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CAT ON A COLD BORING ROOF
Fall a building on breathers (OK. A lot of breathers.) and suddenly the Iron boss seems to think you need a minder even on the simplest errands (aka. murders).
It could have been worse, though. Normie could have chosen Venom, the punk had helpfully pointed.
It’s not even untrue, Bullseye has to admit (but will never utter out loud). He’s the one who usually babysits the big Spider. The reversal would have been an even more severe blow to his pride.
Still, dealing with the punk is… trying.
Imagine a rooftop, a nice rifle, a tiny window, on a very, very far building opposite. Your eyes glued to the scope. Immobility being a bitch because the wall which supports your weapon is just at the wrong height and there’s this mean twinge at the small of your back from an old wound. Add a target who is late in showing inside the frame of said window. Add on top of that a dramatic mutant right behind you, burning holes into your back because you know this way he always has to look at you. (Even when he’s the one claiming you are the one obsessed with his ass…ets.) Daken’s blatant desire is as insulting as flattering…
But Bullseye likes the kill. He loves the murder space in his head. He would like nothing more than lose himself in it right now. These only moments of total clarity in the midst of his madness. Problem, Daken proves… distracting. Because apparently lying in wait is not his style.
“No, when I lie, dear, there’s no wait. I lie down and interesting things happen,” punk has the gall to quip.
“You’re a liar: you’re not lying, we’re standing,” Bullseye shoots back. He knows he shouldn’t react. Let himself get roped into Daken’s little games. But making a point is almost as good as hitting a target, so. (And Bullseye still counts as a win Daken’s reluctantly amused little snort.)
Unfortunately the silence is short-lived.
“I need entertainment, Lester,” Daken says for the nth time.
And here we go again…
“Who cares what you need,” Bullseye mumbles, eye still glued to the scope of his rifle.
There’s not even a beat on Daken’s part:
“Indeed, that’s why I usually take what I need.” It sounds vaguely ominous. And hot. Should that sound hot?
Plus, he can tell, even without looking, the presence (or menace) in his back is getting closer. His whole body tenses, not in a flight or flight response, but in a troubling expectancy.
“Well, well, well. What treat have we here that I have to unwrap?” Daken whispers, too close, but like mostly for himself.
And suddenly there’s a thud, the one of his utility belt dropping at his feet, unclasped by nimble hands, who then fall in turn on his hips. Warm. Even through the thick fabric of the Bullseye costume.
But the hitman knows that if he moves, if he interrupts his watch, gets his eye away from his weapon’s scope to glare, somehow, Daken will have won.
“What the hell you think you’re doing!” Bullseye still snarls from low in his throat, almost a growl. (You’d think he’s the mongrel.) Because Daken presses himself against his back, too, now. All hard planes and invasive knee between his legs… and still oddly comfortable, like a blanket between him and the nasty little autumn breeze.
And it doesn’t stop there. After a brief pause, the punk’s hands have decided to move again, getting busy with. his. fly. Dammit. Unwrapping him, indeed. One hand gently palming his junk, the other maddeningly dragging nails on the inside of a thigh in the softest way. (It’s almost shocking, in comparison to their usual antagonistic sex…)
“Why, we wouldn’t want something untoward happening to your dear costume, wouldn’t we? By the way, note how I’m more considerate than you are of my clothes, you, little slasher, you.” And then Daken his practically nuzzling his neck, words falling like the caress of feather down on his carotid. “Or something untoward happening inside your costume.” How can a voice be so deceptively smooth and still drip with corrosive mockery? Bullseye will never know.
“But then again,” the damn punk continues, “I’ve heard that you got off on your job, so maybe you’re used to get dirty like that, my absurd little carny.”
It’s harder and harder to keep still. But pushing Daken away would require a hand he needs to keep on his rifle, because he’s a professional, dammit, and his target might show any second, now.
“Filthy tongue,” he mutters, a tad breathlessly. (So, it’s not that the insult misses, because it’s simply true, but it lands a little… flat.)
“As you wish,” Daken says, and without much warning crashes their mouths together, his traitorous fingers like clamp turning his face in the right direction and working the articulation of his jaws more open than he would like, sending said filthy tongue into a raiding expedition down his gullet. Effectively managing to part him from his weapon. Because… it feels like being eaten raw, robs Bullseye from the support of his legs, so weak at the knees he suddenly feels, with the heavy body pressed everywhere against him on top of that.
(On top of him. How did they end up on the ground, dammit?)
Truth is, Bullseye is being unwrapped even more, and the cold can only enhance the burning sensation of the punk’s lips and tongue, all fastened as they are on one of his nipples. The hitman grabs at dark hair, but wholly unable to find the will to use it to pull the punk away. He sends his head back, arching his back for more… His eyes, almost rolling in their orbits, show him an upside down world, as he’s trying to gulp air (and regain a semblance of a cold head, perhaps). He didn’t expect to cross big round eyes as blue as his.
“Punk,” he hisses, trying to twist his neck. “Punk! Wait. Stop.”
“Nonsense. You want this. Lester. I know.”
“I can’t.”
The wording seems to throw Daken a bit, this time.
“Can’t?” there’s mock alarm in the punk’s tone. (Yes, you know what he’s implying, that… prick.) “Get it up?” (And he still chooses to say it.)
“Not that! I can’t. It’s looking.”
“Nanda?”
And yes, at last Daken deigns raising his head a bit more to follow his gaze.
“Oh, neko desu!!!”
Bullseye picks up on the Japanese right away, though it’s a language he seldom uses except on the job. (Yes, he has once killed a Yakuza who went by Neko-sama. Go figure.) A cat?!?
“That’s what it is?”
“Seriously, Lester? Have you spend more time institutionalized than I thought, that you’ve never even seen pets before? Yes, it’s a cat.”
“I mean… It’s really a cat? It’s all… naked!”
“Well, I happen to like naked,” Daken exclaims with the (sadly) expected leer.
Bullseye winces. He has so set himself up for this.
“Plus, I must have a type, after all,” the mutant continues. “I like my little bald guys.” And yes, he has the gall to steal a caress on his bald skull at that, and Bullseye only absently bats his hand away, too focused on the little newcomer.
Yes, this is one of these hairless cats, which lends the little beast a slightly scrawny air, and without the fluff, its head, though all frowny with delicate folds of skins, is tiny, which makes his eyes look eerily huge.
Think how Gollum would look if he were suddenly given the poise of an aristocrat, Daken inwardly muses, drinking the sight of the little being primly staring at them, seated on its little pink bum. Or, even better, how his bald little man would look were he suddenly transformed into a feline… This last one brings a surprised lift to Daken’s mood, who suddenly feels a tad less miffed by the interruption. This gremlin can do cute too, admittedly. Just like the big murder gremlin beneath him, he finds.
So, Daken promptly ditches the decadently half-undressed man beneath him to get closer to the newcomer, all the while cooing sweet nonsenses in soft Japanese. The cat seems to love this, its ears gently twitching at the sounds of adoration, and it’s the little beast which actually breaches the distance between them, pushing its little head against Daken’s hand with obvious relish and a powerful purr.
Soon, the feline is picked up in the punk’s arms, and Bullseye doesn’t miss the swift glance of the mutant at their unexpected guest’s belly, before delightfully proclaiming :
“It’s a little he!” like it's the most wonderful thing in the world.
All the while, Bullseye is straightening himself up and his suit, feeling of the cold air on his skin even more annoying now that it mercilessly banks the warmth the punk had started to spread all over his body. It makes him cranky. Hence his slightly baleful glare at the little nuisance.
Maybe the cat feels the cold too. It seems to have found its comfort in the crook of the punk’s arm and Bullseye is thus very tempted to go for a movie villain joke. Something stops him, though. He’s never seen the punk’s face so close to express, what? Benevolence? Contentment? Daken’s long black-nailed fingers are working a kind of magic against the critter’s little jaw.
Bullseye sees red. The pang of jealousy comes from nowhere. Hot and vicious. A minute before, he was all that counted in Daken’s eyes… The hitman is not exactly thinking, when he palms one of his trademark (take that, Gambit!) cards.
Sure, Daken does his best to hide his alarm at the sight. But Bullseye never misses, and Daken obviously knows what he’d be capable to do to the little critter with this little bit of cardboard. The mutant almost imperceptibly angles his body just so, as if to take the brunt of the damage, were he to act up. It’s… pathetic.
But also, Bullseye remembers, physical harm means very little to Daken. He could take the punishment without even batting an eyelid. On the other hand, the mongrel’s pride, Bullseye has come to learn, is a much more tender place…
So Bullseye unexpectedly curbs his natural impulse to do harm and with a quick sleight of hand, makes as if he were releasing the card to send it fly right past Daken and the critter, while actually palming it hidden.
It cracks him up.
Daken and the cat sport the exact same expression of confusion, huge eyes and all, plus twisted necks in the direction the card should have flown but not seeing anything. And if Bullseye can admit to himself the picture they paint is painfully cute, it’s only because it’s also so utterly ridiculous.
But while he expected Daken to show a bit of temper at being tricked that easily, he’s utterly mystified to suddenly get confronted to the punk’s unguarded delight.
“How did you do that, little man!”
The wonder feels like praise to the hitman’s ears, and a surprisingly heady one at that.
“I’m magic! And magicians never reveal their tricks.” And his happily wolfish smile seems to make Daken beam harder for a second.
An odd moment, if not of complicity but at least of an easiness they've rarely known when they've interacted together before, the both of them… Which they seem to realize almost at the same time, the mutant averting his gaze first.
And still the punk holds the little critter close, like the most precious thing in the world. It eerily reminds Bullseye of this stunt the punk pulled once, saving a baby from the flames for good PR. Daken had held the little human bundle a bit like that, at that time. (Making him disturbingly rethink a bit the notion it was all an act.) And… Bullseye knows his weapons. He has this sudden intuition, right there and then, that this little creature, he could use as a weapon to batter at Daken carefully elaborated façade.
No one cares, huh? Psychopath? The punk says the words way to often, trying to sell his total indifference.
The mutant will have to admit he’s so full of shit.
It will be easy to put to the test.
He needs a diversion first, of course, so Daken lets his guard down. (Which should be easy. The naked little beast seems to have an odd relaxing effect on him.) The hitman sends his hand into one of his pouches, disturbing cellophane inside to grab a piece of a snack he had secreted there, and hands the cat a morsel of tuna from his sandwich. Conclusion: folds of pink skin all a flutter with treat joy are a sight to see. Grabby little paws and munching ensue happily. Repeat the process, one, two times, and—
Bullseye then, obviously, makes a grab for the whole cat. (Also, his turn, now, to play with the new toy, it’s only fair.)
Daken has this utterly instinctive gesture, that he aborts a bit in a catastrophe to hold on. Not let go. Grab the little one back. (Same mutant who knows, though, not to get attached, that it’s never a good idea, and berates himself inwardly. It doesn’t help much.) Still, it’s eagle-eyed, the way he can’t help but watch over the little creature now in the killer’s arms. Ready to react to any of Lester’s insane shenanigans.
“Lester, we can’t keep him,” the punk says, though. (Because he knows better than to care, sure, and better rip the Band-Aid quick.)
“Why!?”
“Seriously, Lester? Seriously?”
“Yeah! I’m practically sure I can sell it as a weapon to Normie.”
Daken sighs:
“Lest—“
“Reflex!” Bullseye cuts over him, and, obviously, throws the cat at him.
“Dammit, Lester,” Daken erupts, grabbing with uncanny promptitude the ball of panicked skin and murder-claws from mid-air and then holding the feline at arm’s length till he settles down. The little guy’s affronted screeching still rings to their ears. “But I see your point. Such tiny claws but such a distinctive power…”
Daken sure now sports their mark on his skin, though the gashes are already closing. The mutant sounds genuinely admiring. And once the beast has calmed down a little, he cradles him anew in the crook of his arm as if it was his natural place. The cat seems to agree, tranquilly purring away once more. (It's nice, the mutant distantly thinks.)
“Plus it would be dandy to test our foes. I’ve done it before,” Bullseye impertubably continues. Utterly conscious Daken has no idea of what he let shows in his dealing with the naked little beastie. Of his… involvement.
“Excuse me?”
“I once threw a cat over the edge to test Spidey’s abilities. It worked like a charm.”
Daken visually bristles at that. (Strike two. Can the punk be more obvious that the little critter already has him round its little paw?)
“And the day you foe-du-jour is not as good as you or as you thought he was and he misses the cat?”
“Oh,” the hitman allows. Yeah, that’d suck for the cat. Though it probably wouldn’t stop him. Plus he knows Daken is just as good as the hitman thinks he is. He has learned to know the mongrel.
(Also, if one had once told the great Bullseye that he’d be able to forget completely about a target in an ongoing murder gig, he would have laughed to their faces. But people seldom account for the disruptive qualities of cats. Bullseye doesn’t even realize.)
“Yes, oh,” Daken mimics. “Lester, we really can’t keep him.”
“Whyyyyy!?”
“Oh, let me think for a second: yes. Just for starters, Venom will try and eat him, little man.”
“Yeah, that. Damn.” OK, he usually enjoys carnage, but that’s a disturbing picture for someone who has seen Venom put a lot of things in his gullet. (Even though he’s the guy who embedded a living dog in the Big bad Spider’s eyesocket, once.)
Bullseye stares at the little naked thing a bit more. The cat imperturbably stares back. The frowny folds of skin above its eyes lend it a mildly inquiring air. He’ll miss that scrunchy little face, damn it. (And Bullseye is supposed to never miss.) He’ll have to get used to the idea, though. But it doesn’t mean the hitman can’t be sore about it. Doesn’t mean he won’t be able to hit a last bull’s eye with the little critter.
Because Bullseye knows exactly how to get back at the punk.
“Well, if we can’t keep it,” he says.
And obviously, he has to lunge for the beast in the punk’s arms and throw the cat off the roof, right?
(Strike three.)
The punk twists himself in an unnatural way, exactly how Bullseye knew he would, and almost falls over, even. His ribs make hard contact with the sharp edge of the low wall overlooking the street. Still, he manages to catch the yowling cat by the scruff of his neck in extremis.
The punk’s shirt is ruined, torn and dirty, where it has scrapped at the bricks. There are scratches on his arm and a bit of blood too on his torso from the panicky animal, now quietly shaking in the cradle of his arms.
“Seriously, Lester?” And bizarrely, Daken doesn’t go as ballistic as Bullseye thought he would. But it’s only because Daken knows where to hurt. “I mean, I get you have these insane random impulses to kill, but seriously? A cat? Isn’t it the tiniest bit beneath your dignity?”
And because Daken is expertly picking at his pride, the hitman incredibly feels the need to justify himself, letting, well, the cat out of the bag. “I was testing you,” he mumbles. But since he’s also an expert in retaliation, and never misses, “and you care,” he accuses with a renewed access of glee. “You like the cat.” And even a bit on the meaner side, because he has made the point, dammit: “You care,” he hammers once again
Daken merely blinks his disbelief at the notion, obviously, but then again, Daken is a consummate liar who’d still lie even with his pants on fire, so.
“I’m bored,” the mutant corrects haughtily. “And the little fellow remains my main distraction today, since someone had an access of impotency for the silly reason he had an audience.”
“Impotency!?” Bullseye literally chokes on the word.
“Do you really think I wanted to be here, today? It’s my day off! There was this exhibit I wanted to see, and I needed to buy a new shirt to replace the one you’ve ruined two days ago, you little menace.”
“Two.”
“What?”
“You need two shirts, now,” Bullseye points with a superb straight face, pointing the damage to the punk’s current get up.
Daken breaths out slowly.
“Yes, indeed,” he grits through his teeth.
And the explosion… still doesn’t come. Bullseye blames it on the cat. It’s still in Daken’s arms and the punk doesn’t seem in the mood to drop it to start this fight Bullseye itches to lose himself into. Also, its purr seems to have a numbing effect on the punk’s aggressiveness. Annoying.
The hitman crosses eyes with the little beast, who comically twists its neck a bit as a come on, reaching out with a paw from the crook of Daken’s arm, eerily reminiscent of a lady begging to have her mitt kissed. He’s making this weird thinggie-motion, opening and closing said paw. Bullseye sends his hand without thinking, to look intensely at the pretty tiny murder claws, thumb almost tender on them. There’s the softness of warm naked cat skin under his fingers, too. One fleeting second, Bullseye wonders how it would feel, to hold the punk’s hand while being able to have his fill of watching his claws out.
“tt.tt.tt.”
Cat and mutant both turn their heads, once again in amusing synchronicity. The little sound seems to come from an open window on the neighboring building.
Sleek like water falling, the cat lets himself drop from the mutant’s arms and pads to the wall, vaults over a tiny void to reach an old emergency staircase and races to a particular window. Without a single look back.
Pleased voices calling literal pet names are vaguely heard over there at the cat’s arrival.
“I think we’ve been dumped, dear,” Daken comments after a handful of seconds.
“Thieves,” Bullseye mutters. Also, “Ungrateful little beast.” He has fed the damn creature his sandwich, after all.
He remembers his rifle, then, abandoned on the ground when things had gotten heated with the punk. In one graceful movement, he makes a grab for it and points in the direction of the cat’s home. No target in sight, but just shooting inside, he’s pretty confident he will ricochet someone dead one way or another.
But an insistent hand falls on his shoulder.
“Hm, Lester? Bigger prey, over there,” Daken warns.
Of course, one will never know if the mutant actually tells him about the apparition of his mission’s intended target due to a modicum left of professionalism or just because he had to foil a cat murder and needed a diversion.
“Ah, dammit!” The job. And Bullseye rushes to the other side of the roof. Indeed, in the tiny window of earlier, one can see the distinctive silhouette of his prey.
And frankly, it’s a beauty, Daken thinks, how his absurd little carny relocates from one point of the roof to another and takes the shot without even thinking, the calculus of murder so instinctive and perfect in him that the whole thing is executed (no pun intended) with seamless fluidity.
He’s the inheritor of the earth, Daken. Homo superior. And still the little man floors him a little. But he’d rather die than show it. Because Lester never misses and would use it against him. (Has used a cat, of all things, against him, after all.)
“That’s anticlimactic,” Daken thus simply says, squinting in the low light, watching the humans ants fret and scream around the fallen body in the far away window’s frame.
“A bit,” the hitman allows.
Bullseye should feel better after a good kill.
He had expected to get more from this outing. To leave behind for a bit the sometimes stifling sensation of the Hawkeye costume and its demands of deception. But right now, he experiences a feeling akin to frustration, with the non-realization of his little fantasy. This lack of triumph is like a drug failing to deliver its high. (He had wanted to see the admiration on the punk’s face, dammit.)
“Well then. Shall we?” Daken says. Allure, invite and menace all rolled in one.
There’s a world of potential in these words.
For a fight.
For a fuck.
And the world is bright again.
The end.