Chapter Text
March 1969
She is most thankful that the brother she is now burdened with caring for seems to be, at least, capable of feeding himself. It is a long process, but he seems too rapt with the act of trying to make himself eat to hold any type of conversation. It would be a lie to say that she is not thankful for the silence.
Her appetite has been most assuredly ruined for the night, though she also makes an attempt at consuming something. It is hunger, she tells herself, that is the cause for the dreamlike lightheadedness. She will not allow herself to entertain any alternatives.
Once she is tired of attempting to eat and equally tired of watching Bullseye, she speaks, “Have you made your decision?”
She is not entirely certain that Bullseye is capable of a choice as simple as this. He is a strange creature, one that often brings… complications wherever he may set foot. She supposes that is part of why she, most foolishly, took him whilst leaving. Wherever he goes, it seems as though portents follow.
That is not some vestige of the laced faith poured down her throat at the compound. It is not some scripture wormed into her brain. There are always signs and the infantile shape on the bed attracts them without a care in the world.
“Guess you’re right,” he says and it sounds as though she is right about his ability to make decisions, “Guess I don’t wanna do it tomorrow.”
“Come, then,” Elektra stands up and manages to cross the small motel room in five strides.
The brother follows at a slower pace, as if he is uncertain where he is stepping. He carries himself on his toes at times and he is most always blanketed by his hair, wide eyes and sharp nose and eternal smile curtained by straw. Part of her, the part that sings to the muses and dances wild in the night, is certain that he is a changeling or something similar.
He is not a man and he is not a boy. He is fragile and impish and, if Matthew is to be believed in any capacity, dangerous. He is an interesting specimen, standing at the threshold to the motel’s dingy bathroom and wringing his hands.
She allowed herself to allocate a portion of their minute funds towards getting shampoo and conditioner at one of the corner shops near the diner. It is not as nice as the type she would prefer, but it will take care of things most efficiently.
He is still standing there, even after she has placed the bottles on the bathroom counter and started the bath running.
“Is there something you wish to say?”
Bullseye does not look at her, he keeps his eyes cast at the cracked tile floor.
“Then I suggest you stop merely standing around.”
He nods and begins to strip out of his clothing. It strikes her, so quickly that she almost has to laugh, that she has become far more comfortable with the two brothers than she ever expected. She would not have tolerated this situation even a year ago.
Bullseye stands there, naked yet covered by his hair, until she gestures for him to get into the bathtub. He does so with a sense of apprehension, dipping his foot in before deciding that it must be safe to climb all the way into.
Once he is situated within the bathtub, she kneels on the mat in front of it. If there was anyone else around that could possibly see her, this position would feel far more demeaning than it already does. She knew that taking the brother along would complicate the process of leaving and locating Matthew, but she had not entirely anticipated this.
Still, it is too late to change her mind. She takes one of the glasses, complements of the motel in each and every room, and uses it to pour water over his head. Though the water is warm, the boy, for that is truly what he looks like when he is in this state, shivers. She continues in this way until his hair is suitably wet, then does her best to gather the unmanageable tangle of hair together.
When it does not fall over his shoulders, plastered against his skin, it is easy to see how terribly bony Bullseye is. Were she not there to watch the lives of the brothers for months at length, she would assume that he was not fed enough. That has the potential to become an issue, were anyone else to see him looking so uncared for.
However, that is not relevant. She, instead, focuses on working the shampoo into his hair and hopes silently that there will be some left over for her own personal use following this exercise in patience.
“Matty used to do this,” Bullseye says, voice slurred and the pathetic tone of his is only amplified by the fact that he is holding his knees tight to his chest with a desperate intensity.
“Well I suppose someone must have had to, as you seem to either be incapable of or unwilling to do this yourself.”
“It’s just hard, ” he whines, “And it takes awful long and sometimes I start gettin’ dizzy if it takes too long and the water’s too hot.”
Were she a softer person, she would pity him for how sickly he is and how utterly unaware he is of his condition. Instead, she starts to rinse the suds out of his hair and ignores the way he tries to pull away each time she pours more water over him.
He is slight in a way that implies he was starved once and his body has not yet forgotten as much. It pains her at how pathetic he presently looks; he is drenched in water with his face round and wan and his skinny wrists wrapped tight around his knees.
She cannot stomach it to watch him as she works the conditioner into his hair. It is only when he continues to shiver under her touch, so steadily and so rapidly that she cannot ignore it, that she realizes he is, presumably, crying.
She will not ask him what is wrong. She does not have the patience to deal with any explanation he would provide as it would be so winding and agonizingly meandering that it would scarcely be an explanation at all. She is also loathe to devote any time to comforting Bullseye; she has never been inclined towards sympathy.
Instead, she draws her fingers through his hair. Each stroke is long and delicate as she works apart the knotted portions. She has never been too fond of music outside of how far it can get her with self proclaimed audiophiles, she finds herself humming.
She catches herself on a thought, one far too sharp to disentangle from, and it slices deeply but she has already succumbed to her emotions once thus far and she will not cry again.
However, she turns it around and around in her mind, trying to find the best way to extricate herself from it.
It shines so brightly that it aches, whispering in her ear.
Were the world kinder, this would be a memory. Were the world kinder, you would know this song and dance by heart with the only change being the roles cast. Were the world kinder, your mother would have washed your hair while you cried.
She does not stop combing her fingers through his hair until he has ceased crying. The water is cold when he is finally quiet and he does not complain, nor does he pull away when she rinses the conditioner out.
Elektra supposes he has cried himself out. She does not care to ruminate on the strange, silent way he went about it but it is markedly different from the usual loudness of his mannerisms.
Once she is satisfied with the process of rinsing out his hair, she pulls out the plug before getting to her feet, “It is finished.”
Bullseye does not move even to acknowledge her voice and she smiles to herself as she muses, briefly, that perhaps he has managed to fall asleep while she was washing his hair. It is not a thought that survives long, as he starts to stand soon after it crosses her mind.
He does so tentatively. The water slicks his hair to his skin as he rises with a quiet uncertainty, as if his legs may give out. It looks thinner now than it does while it is dry and it snakes around his arms, plastered to his thighs and belly. His eyes are ringed in red and he looks miserable, as if he has been drowned.
She had told herself that she would not do this, but somehow, her traitorous limbs pluck the towel from its rack and she finds herself drying Bullseye’s hair. He will either be able to manage the rest without her help or he will go to sleep still soaked to the bone.
When she is finished, his hair is drier than before and he takes the towel from her in order to wrap it around himself, wearing it as though it were a cloak, an achingly childish gesture. She will still have to brush his hair tomorrow; it will not be dry enough to accomplish that Sisyphean task tonight. The most she will have to accomplish is combing his hair enough to braid it.
Instead, she herds him out to the lone bed yet again as soon as he is dressed within reason. The television is still running, playing another program she is unfamiliar with. She sits cross-legged on the mattress, gesturing for Bullseye to sit in front of her.
He follows her orders most dutifully, taking his place in front of her with his legs dangling off the edge of the bed. For one so talkative, it is… strange how often he acts without questioning when ordered. It is as if he wants to be told what to do. It is one of the few traits present in him that implies he is truly Matthew’s brother.
She works her fingers through his hair yet again, resting damp and limp against the loose fitting shirt he wears, and pays no mind to the soft complaints hanging on his lips.
“Quiet now,” she speaks and does so softly, “If I braid your hair now, it will make brushing it tomorrow far easier.”
She brought a comb with her in addition to a brush, as if taking great care to groom herself could perhaps counteract the newfound unfamiliarity with herself. Neither object is hers and she catches on yet another memory; an ornate little vanity set, rimmed in gold and embellished with embroidered flowers, gifted to her by her father on one of her breaks between semesters.
The vanity set is long lost now; perhaps her possessions would still be in her apartment, but she doubts it. She has not returned in a very long time and it would have been unsafe to do so. Her place of residence was already known by Matthew and, most likely, others from Home.
She has always had money and she has always had gifts and she prefers the physical over the metaphysical, as if she can quantify how much she is cared for by amassing a collection of trinkets bestowed upon her. Now, however, she has very little money to fund their attempts to find Matthew.
She has never been wanting for funds and finds she is most unfamiliar with this situation. Perhaps, she muses, she could sell the blades to keep them moving.
The truth of the matter is that money is, at present, unimportant. If she does not continue putting one foot in front of the other, she will become possessed by the uncertainty. Instead, she starts combing Bullseye’s wet hair in the form of long, smooth strokes. He does not complain at all, though she can sense his hesitance.
Once it is combed straight, she begins to partition it for braiding. It will be most effective to divide his hair for two twin plaits. Elektra starts at the top of his head on one side and, perhaps, she is gentle as she does so. It is easy, as easy as breathing, and she does not have to think about how she does his hair.
In some ways, she resents this, yes, but it is a hell of her own making.
“I don’t like this.”
Bullseye whispers the phrase, as if someone might be listening; she is thankful that he does not sound as if he is whining.
“We must braid your hair,” Elektra states, as though she were speaking to a child, “Otherwise all of the time devoted to ensuring it is clean will be for naught.”
“Not the hair, ‘Lektra,” his voice strains, perhaps threatening to break, and she chides herself for assuming that Bullseye would be incapable of layering intent within his words.
She must not underestimate him. That is exactly how she ended up in this present situation and she doubts that the brother is all that different from her golden-tongued archangel. He is simple, yes, but that does not have any bearing on his intentions.
She plies for information, “What, exactly, do you dislike, Bullseye?”
“It’s,” he gestures grandly, as though addressing a crowd, and threatens to pull his hair from between Elektra’s fingers in the process, “It’s everythin’. We’re… awful far away from Home now, I reckon and I haven’t been away without Matty for a real long time and I just feel awful sick and awful scared right about now, and it feels-- it just feels wrong , ‘Lektra!”
She bristles at the nickname, but it isn’t enough to deter her from dissecting the contents of his words. When she thinks about it in depth, she is forced to admit that she does not exactly know the details of the situation regarding the brothers.
They live in the family house, a looming testament to the past located at the center of the compound; they are always together, and any tension between the two does not suggest anything other than a byproduct of being raised together; they are in the care of the patriarch of the commune, though neither of them appear to call him ‘father’. That is the extent of her knowledge.
“When is the last time that you left Home?” Elektra asks evenly, so as not to startle the flighty creature in front of her.
“Well, Matty an’ I went on Missions together a lot, but that all but stopped once he started goin’ out to Recrui-- ow , ‘Lektra, you’re pullin’ my hair!”
She loosens her grip; she cannot allow herself to be overcome by emotions. She had not even noticed what she was doing until it was far too late, too consumed by the knowledge that she was one such “ recruit”.
“I suggest you stop moving, then,” she says, although she does not believe he has moved all that much since sitting in front of her.
But he nods, which only serves to further her point as he pulls at his own hair in the process. Elektra finishes the first braid quickly after that and moves on to the other side.
She has almost partitioned his hair when he stretches out and yawns, “How much longer is this gonna take, ‘Lektra? I wanna go back to sleep .”
“Are you this impatient for Matthew?” She quirks up an eyebrow for her own benefit, continuing to work her hands through Bullseye’s hair.
“Matty’s faster than you,” he whines, “And scarier.”
“Sit still and I will be able to finish this with ease.”
“I’m not even movin’ around much, ‘Lektra, I promise , you just keep on pullin’ on my hair,” he sounds pained; the childish note in his voice makes him sound far smaller than he is, “I’m tryin’ to be good for you, I promise, I promise, I promise--”
Perhaps, if he was as young as he sounds, she would comfort him. It would be expected of her were he fourteen instead of twenty four. She runs her hands through his hair until he calms down enough for her to continue; it is easier for her to talk to him if she is occupied by some task.
“You have been good, thus far. You have been very well behaved.”
She supposes he must be grinning like a madman. He seems to be inclined to seek out praise as much as he seeks out attention and she has none of Matthew’s patience for that side of him.
Still, she must not resent him for his inability to integrate with the world. The mere fact that she joined the American cultural climate with ease after coming from her homeland is merely a testament to how much stronger she is.
She holds that thought in her mind as she finishes braiding his hair, allowing for a small smile to dance across her lips. Though she is unprepared and uncertain, perhaps even outright afraid, she is still stronger than the pathetic little creature in front of her.
After the final plait is complete, she ties it off with one of her own hair-ties and checks to ensure that the twin braids are at least somewhat even. Once she has removed her hands from his vicinity, Bullseye twists around until facing her, as though he wants to speak to her. She braces herself for yet another drawn out, circular conversation, but it does not prepare her enough for the truth of the matter.
No, far more shockingly, he decides that he is as stupid as she presumes him to be and embraces her, allowing his forehead to rest against the hollow between her shoulder and her neck. He is shaking, yet again, and she assumes it must be exhausting to maintain such a state of agitation.
Against all odds, she finds herself returning the embrace. Elektra carefully smoothes her hands over his back, slight and bony as he is, as if he might break were she to press too hard against him.
“We’re gonna find him, right?” Bullseye’s words catch in his throat; perhaps this will finally be the point at which he cries.
Once she is certain he will not see, she allows herself to frown, “I do not know , Bullseye.”
Admitting it aloud is foolish and the gaping maw of uncertainty threatens to swallow her as soon as she invokes the silken thread of doubt. She is tempting fate, pulling on the string although knowing the risks.
This also presents another complication of bringing Bullseye with her on her flight; her intent has always been to ensure that Matthew feels at least a fraction of the anguish of which he has borne unto her. However, she doubts that Matthew’s miserable brother will stand for her doing as such.
She must admit, though she is loathe to do as such, that she feels some fondness for him, otherwise she would not be allowing him to do this. He is snivelling, but holding his composure quite well, all things considered.
Elektra allows herself to recline back against the bed, pulling Bullseye along with her until they are lying flat with him resting against her. Matthew was rarely inclined towards gestures of intimacy such as this, save for a scant few times, though he appears to be a snake in the skin of a man.
Bullseye is… different. He is not a lover, barely even an equal at that, and yet she does not seem to mind that he is lying almost entirely on top of her, wrapped tightly in her arms.
Though the weight of him against her borders on comforting, assuring her that she is not alone in the world, drifting through an endless sea, the knot of dread resting in her gut assures her that this is only the start. She is simply wasting time trying to run from the weight of the world, wrought down upon her shoulders.
“Sleep,” she strokes her fingers along his back, wishing in a painful, childish way that she was the one being reassured in this manner, “Sleep now and your thoughts will be clearer tomorrow.”
She doubts that she will be able to sleep tonight, or that any sleep would be able to uncloud her head after how long she has spent with it submerged.