Work Text:
You're roused from sleep by the chirruping chime of a phone that means one thing: your boss is calling. It's as if you never reduced yourself to something as base as slumber from the way that your eyes snap open. From the fluid locomotion as you extend your hand to the nightstand that bears your lifeline.
There's only one reason why your boss is calling. That's because he needs one thing: for you to take care of The Work.
Even in the obscurity of the wee hours that marks your room's interior clotted and abyssal in shadow, you're quick to locate it. It's no great feat to squint past the glaring brightness of your screen that awakens at your tactile touch. To unveil the grim Caller ID of your boss that you took in a moment when he was unwilling to be photographed, dour frown and all.
You raise the phone to your ear, ready to await orders. He's not someone to mince words, much as he is now. The faint sounds of tires dragging over concrete indicate to you that he is already out and about.
"I'm called out to business with Mr. Fisk." He informs you with that brusque curtness that you are so familiar with. "You need to take over the job for today."
You blink, but don't make any other external reaction—he wouldn't like that. The assumption that you're not ready to fill the big shoes that he's been prepping you for years would most likely piss him off.
So all you do is ask, "The Big One?"
You await his verbal confirmation. All you get is a noncommittal grunt from your boss.
"He's prickly, but he'll pay good." There's the repetitive toll of the turn signal as you hear the car scrabbling over suspicious surface. "Just don't get on his bad side."
"Any advice for that?" You ask tersely as you make way to get dressed one-handed.
"Yeah." Your boss is economical with his words. "Don't get on his bad side."
All that you are received by is a click on the other end and the fact that you have a job to rise to. Seems like it's time to get to work.
You and your boss' office is in an apartment building you affectionately refer to as The Tower. It's a dingy room on the tallest floor, in the corner. Where the two of you have advantage of sight and time if the cops come sniffing around.
It allows you ample view of the promenade far below, where all the other apartment residents scurry about during their various tasks and errands. And, most importantly, it informs you as to when a client is coming to seek an order from you.
Speaking of which—considering the client that is arriving, you are very neatly arranging all of the things that he's asked for in discreet word-to-mouth messaging.
On the table before you, you set out the Ruger Wrangler on one end—this one was selected for style's sake—earmarked on the other end by the 38 Smith & Wesson—selected for durability.
In between the two bookends of your tables are all of the geegaws and baubles that are necessary for your client's line of work. Ample boxes of ammunition for both respective guns litter the surface, broken up in intermission by various knives that were selected for the occasion. Most of them distinctly by you; you allow your boss to take the credit since he does most of the selling.
And in the center is the crown jewel—something that he placed greatest of emphasis on procuring: the Accuracy International AXMC. It's an unwieldy black behemoth of a sniper rifle that takes up the majority of the table's center. As you place everything else in appealing display, your eyes graze over where it sits, glossy and menacing with intent for one sole purpose.
It's as you make your way to finish setting up the final box of ammo that you hear the knock at the door. You have little time to spare a cursory glance to the clock hanging on the spartan wall of your apartment.
He is on time. Exactly on the minute, it appears.
Best not to keep him waiting. You've been present for other sales where your boss was steering the ship and you were lowly boatswain—you know better than to keep him in suspense on the other side of the door.
It's a quick journey to the doorknob, to twist in your wrist. To allow it to spring open for your guest of the hour.
You've yet to ever fight that uncanny chill that trembles up the meter of you when you see him. But you've gotten better at keeping that reaction internal.
The way that he towers over you—the way that those blue eyes seem to lance right through you—it is overwhelming. The way that he fills up the door with marked ease, bearing those indomitable spread of his shoulders that trawl empty tote bags—he could kill you so very easily.
It is the fact that you and your boss are of marked necessity to him in a world that doesn't think twice to shoot that stays his hand. His eyes slowly draw down to you, expecting the height of your boss to be greeting him at the door's opening.
He doesn't waste extra syllables, either. "Where's your boss?"
You won't spare him the privilege then—you keep your shoulders plateaued, your back ramrod straight. "He's out. I'm filling in for him."
"You sure you up to that?" Bullseye asks—this is not a question that you're a stranger to, given the fact that you're only the subordinate. You make sure to match it naturally.
"Sure I am." You reply. "You want to come on in and take a look?"
His eyes don't move from you, though you're certain that he's made appraisal of it in his periphery. A moment passes stiffly between the two of you before he decides this fight isn't worth the waste.
"Make sure to close the door behind you, will you?" He asks; then, without hesitation, he shoulders past you. It's not with the force that you've heard he's wielded out in these mean streets—but it's no gentle gesture either.
You restrain the grunt you're tempted to make through the grit of your teeth. Instead, you opt to watch him from the back-end, casually sauntering over to the table where you've arranged everything.
You take brief instance to close the door and lock it as you always do, before you circle around to meet him on the other side of the table. He's already nosing those broad fingers through the catalog that you've meticulously arranged for him, ruining the symmetry. Not that he cares, it appears.
You've barely had moment to stop behind the other side of the table's meridian when he begins the attack.
"Do you have the .338 Winchester Magnum refills for me?" He asks, making sharp nod in the direction of the Accuracy International that lies in between you both.
"Yep." You answer him without hesitation. "And then we have the refills for the other two and the L.E. One Karambit that you asked for."
To supplement the statement that you make, you make sweeping gesture to the table. He allows his eyes to fall over the neat stacks of ammo and the wicked, curved blades that are for his admiration.
All as he requested, all as he desired.
This is why you don't expect him to begin with the abrupt, abortive reply that he sends your way.
"That's not enough." He states with stark, admonitory delivery. His eyes are not staring in the direction of the catalog, but directly at you. Accusatory yet neutral in the means he does so.
You don't flounder—you don't have privilege to do so.
"Yes, it is." You reply calmly—he's no different from any other abrasive customer. "I counted it myself."
There's a callous angle to his face as he gives you patronizing smile. "And you have that much faith in your abilities?"
It's not wise. It's not how your boss would handle things. But you're not your boss.
This is why you stand your ground and reply, "Considering that I've been doing this for ten years now, I'd sure fuckin' say I do."
You don't know the flicker of emotion that registers in his eyes, the way that his smile grows. You do understand the slippery sensation that is darting up your back to be the feeling of someone walking over your grave.
Bullseye regards you in silence as you continue to stare staunchly back. Vaguely, you wonder if your boss will return to an office that is smattered with the viscera of your body that you'd much rather keep inside. Bullseye has done more for less.
This is why you are given a second instance that draws you up short when the smile has yet to fade, but the angle of his eyes draws downward. As his hand reaches out not for your throat, but for the delicate knives laden with brutal means to ends.
"Let me see these Karambits." He informs you. When he takes the red-handled one that you had the pleasure of polishing for the very occasion, you swear you can see the reflection of your eyes staring back on the sheen of the blade. They are, to your relief, blank.
He gives this much more evaluative regard, analyzing the finer qualities of it with endured noiselessness.
This is why you feel the need to break it—the more that you keep him talking, the better, you think.
"Everything to your liking, Mr. Poindexter?" You ask him. It's as if temporary spell is broken, as he is reminded that he shares this intimacy with an audience.
"You sharpen these yourself too?" He asks. You cannot distinguish if this is compliment or criticism.
"I always do." You reply with greatest impartiality.
"Good cut. Clean throw, I'd bet." He asserts, and the blade moves quickly—far faster than the human eye can track—to be re-adjusted for means of throwing. It's a virtuoso move, a flex of fingers that you know have been the final thing many people have seen before they met their maker.
"Are you going to use me as target practice?" You ask him. Better to know, rather than be wondering up until the very end.
He smiles again, and it's a ruthless look to him—there are no soft, rounded edges to Bullseye, it appears.
"Think I'd have your boss to answer to for that if I did." He says, which is no less relieving than if he had said yes.
"And you're scared of him?" You ask with dubious inquiry.
"Scared of losing my best supplier." He returns back carefully—the knife is holstered in a pocket that you had not taken reserved second glance to. You've been too busy focused on those dexterous hands of his.
"Well then, maybe you should take the supplies—"—You look away from where his hand rests at the sculpted muscle of his thigh, up to those eyes that are still fixated upon you—"—If you have any complaints, you can direct it to our help line."
"And who's that?" Bullseye asks. There's something playful in his eyes, something mischievous in the angle of his smirk.
"Also me." You respond back firmly. "Now, if everything is to your satisfaction—"—His eyebrow cocks up his head at your audacity—"—You have a good day."
He shoulders the empty bags that he trundled along with him to the forefront. You swear that you could hear the chuff of a chuckle on his lips, but you're trying not to stare at his mouth too greatly.
In little passing time, he has everything packed away, money is exchanged with the scrape of callouses against your fingers. You pocket his bloody cash without remorse.
He makes way to the door and settles one final, lingering look upon you—committing the details of his next target, you assume, to his memory.
"See you round, sweetheart." He says with that classic smirk. It's only when the door closes behind him and you hear the heavy tread dissipate into nothingness, that you finally collapse into a heap of limbs on the ground.
Your boss usually keeps odd hours of coming to the office, which means that you're often holding down the fort until he makes his unceremonious entrances in. Usually for a sell, usually to bring you food, usually to keep you company for a few fleeting minutes.
But he doesn't do conversation—which is why when he passes you a sandwich from the stand down the street, you don't expect the question levied your way.
"What happened in the sell?" He asks, settling down on the stool next to you. He places his food on the table that is laid bare since Bullseye's visit.
"Nothing too bad." You answer as you work around a mouthful of lettuce. "He asked a few questions and I answered them."
Your boss gives you a reproving look at what you have not provided in your retort. "Anything else?"
You swallow as you consider the best way to verbalize this. "He threatened my life."
"Yeah?" Your boss asks as he unfolds his sandwich to douse it with some mustard. You pass him the bottle as you consider what exactly he is not saying with this question.
"Why?" You ask in upwards lilt of inquiry—you smell a stunt.
Your boss puts you on the receiving line as he takes sweltering bite.
"He wants to come back and see you at his next resupply in two weeks." Your boss' eyes are of pristine clarity as they look at you over the surface of his sandwich.
"Okay." You reply reticently. This isn't all.
"Alone." He informs you. This is when you feel the executioner's blade finally swing down upon the soft meat of your cervical.
"Great." You respond, feeling your appetite suddenly chased away with the prospect before you.
He is no less intimidating than he was the two weeks previous. There's a stitched-up cut that is on the mend extending from temple to chin, though it does little to diminish the rugged look to his face as he takes you in at the door. As you try your best to remember your manners and step aside for him to enter.
This time he does with a rather jaunty step to his swagger—you keep your eyes topside to look at the gaze that is unhesitating from you.
"Good to see you again, Mr. Poindexter." You offer in polite greeting—though you wonder how soon he will dispense with the pleasantries.
"Dex." He says as he journeys over to the table where his new inventory is set in fine regalia for him to assess. Still he looks upon you—perhaps making judgement for cleanest angle of entry with dire weaponry.
"Okay." Perhaps familiarity encourages comfort—and he wants your wits to be at their very lowest.
You make way to the opposite end once more as he looks at the supplies that you and your boss have acquired on his behalf.
"Well, Dex—"—You don't resist the opportunity to put extra relish on his name—"—Here's your stuff. Extra ammo for the M&P like you asked, the gun itself, the Thrill Damascus Slipjoint—take a look."
His eyes finally take emphasized heat off of you to look at everything. To roll the slipjoint over the full of his knuckles, to test the weight of the M&P in his hand—check for lack of bullets in the barrel—his eyes dance with amusement as he regards you.
"Thanks." He says as he lowers the gun to the surface of the table. You'd breathe in relief if you had any to spare.
"Everything all accounted for?" He asks, and there's that twang again—the accusatory one. The one that simmers under the heat of your skin and carps at the edge of your mind.
He wants to coax the reaction from you. Who are you to deny him?
"I accounted for it," You respond, keeping the testy edge out of your voice, "So of course it is."
He laughs—the noise is unexpected and unwelcome. You don't think that there's anything that Bullseye could do to put you at ease.
"Glad you haven't backed down since our last meeting." He sends back. As though he enjoys testifying to your bravery. As though there's something to be lionized from it.
He wants you to play along, you realize.
"My boss can suggest whatever I want," You reply firmly, "But I don't do service with a smile."
"Well," Only his eyes move back to regard the firearm on the table, "Can you handle a gun?"
This is the oddest line of interrogation that you would have expected—far-off from the avenue of intimidation that you would have expected him to take recourse with.
"Course I can." You give the self-defense that you can muster.
Nothing changes—but you swear that his eyes darken as he tilts his head to watch you. To inspect something that is beyond your perception.
"Maybe I should take you to a shooting range," He offers, "Show you how an expert does it."
Expert he may be—but you're no slouch with a firearm either. You take the bait.
"I've been shooting guns since I could walk." You return with sincere honesty. It does little to dissuade him.
"Then you should know how to aim, right?" Bullseye asks of you. Something blooms nascent and incendiary in your chest.
"You saying I don't know how to make a hit?" You ask him, feeling your eyes squint as you look at this intruder into your space. This mouthy customer that keeps getting on your nerves.
"Saying you could always be better." He sends back, smarmy and smug.
"And are you going to give me pointers?" You ask cautiously, wondering just what exactly will happen when Bullseye takes you to secondary location.
"If you're free next week," He leans forward, "Why don't we find out?"
You don't know what makes you willingly sign your own epitaph. "Okay."
His eyes seem to gleam with delight as you agree.
"You know he's asking you on a date, right?" Your boss asks after you recount the story for him, already mentally battening down the hatches.
"Coulda sworn he was trying to shoot me." You reply back dourly—your boss gives you a rare smile.
"Didn't say that it couldn't be both." He retorts, taking care to loudly slurp the pad thai he's brought you both.
This instills you with less improved prospects for the night.
The shooting range is a block from your apartment building. This means that it's on the seedier side of town, wreathed in the smog of a city turning to slumber, bathed in the cool halos of streetlamps marking specific illuminated oases on the pavement below.
You find yourself in one of them, a fair distance down the street from the range. Due to some instinctual survival mechanism, you feel as though you'll need to keep necessary distance from the hallowed institution. And so you wait at the time that Bullseye left as his number before he strolled out the door, laden with the fruits of your labor.
Leaving you with nothing but your thoughts to ruminate on—and the marked aim of your—well. You're not sure what to classify him as.
You balk at the idea of calling him your assassin—it sounds far too presumptuous for a simple supplier like yourself. And killer deems it far too real. You suppose you'll just have to wait and see what happens when the other shoes drops.
"I could've picked you up, you know." Drawls a husky voice through the dawdling meander of your thoughts. You look up to see him practically emerging from immeasurable shadow. He's not in the regalia that you usually see him rock up to sales with.
He's in a black compression shirt, jeans—military grade boots. Old habits die hard, you think as you survey the look of him—and find, as your eyes drape up—that he has been making similar purview of you.
He's smirking in triumphant fashion—as though your visual investigation of him is something that he has over you. You decide to finally provide him with an answer.
"I don't mind the walk." You respond tartly—taking care to retain your standing ground as he draws close. As he looms into the outskirts of your sanctuary and dares in, an interloper in your midst.
"Doesn't really matter if I know where you live," He asks in coarse manner, eyes dark, "Right?"
Something honed and serrated seems to crawl in uncomfortable sensation up the nape of your neck, the plummet of your spine. He does—everyone does who seeks you and your boss' services.
But still—it unsettles.
"I prefer the mental peace that it gives me." You counter, allowing yourself time to consider how you will answer him. He seems unperturbed by this, though that smile does not retreat.
"Interesting to think that you have that as a supplier," he retaliates in cavalier fashion, "The peace, I mean."
You're unsure of what boulevard of conversation he's trying to encourage you down, so you allow him to continue. His brow furrows in mock concern for your welfare. A hand raises—and you choose to occupy your attention by the bevy of cuts that litter those jagged knuckles, those broad, masculine fingers.
"No residual guilt," He pursues the forefront, eyes locked upon you, "Over selling weapons of warfare?"
You know this debate like old hat by now. How funny it's always those you sell to that seem to find it the topic in conversational vogue.
"Considering it keeps a roof over my head and keeps me fed," you cross your arms over your shoulders—and feel electric thrill as he savors the articulation of movement—"—I don't think so."
Dex, it appears, doesn't miss a target—and he doesn't skip a beat. The smile grows more condescending yet indulging in nature—he enjoys this.
"Interesting—"—He proceeds as he continues into your space, as he slinks around, bidding you follow his trail—"—Considering that you have more blood on your hands than me."
"Explain that one." You interject dryly as you continue to let him lead you down the primrose path. He's all-too-willing to elaborate for you.
"How many clients have you had that you've sold things to—"—He asks, his voice silken in its depravity—"—And, that you bear the weight of the blood they've shed?"
You say nothing—let him have his spotlight. Let him keep talking—perhaps now is when you can make speedy evacuation.
"To know you're responsible for every bullet that went through a head?" He presses his forefinger to his temple and smiles—and you're loath to admit how very fitting it appears on him.
"Every knife that pierced an artery—"—The finger is swallowed up by balled fist, pressed against the caging of his ribs in pantomime of thrust weapon—"—Every drop spilled?"
You are close enough to be lovers. To be in the throes of passion rather than this captivity that you remain in. It seems best to end the torment and shuffle off the mortal coil while the getting's good.
Your voice maintains invoked care as you cross the threshold to the final end of the matter.
"Do you monologue to every person that you plan to kill?"
The smile fades in faltering hesitation—you've successfully flipped the script on him. His brow knits in disbelief at the very thought—you think nonplussed is also something that suits him quite well.
When he speaks, it's a low, corrugated rumble from he who remains stagnantly in your view.
"What makes you think that I want to kill you?" Dex asks.
This is no difficult feat for you to provide evidence for. You produce your fingers to count off the many damming reasons.
"We're at a range where you could shoot me through the head without any hesitation." You tick this off, confirming this with the arc of his gaze riveted upon you. "You got me out of my eagle's nest to go here with you."
He remains silent as the grave he walks over, watching you. You would almost say incredulous now best describes the way that he observes you.
"You had me come here, alone." You conclude your thesis. The defense rests. The opposition, it appears, is greatly amused.
"Sweetheart—"—His voice is playful but those eyes are starved as they search you—"—Never had a guy take you on a date before?"
You don't trust this feint—anything to beguile the senses, to ease the wiles. "I think a date implies that there'll be more in the future."
He swallows up the remainder of space between you, so that all punctuated breath is stifled by the plane of his chest. So that you are forced to look up to him. So that if you were in necessity of steadying yourself—you would have to clutch to one of those implacable arms.
"Would you prefer hook-up?" He inquires. Now, you realize that you have misjudged the situation. From the way that his tongue darts through the perfection of white teeth, the way his thumb is convincing you to keep your eyes upon him, pressed under the round of your chin.
You swallow, knowing that he will feel the tender, vulnerable flesh shift under the pad of his fingers. Knowing that he grins because he knows he will gain access to it.
"I don't think you'd be satisfied with just one." You return back to him, but your voice lacks the heat of the previous. It seems, as he leans down to you, a new fire has begun to be stoked.
"Crazy enough—"—He whispers across the terrain of your lips—"—I think you're right."
He is not a gentle kisser. His tongue intrudes into the wet heat of your mouth—scrapes flatly against yours—and you moan, slow and broken. His hands are strenuous in the task of exploring your body; of grasping the slope of your hips, of ascending the curve of your waist—his tongue swipes against the back of your teeth, eager for all that you can give and more.
You won't let him walk away the victor—you can play the game as well. Your fingers are already grasping up the flat, toned surface of his stomach, taking your king's ransom of muscle and sinew.
You absorb the groan humming against your lips as you take assessment of him. Working your mouth to feel the rasp of him against you. Allowing your teeth to sink around the full of his bottom lip, hard enough to draw a fat droplet of blood that you savor on your soft palate.
Others would gasp in pain, an instinctive reaction. All Dex does is moan.
His hands are needier now; his fingers holding you in demanding, spirited clutch—you find it hard to breathe. But you're okay with the lack of the oxygen—when you can taste him like this.
You watch him pull away, and find his smile framed in red that is already making descent to trace the arc of his jaw. And to find those eyes once more that are rabid for you.
"Yeah, sweetheart—"—He asserts, sealing your fate—"—Don't think I'll be satisfied with one taste."
Your thoughts linger to the purpose of this rendezvous—though you have no inclination to leave the arms that hold you so irrevocably. That have you kept to him.
"Think we're making it to the gun range?" You ask wryly—he laughs, and the blood trails at quicker pace.
"Think I got a better place to take you to." He says, deep with an intention that you finally understand.
"Does it have a bed?" You arch a brow to him. This time, when Dex laughs—it sounds like someone you'd like to know.
"Why don't you come with me and find out?" He asks, holding out the landscape of his battered palm to you.
—To your lack of better judgement, you take that hand that awaits yours—and let him guide you away. You find that you're excited to see where you go.