Work Text:
The impact against the ground comes way sooner than he expected it and steals the breath out of him. But, weirdly, it's less violent than he had thought it would be. Part of it might come from the fact that the punk’s body cushioned his fall. Bullseye doesn't really have the time to think further of it or get his bearings. He feels himself get none too gently rolled on his side, and already a hand is clamped like iron on his shoulder, forcing him to get up, to—
“Goddamn move,” Daken snarls.
He almost face-plants when the hand lets go – it may or may not be the fault of this ridiculous front coat tail on the Hawkeye costume, mind you – but the grip comes back at once, on his wrist this time, as good as pulling him behind Wolverine's silhouette.
They run till Bullseye lungs burn and Daken drags him down behind an outcrop of rocks in a cloud of dust as their heels scratch the dry ground.
“I think we’re… out of range?” the Wolverine muses, looking over his shoulder and their improvised stone shield. “They must protect only a certain perimeter around the portals."
Out of range of what? Bullseye wonders. What portals? So he tries to get a peek as well and understand WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING because this desertic décor IS NOT NEW YORK. And… Oh, OK.
In the direction they’ve been coming from in their mad rush, he can see two huge rings facing one another, and yes, portals seems apt a description, he has to admit. (He has a bit of a Stargate moment, too. Because: imagine the same gate but able to let a whole city pass through, and you’ll be closer to what he sees. He’s still too stunned to be impressed.)
There’s a tiny mark in the sand right in front of one of the doors, and Bullseye guesses this is were they’ve landed after getting through.
There’s a beat of silence during which Bullseye tries to take stock of himself, his mind blacking out somehow, refusing to grapple with the obvious conclusion. Distancing itself. But…
“Is it harder to breath, or did I just jostle my ribcage too hard when we’ve landed?” he suddenly asks.
“Maybe.” Daken sounds distracted. Perhaps a tad unsettled, even, which raises alarms in Bullseye’s brain that he refused to listen before when it was just him feeling something was fishy, here. Daken is rather the unflappable type, habitually. “There's no North,” their Wolverine suddenly blurts out. “I don’t pay much attention, usually. It's just a thing I know. It’s there. But here… There's no North. Magnetic fields must be different…” Daken gets that smirk that always makes Bullseye fear what will come out of his mouth. “We're not in Kansas anymore, Toto.”
So, that’s the thing he didn’t want to contemplate…
“You mean, not on Earth?” His voice rises in denial.
But Daken points an imperious finger, makes him look at the sky, deceivingly blue. But in the direction he indicates… Two moons. It's more jarring than Bullseye would have thought, to see this. The things you take for granted…
Daken is right. They’re very far from home.
His mind makes a last ditch attempt at denial. Maybe this whole delirium is all a delusion in his head. His hand shoots out, grabbing the Wolverine’s shoulder. But it feels awful real in his grip. This is really happening. And Daken is the only tether he has left to the real world.
Time to look directly at the situation.
Three mechanical forms also hover in the air between the two portals facing each other, flying around like big gnats, in a pattern that screams sentinels to Bullseye. They’re far, but still… it strikes him: this world is silent.
“They don’t make any sound?” That explains it. Why Bullseye hadn’t even noticed they were chased earlier. Because they were, right? That’s what Daken was making them run from…
“They… whirr a little,” Daken tries to explain with a vague gesture of a hand that weirdly tries to mimic a kind of vibration.
“They trying to dog whistle you?” Bullseye can’t help himself. Has to get back at the mongrel somehow for the Toto comment, obviously.
“Har-har, Lester.” It’s obvious Daken is scowling even under the Wolverine cowl. “These things are part of the doors’ circuit, I think. I don’t know, they don’t strike me as… alive… And if we’re too far to be a threat to the system, they stop actively seeing us.”
“Selectively blind A.I, huh? We might use that. I guess we’ll have to pass through them to get back home, right?”
“We’ll see.”
“This place is…”
“Weird,” Daken agrees.
“Less gravity,” Lester even notices with slight bemusement, making his point with a few hops in the sand. He feels oddly lighter. Like the weight of the adamatium in his bones is less perceptible somehow. It’s kinda agreeable. Never had fully realized the stress it was on the whole frame of his muscles. The dust he disturbs is a bit slower to get back to the ground than on Earth. “Which means we’re less powerful, too. Can’t put as much weight behind our attacks. We’ll be slower and make less damage. And this things are big,” he adds, pointing at the three mechanical guardians. “Like, building big.”
“Kuso,” Daken softly curses. This is not good news. He has bone claws, dammit, and no idea how resistant the metal of these things is.
“Yeah,” Bullseye commiserates. Even his own explosives arrows might prove lacking.
“I’m not apologizing for getting you into this mess,” Daken suddenly snarls.
“Heh. You’re funny. As if I would believe any apology in your mouth, punk.”
Daken seems to relax a fraction.
“Touché ,” he says.
“How many times do I have to say I never miss? Duh.”
oOo
There is this fact, in this new life of his as the Dark Avengers' Hawkeye: alien invasions don't faze Bullseye much anymore. He used to look at them from afar, when he was a street level villain, letting the heroes deal with them, and sometimes enjoying pop corn on a roof while looking at the pretty explosions. Now, he’s more often than not right into the fray.
Hell, he has even gotten used to be airborne with these weird gliders Norms has procured them. Yeah, let's bring the Hawk in Hawkeye, he kinda likes the idea. It has some zing.
Right this minute, though, he’s reconsidering his life choices and wishes he could just backpedal to being only a vaguely interested party in this kind of messes. Because the four giganormous spaceships which have appeared from nowhere in the sky, well. They make him feel like a fly standing in front of a car on a highway to stop it . You kinda guess how it’s bent to end, right? Splat is not exactly his idea of going out with a bang…
Daken is even closer than him to one of the approaching behemoths. The freak doesn’t go splat, though. The incredible way air is sucked on the thing’s passage cleanly wrenches him off his glider, sending him flying along the side of the ship. It’s clear their Wolverine tries to find in a panic a way to alter his course.
What sticks with Bullseye is this tiny, tiny second when Daken crosses his gaze, has the gesture of holding out his hand to him in a mute plea for help, and as soon knows he won’t bother and clearly changes his mind trying to find another way. Angling his body away. Wildly searching for a mean with his eyes to slow his fall or limit the damage to come with the impact against the massive spacecraft. Dismissing him.
What sticks with Bullseye is tiny, tiny second when he doesn’t even get the time to think and his hand was already out. Gripping hard. (HE DOESN'T WONDER WHY HE DOES THAT. HE JUST DOES. Maybe it's because Daken is a target and he never misses a moving target.)
What sticks with Bullseye is this tiny, tiny second of complete and utter surprise on Daken’s face, the most genuine thing he’s ever seen in there. It makes him grip harder.
Which actually was a bit of a miscalculation, because he finds himself too close to the giant spacecraft and sucked into the maelstrom too, then.
Feeling himself lose his footing as well from the surface of the mechanical flyer. And the momentum driving them both clean through the invisible opening whence the spaceships materialize from, towards this elsewhere they had had no idea of, instead of their fall and their death.
oOo
Two gigantic portals that face each other. Three giant robots that hover. On an empty alien world of reddish sand.
“They get to jump into our world with their invisible points of entry, but we don’t get to use the conduct to get directly to theirs, if by any chance we manage to take the passage the over way round. Clever,” Daken sums up.
Because they’re both well aware, this here, is only a meaningless doorstep. Like an airlock on a submarine, but between two worlds. A security measure. Makes sense.
“And we being here?”
“Accident. Glitch in the system. Got sucked and thrown in while one of their vessel was going out. They probably didn’t even notice us, inside it. These machines did, though.”
They contemplate a bit. Their situation shows no intent to change.
“So, there’s really nothing here but two doors and three guardians?”
“Yes, for now,” Daken somberly says. “Another spaceship might pass to get to Earth,” he says, showing the second portal.
There’s something in the considering, almost longing, way Daken looks at that other gate, the one leading to another world entirely. Maybe another universe entirely. Another reality? Who knows.
“Ever wanted to start fresh, some place where anything else before doesn’t matter and can never ever matter again?” Daken muses out of the blue.
“Where no one knows the asshole you are, you mean?”
Daken winces. An involuntary acknowledgment of Bullseye’s hit, barely there for a second, and then “Something like that,” the punk crookedly smiles.
“What happened to the I don’t apologize guy?”
“True,” Daken allows. You don’t have to leave to leave things behind you. Let go of what weighs you down. For an insane man, their Hawkeye sometimes exhibits keen insight.
But Bullseye has a flash, then, almost a prescience. He suddenly knows how it all ends, with Daken leaving his life one day without even a backward glance. Heh. Better find a way to kill the guy before that happens, then, right?
And it’ll be more comfortable working on this pet project of his once they’re both home, obviously.
But before that, they have to find a way back. Huh.
“How different is it, here?” Bullseye suddenly inquires. “I mean, do you even heal, here?”
“That’s… actually a good point, dear. You’re not as insane as they say, little man.”
And Daken simply holds out his arm to him.
In a clear invite to hurt him.
It does things to Bullseye’s libido.
“Heh, with what Norman is pumping into me, I better not be,” he says, already fishing for a knife in his tunic.
There's that roll of Daken's eyes, oddly expressive for this normally opaque face. Clear disgust.
“What?” Bullseye asks, already feeling prickly and defensive.
“You’re right. That better be working. That cocktail you're on these days stinks.”
“What?!”
“It's on your skin, in your sweat, on your breath, on your tongue. I don't lik—” And then a shrug. “Nevermind, Lester.”
Typical of Daken: starting to acknowledge a discomfort, only to stop dead, realizing there's probably no point. You don’t disclose a weakness that can be used against you. You don’t hope someone will care enough to bring relief. It’s a pattern Bullseye has noticed before. It’s the exact same mindset that told Daken earlier there’s was no use reaching out to him while falling.
Not that it means anything to Bullseye. It’s something he notices, is all.
He grabs the mutant’s arm, holds onto it tight after lifting the Wolverine uniform’s sleeve, and without a second-thought, goes for a deep slice.
Daken hisses but appears mostly unconcerned, his gaze focused on the portals and their sentinels, keeping watch, just in case.
Blood wells up at once in the wound, smudging Bullseye’s fingers, which might hinder him later. Huh. Maybe not his brightest idea, to go so deep as to catch an artery. Also, imagine Daken actually no healing, that would prov— Oh. And he allows himself a handful of seconds of fascination as the wound starts to close right under his eyes.
“You’re fine,” he says, not letting go of the arm.
“I know, dear,” Daken winks. The relatively tame innuendo is still enough to make Bullseye let go in a hurry. But then, the mutant’s eyes go back to the giant machines. There’s a faint breeze, but it brings no smell. “They’re weird. Totally artificial. I rarely fight machines, you know? They have no scent. Can rely only on my eyes to track their movements…” But, whiplash worthy, the punk suddenly changes track: “Also, can you aim?”
“What?” Bullseye snaps, startled.
Daken elegantly shrugs.
“If things are that different in here. How does your ability fare?”
“Asshole,” Bullseye mutters.
There’s something in Daken’s smirk that reeks of unuttered innuendo. Before he can open his mouth, Bullseye redirects:
“So, how do we do it?”
oOo
They’re very pragmatic and methodical about it, actually. Assessing the range of action of the enormous hovering machines, from which distance exactly the A.I.s perceive them, what their specific countermeasures are. They let themselves be noticed from time to time, send boulders triggering a reaction in the protected perimeter… For short they gather intel. Know your enemy, right? Some of the Hawkeye arrows nest little captors they liberally use. They map the big machines. The alimentation and fuel lines are found.
“See?” Bullseye says making sure he makes his point when one of his arrows hits the specific spot that’ll jam a whole line of weaponry on one of the giant sentinels, the one that’s basically a sphere covered in laser canons’ mouths.
“Yes, your aim is alright, dear. OK?” Daken acknowledges.
There’s a hint of tease in the punk's tone, but still… Bullseye, he’s that good and he knows it. He compensates without thinking the irregularities of the laws of physics in here. It’s a bit of a relief, though he’ll never voice it.
“That’s my cue,” Daken says, getting the claws out. And starts running, breaking into the perimeter, avoiding shoots fired at him from all sides and jumping the partly disabled giant, scaling it using the slightest interstices to lift himself up. He looks so small and insignificant on it… And the thing can’t aim at itself. The programming of the others won’t allow them to shoot at their counterpart. They’d been elated discovering this flaw.
But there’s enough craftiness in the artificial intelligence programing, that it tries to crush the parasite between itself and the ground. One moment the machine’s jerk is so violent the punk almost loses his grip. That keeps him to move fast enough and one of his arms gets squashed. One second, Bullseye thinks Daken is done for. His instinctively raises his bow, which is futile, because he has no idea where to aim. Still, the mutant incredibly holds on with his other hand and even keeps progressing to his goal, one of the propulsion exhausts.
For a long moment, Daken doesn’t do anything, just stays there in position, riding the erratic bucking of the machine. It reminds Bullseye of this irritating manner Daken sometimes has to fight, stalling, waiting. But he’s reminded it’s never hesitancy or cowardice on the punk’s part but pure calculation. The mutant sends at last his claws in circuitry between two plates of metal sheeting right where his damage will mess the most with the giant’s propulsion, at the precise moment when the default in thrust will send the suddenly ungovernable piece of mechanics right into the ground. The sound of metal bending and warping on itself or even giving in entirely or snapping is suddenly deafening. Red dust saturates the view. The machine practically keens its slow death, unable to lift itself again from the ground or arm its artillery.
A few minutes later, Daken is back to him, emerging from the dust with a savage smile on his face that’s all teeth and pain. His stark features pale and drawn. His arm doesn’t deserve the name of limb anymore. His opposite hand clamps his shoulder, as if his grip could make a barrage to the throbbing agony that radiates from there.
“One down, two to go,” he viciously says.
Bullseye… kills him without a second thought.
oOo
“The hell, insane little carny!” Daken snarls as he jerks up awake. He pops out his claws on reflex. “What was that fo— Oh.” Realizes his arm is already all healed. That he’s actually behind their favorite outcrop, seated on the ground and propped up against Bullseye chest.
“Got rid of your dead fleshes and straightened your bones. You’re welcome, punk. You started healing right after. And, yes, I’d have loved to work on you live and see your face as I carved into you but I thought I’d keep it more practical and fast. We don’t know if the demise of one of these things might trigger a signal to send more of them here.”
“That… would be problematic,” Daken agrees. He allows himself only a handful of seconds leaning back into that oddly comfortable body before he gets up with a sigh.
“My turn,” Bullseye says, getting on his feet as well. “You confident? That sensor on top of the twirly one is in direct link with that thing’s control system?”
The twirly one is a mass of continually rotating circles of sharp blades that sometimes even lands on the ground and is designed to strip to ribbons anything it comes in contact with. They’ve discovered only one spot that might prove a weak point, and only shortly accessible for hardly a second when the metal blades shift, and even then, only at wildly random times.
“I’m not an engineer, Lester,” Daken shrugs. “But that’s the only point that seems to leave an access to the insides of the murderous tincan.”
“Heh. See how it’s done then.” And, yes, he is in a mood to show off.
He takes a page from the punk’s book, actually. He posts himself right at the limit of the awareness range of the two machines left. He waits the right second before he releases his arrow in a magnificent lob. Timing the position of the rotating blades to access his target and the position of the whole machine, just riiiight. Just as it passes above the portal that leads to the alien world. Of course, visually, it looks like sending a needle flying at an elephant. But, hey, the things Bullseye can do with needles, right?
“EMP,” he says. And with it, he indeed hits the seat of the navigational system.
Damn, he is good. The machine just stills mid-air. Then falls. A bit like a dead weight (which it is) but in a strangely slow motion. From where it was, just above the gate. The whole portal looks like it folds on itself, falling into pieces, when the sentinel crashes into it.
The punk wrenches his cowl from his head as if it would help him enjoy the spectacle better. And then his intense gaze falls on him, eyes so bright, so hungry, Bullseye seriously feels sparkles igniting in his loins. The mutant closes up on him, dark intent in his eyes. In a weird part of his mind, Bullseye suddenly thinks people have got it all wrong. This is not a mongrel. This is a big feline on the prowl. Which would make him a prey, and should be rousing him into action to turn the table, but he can’t help staying frozen in place, fascinated.
Daken reaches out with his hands, palming his face.
Daken kisses him.
“The hell?!” Bullseye exclaims, pushing back, though the punk manages to keep his hold on his face.
They stare at each other for long seconds.
“Lester. That. Was. Beautiful.”
But, then, Daken goes for it again.
This time, Bullseye doesn’t fight him back.
Does he let the punk get away with this because of the spike of adrenaline and endorphins caused by his marksmanship’s feat, making him feel as high as after a good kill? Or simply because there’s no one to see, here? (Maybe Daken has a point, about these far away places where nothing matters anymore…)
For once Bullseye dares taking more, from this intimate contact he usually shies of, asking for more, getting his fill of the sensations. He draws Daken flat into his chest, keeps him here. A long time. It a joyous little celebration.
Still. Breathing. Right. That’s needed.
Separation feels like a wound that draws a low moan out of him. Need thrums under his skin.
“That,” Daken breathes out, inches away from his mouth, “is on behalf of the world for saving it, ô my knight in insanity armor. That was… ballsy. I like ballsy.” And his wandering hand makes a point of letting Bullseye know how literal he is.
“Well, I’d love to ravish more of you right here and right now, but it wouldn’t be very comfortable. Rain check?” And Daken releases him, shit eating grin firmly in place. One crazed second, Bullseye is this close to strangle the punk in frustration.
“Two done, one to go,” Daken says, turning his back on him, which is almost the straw that breaks the camel’s back. But following the punk’s gaze sobers him up right quick.
Because this one will be tricky. The demise of its counterparts seems to have pushed its system in a frenzy. There’s something frantic in the way the machine now covers the whole perimeter, an active search of the intruders. Plus this one is a weird cookie. Shifts forms without warning, sleek and smooth one second, swarming with prehensile tentacles the next, prickly with deadly spikes a bit like a demented urchin when attacked. The smart fluid metal is a nightmare. (“Nanites?” Bullseye had surmised, earlier.) It has an orifice akin to a mouth, though. But mostly protected from projectiles by rows of rotating simili-teeth. And curving petals of metal. That’s the only point of entry. But there’s no easy way to reach the core of the structure without getting impaled. No purchase when the thing decides to go smooth. Which means, there’s no way at all.
“I know,” Daken sighs. “My turn.” He seems to be answering something Bullseye hadn’t even intended to say. There’s no way Daken can do this alone. They have to figure— “I’ll need one of your arrows. One with the explosive tip. Hell, if I can have just the tip, that will be even more practical… Start running as soon as I engage. I’m not sure the portal to home will stay open once all the defensive countermeasures here are offline. I would have included that kind of failsafe, if it were me.” You forget, sometimes, that Daken is not just brute Wolverine violence, but can show himself a fine tactician when he gets his mind into it.
“That’s going to hurt… Kiss me good luck, Lester?”
Bullseye does. It’s worth it. For the shock on Daken’s face. Who hadn’t thought for a second he would.
“Luck? Who needs luck?” he snarls to the punk’s face, angry and not knowing why, though. “We’re the best at what we do, remember?”
“Yes,” Daken easily agrees. But there’s something hard in his cold clear stare. “And what I do is take the punishment.”
And just like that he’s gone, lightly jogging once again towards the fray.
And they say he’s insane… Bullseye can’t even hold a candle to the punk, actually. He remembers at last to run to the portal while the last machine is busy dealing with its puny little aggressor. That’s good. Keeps him from having to look. He has fantasies where he cuts the punk to ribbons, but this, it’s simply a mincing of meat. That Daken actually use the metal that hooks into his skin to further his progress on the metal nightmare it’s… Damn it, what’s the point of hurting the punk when he’s ready to do so much worse to himself? Don’t look back, don’t look back, don’t look back, he chants in his head. Then, the explosion comes. Massive. He’s not stingy like Norms. He has upgraded a bit the concentration of explosives in his arrows. Well worth it (Right?), as the weird whistling sound of machine agony is heard. (He doesn't want to know how Daken reached inside the thing's maw. He doesn't—)
He does look back.
The punk’s body slowly slides from a metal spike. Falls.
Pierced everywhere, bleeding massively, reduced to a broken thing on the ground, Daken is unable to move. And Bullseye has only one step to take to get back home.
Their eyes lock.
What sticks with Bullseye is this tiny, tiny second when Daken crosses his gaze and fully expects he won’t bother to go back for him. Gives up, just like that. Dark humor shining in his eyes.
Already, the energy powering the portal starts to falter.
The sensible thing to do would be to take that last step.
Oh, well.
He’s insane. They’ve been here a while and he has probably skipped a few of his meds intakes, too.
The punk’s eyes grow wide as he sees him double back.
It’s not relief. It’s fear. (One Bullseye doesn’t understand.)
“Don’t ruin my fun killing you by disappearing on me, asshole,” he snarls in the punk’s face. Though it would have been too slow, the punk’s healing factor is already at work. Just enough that Daken manages to help the tiniest bit when Bullseye maneuvers him on his back in a kind of piggy-back carry. The punk’s head lolls on his shoulder as he starts running back to the last opening.
“Avengers, assemble,” Daken whispers to his ear. No more than a breath that feels disturbingly like silk on skin. Wrapped in a soft laugh made of elation and wonder.
“Don't get used to it,” Bullseye mutters through teeth gritted together by effort.
“Never,” Daken replies. There's a fervor to his words and Bullseye knows that he means it. Which probably would strike anyone else as kind of sad, but on the contrary bizarrely lifts his spirits…
Heh . They are who they are and they're fine with that.
No strings attached. Daken doesn't strike him as the kind to bear anyone tieing him up. He's the same. And there's a freedom and a kinship in that.
(Anyway, if he later has a problem with Daken never being all there with him, he can still work out a way to pin him down. That’s what pointy things are for, after all.)
Bullseye feels static bite at his skin as he walks through the huge gate.
Of course, the portal still opens on the New York sky. Which means they fall. He had completely overlooked that… What was the point of escaping if it was to plummet to their death? There’s not even enough air in his lungs to scream his visceral fear…
“I’ve got you,” Daken says to his ear, and he feels the punk angling him in their fall. Folding around him in a tight embrace. Just like before when they had fallen through the portal the first time.
The impact is brutal.
Bullseye’s bones get badly rattled, but, adamantium, baby. Nothing he won’t be able to get up from, even though he’s also bruised everywhere. He rolls off Daken as soon as he actually realizes he’s miraculously still alive, angles himself to have a good hard look at the punk.
Who got sandwiched between him and the deck of a H.A.M.M.E.R. helicarrier. There’s blood pooling under his head where it has made contact with the hard surface, his glaring eyes are empty, his jaw slack. He’s too still. It’s mildly disturbing.
Then, the ribcage lifts at last in a pained intake of breath and the mutant curls on himself, trying to regulate his breathing, riding the pain.
Never mind that, Bullseye is already shaking him by the shoulder…
“How did you know, there would be something down there…” he urgently asks. Because Bullseye is not sure at all he’d have gotten away with his life, had they fallen all the way to the ground.
“Come on, Lester…” Daken gasps. “Alien spaceships shooting up from a specific point in the sky? Of course you’re going to send someone to watch it for further incursions… Normie is not a total moron. Small mercies, and all that… You'd have survived even without me. Probably.”
Daken’s gaze holds his, for a moment:
“Anyway, don’t get used to it. I won’t always be there to break your fall. I’ve told you, what I do is take the punishment, no big deal. Or maybe I just like it the hard way…”
Bullseye pushes his forehead against the punk’s, for once not even caring who might see him, and laughs, a bit manic, a lot elated.
Or maybe I just like it the hard way?
It’s so totally the kind of thing he would say himself…