Author: Brovenger PM
Frank executed Bullseye as he lay in bed. But Bullseye isn't really gone, and he's not through with Frank yet. Haunted by his ghost, Frank is left wondering where his war got him, and if his life was really worth anything in the long run. One shot.Rated: Fiction T - English - Angst - Words: 781 - Reviews: 2 - Favs: 1 - Published: 01-05-12 - Status: Complete - id: 7714158
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Authors Note: I got a prompt on my roleplay group on tumblr to do a Frank/Bullseye drabble. The drabble turned into a short story, that I ended up liking a lot more than I had intended. So, I decided to post it. Feels good to be getting some use out of my account on here again.
It had been a few weeks since Frank had entered the prison, and shot Bullseye in the head while the man was laid out unconscious in a coma. Sure, odds were he wasn't going to be a bother anymore in that state, but Frank wasn't taking chances. He'd had more than enough of that fucker, and just wanted him gone.
But as it turned out, sometimes a person didn't go away if you shot them. Maybe it was the stress of the whole situation with Fisk, the stress of prison, the stress of being homeless, weaponless, penniless and being closer to death than he'd ever been before— but whatever it was…. It must have given Bullseye room to linger. Taunt him from the afterlife.
Or maybe even the devil didn't want the bastard, so he sent the former hitman to bug Frank for all eternity. Who knows. Whatever it was, he was beginning to think he was learning what Deadpool must feel like on a daily basis.
"So…" the voice said, echoing from a few feet away from Frank. "What do you plan on doing about Fisk now? He's got you pretty beat down, old man."
Frank ignored it. He didn't even bother looking over, just kept staring into the fire he'd made. He wasn't the type to believe in ghosts or shit like that, but he had no idea what other word one could use to describe the situation.
"Aw, are you ignoring me now, Frankie?"
Again, Frank didn't respond. An annoyed sigh seemed to float on the night breeze, and suddenly Frank could have sworn he felt breath on the back of his neck.
"Ignoring me won't make me go away, Frank," he said. "It took me weeks to get inside your head. Hours upon hours of doing nothing but trying to become you. You don't think I'm just going to leave the comforts of your mind that easily, do you?"
Frank's upper lip twitched a little in annoyance, but he still continued to remain silent. He tossed a few loose pieces of paper on the fire to stoke it back up. A mindless action just to occupy the restlessness he was feeling.
"I thought maybe you'd appreciate the company," the seemingly imaginary Bullseye noted. "But then again you never have been one for taking comfort in others. Not even your beloved family brought you happiness.
"In fact, the only thing that's ever made you feel anything close to happy has been this war of yours. And look where that's got you. You think people will really care when you finally kick the bucket? If you were to die right here tonight; five years up the road, things'll be right back to the way they were before you came along."
Frank was still silent. He was musing on whether or not Bullseye was just a hallucination, and pondering if some sleep would make it stop.
"It's never gonna stop, Frank," Bullseye said. His image was standing in from of him now, leaning over, staring him in the face. He looked the same as he had before. Only, before he wasn't quite so…transparent.
"How does it feel to know you've lived your life for nothing?"
Again, Frank refused to reward his antics with a response. Bullseye just rolled his eyes, throwing his hands up and turning around. And then, as if a switch had been flipped off, he just disappeared. Frank knew by this point that just because the image was gone, didn't mean the man himself was. It seemed like he could feel him in the back of his mind, hanging out in some little alcove he'd carved before his death.
As Frank tried to catch a few precious hours of sleep that night, he kept turning Bullseye's words over. Examining them from every angle almost.
What had this war given him? Was it really worth it? Did he even change anything?
Had he really lived his whole life for nothing?
He supposed those were questions he'd never find the answer too. And, if he was honest with himself, he didn't really want to know the answers. Some things were better left in mystery.