(fic) who to love | when we cannot escape unscathed
When We Cannot Escape Unscathed | radishface
Watchmen → Dan, Rorschach, Twilight Lady
The Twilight Lady discovers something about Nite Owl. 1162 words. R.
A/N, Part of the who to love series. Dan realizes what he wants. [ 1][ 2]
Rorschach will be coming any minute now, he's sure of it. All he has to do is sit here and wait.
His arms are crossed behind his back and secured tightly against the back of the chair. They'd let him keep his gauntlets on, and the leather of his gloves squeaks as he flexes as he tests the ropes. The restraints are new, still shiny with a waxy coating, and don't have any give. His feet and calves are bound, too, each one tied to a leg of the chair. His goggles hang around his neck, probably slipped off his face between when he was knocked out and when he woke up, tied up in Twilight Lady's office.
Despite his straining and the scraping of the chair against the concrete flooring, she doesn't pay him mind. She's sitting behind a desk of some sort, gloves lying to one side and pretty, manicured hands shuffling through a pile of paperwork. Every once in a while her gaze flicks up, mostly disinterested even through the mask, but Nite Owl can see a tinge of annoyance floating around the brows.
Rorschach will be here any minute. Nite Owl has to make sure, at least, at least, she doesn't escape before then.
So he tries talking, instead. "Twilight Lady," he starts. It should sound silly, vocalized out loud, but he's still in costume and so is she (sitting behind the desk, shuffling through files and folders and nibbling every now and then on the tip of her pen) and so it's okay. "You should do the right thing. Turn yourself in. They might not be as hard on you."
A very pink, very wet tongue flickers to wet her lips, and she keeps scritching away at the stack of papers. "That 'good cop' thing doesn't work on me, darling."
"I've only got good intentions." Nite Owl really believes it.
"Mmm," she hums, pursing her lips, eyes still downcast. "So do I."
"There's other ways to help these girls, you know," Nite Owl starts, and winces when a pen comes flying in his face, bouncing off his nose.
When he opens his eyes again, he sees her with her mask in one hand and the other hand rubbing the bridge of her nose. She sighs. "I'm not just running any old brothel here, darling. You might only see the vice, but there's a lot to be done, and you and your friend are," her look is less blank when she slips the mask back on again. "Interfering."
"It's what we do," Nite Owl says cheerily.
"This is a business," Twilight Lady barks, rising from her chair. She's in her usual: stark black patent leather corset giving way to the weave of fishnet stockings and knee-high stiletto boots; somewhere in his head, Dan thinks cheerily that it wouldn't even be a villainess costume if not for the mask.
The light dances over her curves as she walks over to him. "Honey, do you know what the unemployment rate is in this city?"
Nite Owl swallows, thinking, "uh." Yes, he should know, technically. Rorschach complains about it enough, about how city officials, corrupt and degenerate and complacent, are doing absolutely nothing to curb rising joblessness and inflation, how taxes are being squandered on galas and benefits and sucking the everyman dry to feed the fat cats that sit pretty in their city halls, and--
"Would you rather the hundreds in my employ be out there on the streets, like your--" She pauses, as if reconsidering, and hikes a booted leg up on the chair between Dan's legs. He sits up straighter, meeting her gaze even if he is the one tied up, because if he's stared down by the Queen of Vice, he'll probably never hear the end of it from Rorschach--
"And here you are assigning me silly titles like Queen of Vice," Twilight Lady air quotes at him, a withering expression on her face, "and so on. I run a perfectly fair establishment where the average Manhattan Joe can get some good, clean fun, and here you are, trying to spoil it." She wiggles her boot into the chair, the sides of her foot pressed along the side of Nite Owl's thighs.
"It's against the law," Nite Owl starts, but she cuts him off again.
"As if that ever stopped anybody," she scoffs, and leans in further. He can feel her breath on her face. Doesn't know what to think of it. "Some might call you a paragon of justice, a defender of the city, but you know what?"
"What," Nite Owl says, his voice pitched higher despite himself and no, he hadn't meant to say that, or say it like that--
Her foot pushes, and he falls backwards with the chair as he strains reflexively upwards, landing on the ground with a thud. Nite Owl sees stars in his vision for a second before the haze clears away, and then Twilight Lady is standing over him, hands on her hips and the fluorescent lights above flickering through her hair, casting her in a bright red corona.
"You're just having yourself a good time, just like all of us."
His sharp intake of breath makes something flash in her eyes, and Nite Owl realizes belatedly that this a woman who deals in sex as a trade, and his armor is thick and static all around his body but there are other ways to tell.
She lifts a leg and lightly presses the sole of the boot against his cup, pushing and pushing and Nite Owl can't suppress a shiver when a smile spreads over her face. Her teeth are a sharp white sliver against pillowy, red-slicked lips. "Good intentions, darling?"
"Yes," he grits out at her, voice hoarse.
She only smiles a little wider and moves her foot in infuriating circles around his crotch, and he can't feel it, there's all this armor in the way, but he can, still, and if he could--
"Well," she removes her boot and looks at him, head cocked to one side. "I've gotta run. Your friend is causing a scene outside, and I've still inches of payroll forms to approve."
There are distant sounds of things clattering, breaking, people screaming, and Dan freezes. Twilight Lady moves away from his tied, undignified form, her voice cool again."You know what this is going to cost me in insurance premiums?" She's slamming drawers and sliding the papers into some sort of briefcase, and before he knows it she's back again, one foot pressed achingly into his groin and it's all Nite Owl can do not to arch up into it.
"Who knew that Bird Boy was such a freak?"
He knows a flush is riding high on his cheeks. He can feel the burn through the sweat and the want, the disgusting want, and he bites his lip to keep quiet.
"If you're going to come back to do some more damage," she leans over and blows in his face, so he'll look at her, and he does, he does, all that red and black and milky white skin, "leave your boyfriend at home."
His heart is jumping pounding dying wildly in his chest as she disappears through a sliding panel in the wall.
Minutes later, Rorschach kicks the door down, stomping in and breathing hard. There's the reek of stale clothes and blood all around them and Rorschach's hands are harsh and unforgiving as they saw through the ropes. "Need to know where she went, Nite Owl." The ink blooms in shifting, accusing hurricanes.
"I don't know," Nite Owl lies. Those hands should be working the ropes in reverse.
*
> when undiscovered