like molasses to the realization that he was actually there.
“Daken?” Puzzled bemusement painted his face as he tried to work it out. “You’re here?”
“Yes. Earth to Lester, anyone home?” Daken countered, rolling his eyes. “Oh, wait . You thought I wasn’t?” A chuckling pause. “So that’s how you found a pair and finally kissed me.” Teasing now, but Bullseye didn’t have it in him to get mad.
“--should have just let the water take me,” he muttered, shivering, slumping and feeling himself drift off again.
“Don’t be such a drama queen.” A beat of silence and a hand on his face. “Tch. You’ve lost too much blood and gotten yourself chilled.”
Another hazy moment goes by, and then Bullseye felt himself to be tugged and maneuvered until he was leaning with his back against Daken’s chest, his head settled by his neck and shoulder. It was skin against skin now, Daken had peeled down his wetsuit, and he was warm. Had Bullseye been more aware, he’d have surely been mortified, and he’d have had some serious words — and stabs — with Daken about it. But as it was, he merely relaxed and let himself drift.
Later, there would be pain as his chilled limbs regained sensation, but now there was just animal warmth and the memory of lips on his.
The next time Bullseye awoke, he was on a gurney and EMTs were fussing over him. He caught sight of Daken standing nearby, the briefcase in his hand. Bullseye waved at him, as Daken caught sight of it, he flipped him off with a wan grin beneath the breathing mask they'd pulled on him.
Maybe he would try something different once they were back in the States.
But they were both liars and it was unlikely that it would make any difference. However, Bullseye now knew how Daken’s lips felt and didn’t regret it.