Bullseye didn't know what was worse— the existence of a single devil of hell's kitchen who, frankly, was more like an annoying cherub than anything devilish— or one devil inspiring another. Just what the little fucked up ecosystem of New York needed, another holier than thou vigilante. However upon closer inspection, maybe things wouldn't be too bad. He needed something fun, and if fun came in the wrapping of tits in a cheesy outfit ( look who was thinking), maybe it was time for Bullseye to embrace Daredevil. The light in his eyes shifted, transformed, as the rest of his body leaned into the assertive touch. For being completely repulsed by a psychopath, she was awfully keen on being close. So close they could practically . . .

‘ Good thing I brushed my teeth. Smell nice and minty, yeah? ’ 

Bash their foreheads together and draw blood. Bullseye allowed his face to be grabbed, just as he allowed her to get THIS close to him, and allowed her to believe she had some sort of upper hand. It was hot in an odd, fucked up way; relinquishing his massive ego in a sudden game of cat-and-mouse. The mad man tilted his head though kept his chin held in her grasp. Iit was only a slight movement, but it was enough to elevate his chin and his eye level. That insufferable ego could not be subdued by more than a few pegs. Tongue dragged against lips that were, sure, slightly dehydrated, before he attempted to lean forward to blow some of the minty breath in her face.

‘ We keeping the outfits on or off? ’

As vile as she regarded him, freshly brushed teeth were a reprieve from the mutated human-crocodile breath of an Oscorp scientist or nicotine rotting teeth she passed by on the street every day. His soap and shampoo weren’t surprising, not far off the scent of military-issued products he’d have gotten in the service. Frank smelled similar, but with more pine and different aftershave. Training stuck with soldiers; familiarity in the repetition. Milla identified the fluoride and alcoholic sugar of the toothpaste. There was a higher concentration of iron in his water than her home – either an older building or he wasn’t squirreled away in Hell’s at all.

Bullseye wasn’t an easy catch. He rarely ever let it happen; Milla knew pinning him now wasn’t earned success, but her purpose only needed a minute.

“ Shut up — I’m focusing. ”

Her grip tightened, feeling the ever so slight give – not enough to hurt – of natural bones in his jaw, porous and human. So he wasn’t like Logan. The prison’s anatomical chart remained up to date in terms of added metals as far as she could tell. The reverberation from his spine when she substituted a thrown pipe for a billy club earlier sounded like standing under a peeling church bell.

Her thumb pressed against his temple to gauge his skull. The synthetic weave of his suit and mask were almost slippery under her leather gloves. How was he comfortable at all? The fabric would feel like sludged oil covering her skin if she pulled it on.

Poindexter wasn’t going to let her poke all his joints. A sniper was patient by training and some in nature, but she heard that thin patience waning. Smoothing his tongue across chapped lips sounded like scraping tree bark. Milla released his face, the heel of her palm striking against his chest to shove him backwards while testing the resiliency of the ribs over his heart. It was a child’s game: metal or not metal?

“ Cute offer. But I’m happily married. ”

Was this hot or what? No, no it wasn't, not entirely one way or another, but it was something. A little game of orca whale and mongoose which made just as much sense as the analogy. At least the two of them inhabited the same ecosystem, so maybe the analogy was a little skewed like the rest of the thoughts inside his mind. Bullseye was a good sport above all, so he stood still as she got wet feeling him up. It was the oddest sight— Bullseye being still and . . patient, if patient was the appropriate word. Considering the long list of freaks and morons he faced off against, sometimes it felt good to fall out of the typical rhythm. It's not like he considered her an actual threat, otherwise her breath wouldn't be able to touch him much less her hand.

People got off in all sorts of way . . he would know. She could have this one, and he would have the next one. Tit for tit— speaking of which . . gaze dropped, weighed down by boredom, to give her a very thorough look over. She'd look good splattered across the streets of Hell's Kitchen. It was about as much as she was worth, if not as bait to capture a certain idiot or two. Just as quickly as the weird courtship began, it was over with a slam of her palm as if something about him ( who knew what ) was deemed not to her liking. It wasn't the force of her action which moved him, rather it was his boredom with the situation. He clicked his tongue against his teeth with growing irritation as he began counting all the things on him which he could use as a weapon, then assessed all the things around them just for the fun of it.

❛ HA! ❜

A crude bark of laughter that sort of surprised his own self; he had been that bored. Bullseye began kicking the toe of his boot against a rock until it gave, and instead of kicking it to shatter her skull, he used it like a makeshift soccer ball. He didn't even need to look at it as he made it look like a child's game. A child's trick with killer intent.

❛ When has that stopped anyone? Like being married means genitals are locked up tight, even if I meant it that way. We could fight with our clothes off. Aren't these outfits a pain in the ass most times anyway? ❜

Bullseye shifted his weight and pivoted his hip. The rock was sent hurling away, veering two feet away from her head, where it arched over a building to cause some sort of chaos. A distant crash, a person yelling, and a cat screeching emanated from the distance. If he was lucky, someone was dead. That would piss her off and put the end to their flirtation.

❛ Hell were you doing anyway? Is that a way of getting off without it being considered cheating? ❜

At least they agreed she WASN’T a damsel. Benjamin’s introduction to her existence was Karen baiting Fisk to finagle evidence in a case. A reporter and an agent then, the makings of an action drama starring blue-eyed blondes. Risking her life impulsively, but purposefully that day — no different than now.

❛ I don’t play with guns. ❜

Cheap carpet scorched black when she shot the remaining bullet into the floor without checking the chamber. As a teenager, she scratched the chamber to mark where a spin should end, perfecting the motion during late nights around bonfires. Little time was necessary to adjust the same to her .38 special. The number of clicks spinning by to ensure the heaviest chamber sank to the bottom was a memorized melody.

A waste of a perfectly good bullet that should be between his eyes. But it didn’t feel right, not here and now. Matt still had questions for Benjamin that he deserved to have answered; Karen wouldn’t rob him of that. Surely in Matt’s daydream of a trial, Bullseye would testify against Vanessa.

❛ I didn’t ask for your help. We didn’t ask. ❜

Karen turned away. The worst mistake many made around him – leaving an opening. He professed no current schemes of ending her life. There were opportunities when they engaged the task force. A pause between vaulting daggers through bodies to hold her face between his hands, softness amid the violence, and snap her neck.

After tucking her pistol in the pocket of her jacket, Karen knelt down near a task force member matching her size. After checking the radio’s efficiency, she slipped on the bulletproof vest, holster, gun and tactical gloves. It was evening so she could forego needing a helmet on the off chance the disguise was even needed. They were also ugly and looked uncomfortable.

❛ I’ve got documents to find, but feel free to hang around for their backup to find you. ❜

Karen yanked on one of the propel ropes hanging out of the window from when the team crashed through. Still sturdy. Her eyes glinted with narrowed dislike when she walked back to his moping spot. She had to lean up on her toes to press their cheeks together and whisper in his ear through the fabric of the blue mask.

❛ In the end, I hope nothing you do is worth it. ❜

He said, she said. A lover's quarrel. Sure, she didn't play with guns. He wasn't going to argue that with her. He was not going to have their first fight over a trivial thing. It wasn't sexism or idolizing. Dex believed anyone wielding a gun around him was playing with it; they might as well be twirling around one of those plastic water pistols. Now that was ego talking for he knew men who could take out a target from 600 meters away without as much as sweating. If such a skilled snipper was around, Benjamin Poindexter was as good as dead.

Fortunately for him ( and just for him ), someone of the likes of Frank Castle wasn't around and looking to empty out his skull of a mess of a brain he had. His adrenaline dropped. His blood lust was gone. Another kind of lust did not replace it. The psychotic killer, the very man who took her friend's life, watched like a puppy reprimanded. She had nothing to fear turning her back towards him; a security that she and she alone held without knowing. Wasn't the thing about help was that good people helped without being asked? GOD, why were people so tiresome? Karen. Fucking Karen. In his getup, a look to literally kill, Benjamin sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

❛ .Would those caged people think the same. . ❜

He muttered under his breath. Help was HELP, wasn't it? He extended his arms with a look of defeat that was oddly humble and hilarious. Silently, again like a punished puppy, he watched Karen don the gear of Fisk's personal militia. He liked her spirit, her drive, but it was all too dangerous for her to meddle with. They were fighting, weren't they? And over WHAT?

❛ They can. I'd kill them. ❜

Plain and simple. She spoke like it was a threat, and he spoke like he was swatting sleepy flies. If it helped her any, he'd dress up in red and make himself a target. Would be easier anyhow. The bitter, almost sour air between them shattered when she got close. So close he swore he could smell her shampoo on her, but that was just imagination playing tricks. His adrenaline kicked up a notch, and blood was definitely moving. She was such a tease. It was as if she wanted him to grab her and kiss her. So wrapped up in his mania, he almost pointed out that he killed FOGGY. Was that death supposed to be nothing or worth everything?

❛ Haaaarsh . . . I'll come with you. Help you find these documents, and kill anyone who gets in your way. We both win that way. Yes, we. ❜

One of those wanna-be miltia boys rounded the corner. An automatic rifle was lifted, but the asshole didn't even receive the chance to hold it upright and proper by the time Bullseye clocked it. He helped himself to the vest she wore, ripping off a velcro tag, and flicking it with the ease of picking a booger. The velcro hit the armed man in the eye, and Benjamin worked just as quick to procure a hunting knife from a holster at his hip to throw at the man. The idiot went down with a gurgle of pain. The rifle clattered on the ground but did not make a sound otherwise. Come on, she needed him.