[ It's a blur, even for him: he remembers the tracker boy, the fool who brought a gun against a Grisha, the insolent little orphan who decided poetic justice was for the Darkling's own abomination to tear him apart. There had been pain--so much pain, worse than the stag's antler removed from his hand, almost as bad as creating the Fold itself--and he'd done what he could, he'd chanted words and used merzost one last time to do something, anything before he falls into a darkness even he cannot see in. He feels the presence of something, someone, and he's in an impossibly bright room before he falls to the ground, slipping back into unconsciousness.
He sleeps, dreamless and drifting, suspended, caught between awake and alive and asleep and dead, feeling nothing, feeling everything, feeling pain, feeling numb. The Darkling hasn't been unconscious for a very, very long time. He's not sure how long it's been until he wakes up.
When he does, it's with a loud, long gasp, his entire body bolting upright, eyes wide, searing pain at his sides and wracking the rest of his body. It's bright, impossibly bright, impossibly loud--even he himself is improbably noisy, breaths coming in pained, ragged gasps, dark eyes scanning for something, anything, some way to tell what's happened, black blood blossoming on the bandage in his hand as he clenches it, staring at it and then looking at the room, gaze wild and unfocused.
Alina.
He needs to find Alina, he needs to find the girl from Karemzin, he needs to--
He's still breathing heavily, adrenaline surging through him, trying to focus on anything that's familiar, something that's at the very least recognizable, and his gaze falls on something he cannot explain.
[ Weird shit happens in New York. Weird shit has always happened in New York, but the last ten years have been a real magnet for the strange and unusual. It all started when Tony Stark announced himself as Iron Man, then there was that whole incident of the alien invasion, then the streets were crawling with guys in devil costumes and alcoholics who could throw cars. At least it's never boring.
But the shit usually stays out of Billy's way. He'd thought it was about to get real messy when Frank Castle emerged, and Billy had kept his eyes on it while Frank went after the men he thought were responsible for his family. That was fine with Billy. It kept Frank away from him, and it kept Billy from having to do something he didn't want to do. And then Frank had died, for real this time, and maybe Billy is having a hard time accepting that.
At least, he thinks about it a lot. He thinks about how proud he'd been when Frank was standing trial for all those murders, and he thinks about how maybe he could have done something that would get Frank out of the way without killing him. It's what he's thinking about this morning when he walks out of his bathroom after a shower and sees a man passed out on the sofa.
Not just any man, but a man who looks a hell of a lot like Billy. A little older, maybe, hair a little longer, but it may as well be some sort of mirror.
Turns out, not even Billy was immune to the fuckery New York liked to throw at everyone.
At least Billy's good at not over reacting. He calmly goes about his morning. He makes coffee. He gets dressed. He puts some product in his hair. He stands by the couch, coffee in hand, watching the man and thinking about Frank Castle until the guy jerks awake. ]
Good morning, Sleeping Beauty. You wanna tell me who the hell you are and what you're doing here?
[ There's still blood on him, still streaks of black from what was one crimson, still a rather rude mark on his hand that was sure to scar from the stag's antlers. He's still injured, still in need of medical attention.
He'd be upset at the other if he wasn't bewildered despite the white hot heat of the gashes along his shoulders underneath the long black kefta. There's something far more important.
He doesn't understand the phrase sleeping beauty. He doesn't understand much of what's happening, he doesn't understand why this room so so bright--he doesn't understand who he's looking at, his cold, dark eyes alight with rage. He needs answers. Quickly. He needs to know what is happening. He grunts through the pain, brow furrowed. ]
You will tell me where I am. [ A demand. A threat. A complete disregard for what the other said, at least at first. Black veins gather along his neck, pulsing upwards as he attempts to heal himself now that he's conscious. ]
[ Billy holds up the hand that isn't holding his coffee cup when the black veins pop up. He's not sure what bullshit that is, but he doesn't want it fucking up his apartment, even though the prospect of dying while looking at himself isn't the worst thing.
Still, this isn't his area of expertise, so he decides to play the nice guy even though he's pretty sure that if anyone deserves answers first, it's him. ]
You're in New York. Lower Manhattan, Central Park adjacent. I'm going to go ahead and guess that's a long way from home for you.
[ He's not wrong. The words are foreign to the Darkling, almost as much as the other's grating accent, and he lets out a pained moan as his hand throbs. Saints. This was more than he thought--this is an entirely different area, an entirely different place. His last bid to do save himself lead him here, lead him to someone who looks like him. Lead him to a too bright living space with that same dark gaze looking back. He dislikes that the other is far too calm about this.
He brings his non-injured hand up, smearing some of the black blood away from his face with disdain. He needs more rest, most likely. Instead, he moves to try and rise. ]
They brought me to you.
[ Somehow, the things he had created had found this man. That's the most logical explanation, and while he can't stand up, he can at least sit. He winces. ]
[ He decides that he's not in any immediate danger. The guy's too beat up looking to cause any damage for now anyway, and Billy's been there, done that. He's not a medic by any means but you learn a thing or two about first aid when you're a special ops guy and run your own contracting service.
Billy takes a long sip of coffee and sets the cup down on a nearby side table. ]
Just stop moving around before you get blood or whatever that is all over my couch. Costs a fortune to have that shit cleaned, might as well just replace it.
[ Not that he worries much about money. Billy gets a substantial allowance for keeping his mouth shut about Kandahar and more on top of that from his actual job.
He goes to get his kit of things, bandages and a wide array of things meant to extract bullets or staple wounds or anything in between. He sets the bag on the coffee table and starts digging through it. ]
[ Billy, he says, and the Darkling is not too proud to admit he needs the help the other is silently offering when he grabs the pack. He's right--he's smart, the Darkling notices, though he's keenly aware of the smart mouth the other has. Blood on the other's couch would be the least of his worries.
He nods at the other, a silent thank you, and his calmness is beginning to return once pieces of the puzzle slide together: those he summoned, his command was to help. They brought him to safety, brought him here. This is beyond the Fold--beyond even Novyi Zem, he thinks.
Carefully, he begins to peel off his kefta, grunting. The top part of his clothes next, the black undershirt and sash as well.
It could be worse. His 'safety' is a fascinating man, one who looks almost exactly like him. His brings the hand that isn't a bloodied mess up, moving to grasp the other's face, thumb along his jaw if the other will allow. ]
My being here is no coincidence. [ His voice is soft, despite his laboured breathing. ]
[ Billy doesn't startle when the hand reaches out to touch him. He understands the curiosity. He's just as fascinated by it, and the movement wasn't sudden enough to cause alarm, but Billy's got a Thing about people touching him - especially his face - without any reason.
He sits on the coffee table, moving out of reach and turning to finish pulling out bandages and wound cleaner and anything else he might need. ]
I don't believe in coincidences.
[ Especially when the "coincidence" in question is someone who looks just like him. ]
So, what happened to you? Looks like something really kicked your ass.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wake up;
He sleeps, dreamless and drifting, suspended, caught between awake and alive and asleep and dead, feeling nothing, feeling everything, feeling pain, feeling numb. The Darkling hasn't been unconscious for a very, very long time. He's not sure how long it's been until he wakes up.
When he does, it's with a loud, long gasp, his entire body bolting upright, eyes wide, searing pain at his sides and wracking the rest of his body. It's bright, impossibly bright, impossibly loud--even he himself is improbably noisy, breaths coming in pained, ragged gasps, dark eyes scanning for something, anything, some way to tell what's happened, black blood blossoming on the bandage in his hand as he clenches it, staring at it and then looking at the room, gaze wild and unfocused.
Alina.
He needs to find Alina, he needs to find the girl from Karemzin, he needs to--
He's still breathing heavily, adrenaline surging through him, trying to focus on anything that's familiar, something that's at the very least recognizable, and his gaze falls on something he cannot explain.
The Darkling is looking at himself. ]
no subject
But the shit usually stays out of Billy's way. He'd thought it was about to get real messy when Frank Castle emerged, and Billy had kept his eyes on it while Frank went after the men he thought were responsible for his family. That was fine with Billy. It kept Frank away from him, and it kept Billy from having to do something he didn't want to do. And then Frank had died, for real this time, and maybe Billy is having a hard time accepting that.
At least, he thinks about it a lot. He thinks about how proud he'd been when Frank was standing trial for all those murders, and he thinks about how maybe he could have done something that would get Frank out of the way without killing him. It's what he's thinking about this morning when he walks out of his bathroom after a shower and sees a man passed out on the sofa.
Not just any man, but a man who looks a hell of a lot like Billy. A little older, maybe, hair a little longer, but it may as well be some sort of mirror.
Turns out, not even Billy was immune to the fuckery New York liked to throw at everyone.
At least Billy's good at not over reacting. He calmly goes about his morning. He makes coffee. He gets dressed. He puts some product in his hair. He stands by the couch, coffee in hand, watching the man and thinking about Frank Castle until the guy jerks awake. ]
Good morning, Sleeping Beauty. You wanna tell me who the hell you are and what you're doing here?
no subject
He'd be upset at the other if he wasn't bewildered despite the white hot heat of the gashes along his shoulders underneath the long black kefta. There's something far more important.
He doesn't understand the phrase sleeping beauty. He doesn't understand much of what's happening, he doesn't understand why this room so so bright--he doesn't understand who he's looking at, his cold, dark eyes alight with rage. He needs answers. Quickly. He needs to know what is happening. He grunts through the pain, brow furrowed. ]
You will tell me where I am. [ A demand. A threat. A complete disregard for what the other said, at least at first. Black veins gather along his neck, pulsing upwards as he attempts to heal himself now that he's conscious. ]
no subject
[ Billy holds up the hand that isn't holding his coffee cup when the black veins pop up. He's not sure what bullshit that is, but he doesn't want it fucking up his apartment, even though the prospect of dying while looking at himself isn't the worst thing.
Still, this isn't his area of expertise, so he decides to play the nice guy even though he's pretty sure that if anyone deserves answers first, it's him. ]
You're in New York. Lower Manhattan, Central Park adjacent. I'm going to go ahead and guess that's a long way from home for you.
no subject
He brings his non-injured hand up, smearing some of the black blood away from his face with disdain. He needs more rest, most likely. Instead, he moves to try and rise. ]
They brought me to you.
[ Somehow, the things he had created had found this man. That's the most logical explanation, and while he can't stand up, he can at least sit. He winces. ]
Your name?
no subject
Billy takes a long sip of coffee and sets the cup down on a nearby side table. ]
Just stop moving around before you get blood or whatever that is all over my couch. Costs a fortune to have that shit cleaned, might as well just replace it.
[ Not that he worries much about money. Billy gets a substantial allowance for keeping his mouth shut about Kandahar and more on top of that from his actual job.
He goes to get his kit of things, bandages and a wide array of things meant to extract bullets or staple wounds or anything in between. He sets the bag on the coffee table and starts digging through it. ]
Billy. What brought you here? Why me?
no subject
He nods at the other, a silent thank you, and his calmness is beginning to return once pieces of the puzzle slide together: those he summoned, his command was to help. They brought him to safety, brought him here. This is beyond the Fold--beyond even Novyi Zem, he thinks.
Carefully, he begins to peel off his kefta, grunting. The top part of his clothes next, the black undershirt and sash as well.
It could be worse. His 'safety' is a fascinating man, one who looks almost exactly like him. His brings the hand that isn't a bloodied mess up, moving to grasp the other's face, thumb along his jaw if the other will allow. ]
My being here is no coincidence. [ His voice is soft, despite his laboured breathing. ]
no subject
He sits on the coffee table, moving out of reach and turning to finish pulling out bandages and wound cleaner and anything else he might need. ]
I don't believe in coincidences.
[ Especially when the "coincidence" in question is someone who looks just like him. ]
So, what happened to you? Looks like something really kicked your ass.