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Never thought I'd see the day. Lester chuckles to himself, shaking his head. He had heard rumors–talk of a flaming man with claws stalking across the country, leaving statues in his wake. At first, he chalked it up to Logan; that old bastard had been demon possessed before and had killed more than his fair share. Hellverine, they called him. But the deaths on this round, people said, were a lot more selective. Latest account came from down south–some man who'd had a bunch of kids tied up and drowned in the pond outside his house.
What that man looked like after this Hellverine got ahold of him… hell, even some of the hardest-assed people Lester knows shuddered at the mention.
And now, he's standing on a rooftop across the block from a man on fire, exiting the Sanctum Sanctorum. A man wearing a brown and yellow costume that Logan hasn't worn in years. A man he hasn't seen since Osbourne's Avengers were split up.
Daken. Akihiro. Fang. Whatever the hell he was going by now.
He tracks the man for several blocks–long enough for him to start to smoulder and the flames to die. Lester isn't keen on dealing with the demon in the man, but he's curious.
That punk hates the idea of being owned and controlled. Why make the deal?
Clambering down from his rooftop perch, he can feel Akihiro's eyes on him once he's noticed. With less inhibitions now that he's been found out anyway, he makes a show of the rest of the descent, flipping and twisting as he jumps down from a fire escape to a dumpster before landing on the ground in front of him.
“Lester…” Akihiro manages after some thought, like he was struggling to remember his name.
“Punk,” Bullseye responds, raising an eyebrow under his mask. He notices smoke–Akihiro is smoldering–and takes a step back, bits of gravel and some loose change at the ready in case he needs to defend himself.
Akihiro grimaces and takes a few deep breaths, muttering something that Lester can't quite hear, although he does catch a few words. Stop. Please. Frankly, it freaks him out worse than the smoke; Daken doesn't show weakness like that, and he doesn't beg.
“The fuck’s happened to you,” Lester frowns, gripping the dime in one of his suit pockets like a lifeline. Akihiro looks at Lester with concern and confusion.
“Bagra-ghul…” Akihiro's voice sounds forced, strained like he's been shouting. Which doesn't make sense to Lester, because he should be healing vocal chord tears… “Lester, put it down. He's harder to… negotiate with when threatened.”
Lester narrows his eyes and takes his hands out of his pockets, showing them to Akihiro. “There we go. Nothing in my hands. Now start talkin, punk.”
Akihiro shakes his head, eyes glassy. “Not much to tell. Last month, I was dead. Last week, I couldn't even remember my name…”
Lester feels his stomach drop, but can't place the reason. Probably, that lack of control gives him the heebie-jeebies, same as it should be giving Daken, but he looks so damn tired. Bullseye gives him a good once-over, really taking in the state of him: skin ashy, eyes glassed over and semi-cloudy, nose, ears, and fingers a foreign purple-ish color… looks like he hasn't showered in a week or slept even longer. It's so far removed from what Lester remembers– the nancy-boy suits, clean-cut mohawk, and manicured nails; the way his cheeks flushed when he'd laugh and goad Lester into violence–that the man takes a few steps forward, until he's able to tilt Akihiro's head up with a hand.
He wasn't sure what he was expecting. The flames of hell against his skin, probably. The punk was always so warm–hot like a furnace against him as they fought and fucked and bled against each other in the bed and on the battlefield. This, though… this isn't it.
“... You're cold,” Bullseye remarks, quietly, and frowns deeply. This is all wrong. This man in front of him isn't the Daken he knows.
Akihiro leans into the touch and closes his eyes for a moment, reveling in the relative warmth of Lester's hand, still cooler than the average person between the glove and the adamantium in his bones. Ironically, the killer's hand is one of very few touches he's shared since waking that haven't been rooted in violence. He's missed it.
A part of him has missed Lester. The so-called utopia of Krakoa had left him feeling isolated–not that purposely avoiding his sisters with Laura in the Vault had helped–and all his time spent working with teams had, in part, reinforced just how different he is to everyone else. With Lester, there had been no pretences. Sure, he was a far more broken person back then–he still marvels how much more whole he felt having his sisters around–but the man had seen him at one of his worst points and had met him there. He hadn't needed to prove anything.
He collapses into Bullseye, sighing into the dark blue of the suit, and nuzzling his nose into the hitman's neck. Lester tenses beneath him, and he can feel the man tamping down the urge to hurt. The demon in his head is still whispering for him to kill him–to make him into a work of art–but as he feels Lester place a hand on the small of his back, he smiles a bit.
Lester is the artist here.