(fic) who to love | when undiscovered
When Undiscovered | radishface
Watchmen → Dan, Rorschach, Twilight Lady.
Dan will have to keep a secret. 2840 words. Explicit.
A/N, Second of the who to love series: Dan realizes what he wants. [ 1][ 2]
Rorschach doesn't leave it be.
He disappears for two weeks after their failed mission, but when he comes back he's nearly jittery with pent-up anticipation, pacing restlessly in Dan's kitchen and tracking grime all over the place. Rorschach has scoured the darkest and not-so-dark corners of the city for information about the Twilight Lady, but he doesn't tell Dan anything Dan doesn't already know from his own research.
The so-called "benevolent mistress" began her life as a Miss Leslie Chadwicke. She grew up in Connecticut, went to a performing arts high school and continued in college, graduating with a B.A. in anthropology before she moved to New York City to work as a secretarial assistant at a large music conglomerate.
"Liberal garbage," Rorschach rasps, throwing down a pile of assorted documents onto Dan's kitchen table. A photocopy of a diploma, notes taken on scraps of newspaper and coffee filters, a few pictures of a young Leslie Chadwicke in college, her hair a mousy dirty blonde and her smile confident, untroubled. "Corrupted since her youth. Continually allowed herself to be corrupted."
Dan's hands twist in his lap as their TV dinners spin in the microwave. "You should let me handle this one, buddy." He continues before Rorschach can say anything. "Night raids are somewhat-- cliche, you know? I'm sure she'll be expecting it after the last stunt we pulled."
Rorschach stops pacing and turns to Dan, expectant. "Waiting to hear the alternative."
He takes a breath and waits for the courage to settle in his blood before he continues. "Maybe we could pay her a visit during the day. Mid-morning, even. It'll catch her off guard."
Rorschach's voice has more grit in it than usual. "Have engagements during the day, Daniel. Not all of us can afford to sleep it away, like you."
The word afford has a certain inflection and Dan can feel his ears turning hot but he deserves it, he does he does. "Well, I’ll go,” and there’s a bit of a crossness there, something he’s quick to cover up with his next few words, hurried, “I mean, I'm usually free, so I'll be sure to put that time to good use." He summons his most winning smile, but doesn't look Rorschach in the eye. Blots.
"Hurm." The mask crinkles around where Rorschach's mouth should be, like he's pursing his lips, or smiling. Dan swallows. "Could work, Daniel."
"Yeah," Dan says, as the microwave beeps shrilly. "Could work."
*
A taxi drops him off, the cabbie eying him warily as he thumbs through the bills Dan just handed him. "You're not gonna find a ride back out here, son."
"Thank you," Dan says with a note of finality, and shuts the cab door behind him. He waits until it's well away before hauling his duffel bag over his shoulder and heading for the warehouse. The sky is bright today, the most transparent of summer days, and his shadow is but a point on the ground as he moves into a space between two garages, a quiet corner by the dumpster, where he can quickly get changed. When the armor is finally on, it gleams much too brightly than it should, unused to sunlight. It sends his heart into his throat, and even as he curses himself for his irrationality his feet move him as quickly as they can into the shadows, and he is almost relieved when he finally steals inside.
It's mostly empty. Indeed, any "business"-related activity wouldn't begin in earnest until the sun set, which is why he's here at eleven in the morning. Dan rolls out a map to the place and scans it quickly, setting off for her office with a sure step.
But it's not long before he gets lost in a maze of hallways and through door after door and room after room that look the same. At some point, he winds up in a room with a huge projector screen and scattered couches, chains hanging at varying lengths from the ceiling. Nite Owl stares longingly at the minibar in the back of the room, fully stocked as it is, before he plops him down on one of the couches for just a second, just a minute, slipping off his goggles to rub at his temples as he tries to regain his sense of direction.
It's hard not to sink into it, it's so much softer, so much more luxurious than any of the ones he has in his living room back at the brownstone. He's almost about to drift off when there's a sound from the doorway, and then he's up in a rush, goggles snapped back onto his face.
Twilight Lady is standing at the door-- except it's not really her. She looks as if she rolled out of bed, her bright red hair is frizzled and kinked through the waves. She has on a burgundy dressing gown over a black negligee. Her legs are long and pale and her feet are bare. She's not wearing any makeup. She looks him up and down and then the side of her lip curls a little.
"Couldn't stop by during our normal business hours, I take it?"
"Leslie Chadwicke," he says, voice filled with triumph and cape aswirl behind him.
"Daniel Dreiberg," she replies, without missing a beat.
His heart jumps to his throat again and he takes an involuntary step back, defensive, how does she-?
Twilight Lady's gaze slithers over him, biding her time. He's taller than her but he can feel something in him crumpling, his name on her lips, that she knows who he is, Daniel Dreiberg, even as other things are blooming, expanding at the edges, Daniel Dreiberg, in that throaty voice.
"I'm afraid I'm not properly made up," she says. "You'll have to excuse me for a few minutes, and forgive me if I'm a little slow right now. I only went to sleep a few hours ago." She claps her hands and two svelte, leggy girls enter the room. One pushes him back into the couch while the other heads to the minibar and a part of Dan is craving the drink and the other part is wondering what the hell, what the hell are you doing, Dreiberg Nite Owl Dan Daniel
partner
One girl is massaging his shoulders (to no effect, he can barely feel her through the Kevlar) and the other arrives with a glittering assortment of drinks on a tray. The music is on and something breathy and bouncing is playing on the screen. A vodka tonic is sliding down his throat, sweet and sharp and cloying. There is one girl on either side of him, their hands wandering over the armor and he promised, he promised Rorschach--
No, you didn't promise him anything-
The door opens again. It's dark outside in the hallway and from that darkness, the Twilight Lady emerges, red-slicked and shiny in black leather and fishnet stockings an intricate romance of the legs, a trajectory of spider silk.
"I can't," Nite Owl stands up, forcing the desperation in his voice to a minimum. "Look, I came here to-"
"Now now," Twilight Lady murmurs. The two girls file out and it's just the two of them. "What, you don't like it this way?"
"I don't like it any way," Nite Owl says, but it's more like he's gasping for air, and with every breath it's like he's flying apart at the edges, and did they put something in that drink, because the music is too loud and the screen is too bright with people fucking each other and she's getting closer and closer to him,
"Sit down, Nite Owl." And when he doesn't budge, she pushes him back and he falls into the couch, sinking treacherously into its depths. Standing in front of him, the screen illuminates her from behind but her face is an amorphous darkness, a pair of cherry-red lips moving against the light.
"Now," and her voice can whisper even in this noise and light, but he can still hear it, and how does she do that, "does your boyfriend know you're here?"
"He's not-"
"Does. He. Know."
"Yes, but actually, I just wanted to-"
A boot up on the couch,
"--talk--"
pressing on the cup again,
"-to you-"
He grows even harder, pushing painfully against that barrier of his armor, straining toward her shoe.
He can smell her perfume, strong and cedary, "and does he know what you're doing?"
No, no, no, "oh god, no."
"Cheating on your boyfriend, you really are up to no good." She's straddling him now, her crotch rubbing against his stomach as she slides up and down. "But Nite Owl-"
No, no, no, not Nite Owl, not now. He can't be Nite Owl now. But to be Daniel-- would be even worse-
"I want you so badly." Her voice is a whining pant in his ear. His hands are mid-air, and he wants to push her away but he can't, not when she's doing that with her legs, quivering against him and rutting against his armor, goddamn it, Archie is made out of the same stuff-- he's been shot and stabbed and now he's being fucked in this, and his hips buck up of their own accord and he's leaned forward and has buried his face and hands in the giant red mess of her hair,
hiding
and she keeps whispering to him. "Don't care what anybody else thinks, I just wanna fuck you, want you inside me, want you fucking me with that juicy cock of yours, big boy, want you to punish me, come on, you know you wanna punish me, I've been a bad girl, bad, bad, bad, and you know you wanna stick it in me, work it deep and deeper into my pussy, fuck me until I scream, I deserve it--"
He chokes as he comes, eyes wide; the amorphous fucking on the screen, the amorphous black Os of amorphous mouths curved in pleasure all seen through the red, silky curtain of her hair. His armor feels wet, it all feels wet, sweat slicking him through and sending him swimming through the hard angles of his suit.
A few seconds pass before she lifts his head up and looks at him. "That wasn't right of you, Dan."
He freezes.
"Oh, you've been bad." She stands up, holding him at arms' length and looks him up and down, gaze like ropes, coiling and winding and taking her sweet time. "You've come all over yourself. Now what will your boyfriend say, if he knew?"
"I should be going." But he stays where he is, staring dumbly at her.
"You're not going anywhere. Boys," she snaps her fingers and climbs off him, and before he knows it there are two tall, leather-clad, masked men looming over him.
Dan springs up, the familiarity of the situation flooding his brain with something comforting, masks and combat and this is it, she wants to make it like this, does she, well, he'll show them--
A trickle of wetness slides down his leg and humiliation hits him like a dead weight, his head spinning and spinning and not just because he's stood up too quickly.
One of the thugs hits him in the jaw, sending sparks in his vision, and the other quickly wraps his arms behind his back. The thug's sheer weight-- he's bigger, more muscled, more corded than Dan could ever be-- locks Dan in place, and he sinks his fingers into the other man's arms and tries to push him off, but he won't budge.
His arms are spread and he feels the cool metal of the ceiling chains before he recognizes what they're about to do. When he hears the sound of handcuffs being snapped into place Dan panics, bucking the man off him and landing a kick in his solar plexus, but then a pair of arms wraps around his thighs and he can't move his legs, and then those are tied, too, spread and tethered to the base of the couch.
"Thank you, boys." The men exit and Twilight Lady moves over to him again. With a sweep of her hand the music stops, the video pauses, and the lights flicker on.
"Nice tech you've got there, Leslie." He pulls at his restraints; they won't give. "Paid for with dirty cash, no doubt." And he tries to sound disapproving and patronizing but it all just comes out breathless and dazed. He doesn't even have the mind to curse himself for his inefficacy.
"It's possible that some of us actually have to work to build up a business." Twilight Lady smirks widely. "We're not all trust fund babies like you."
Not all of us can afford to sleep away the day, a gravely voice whispers in his head. Dan tries not to wince.
She taps his goggles with a knuckle, like testing the ripeness of a melon. "Let's take these off, shall we?"
His protests sound weak to his own ears, but that she's removing her mask with one hand at the same time she's pushing back his goggles with the other, that she's doing it so slowly, almost reverently, solemnly-- there's something poetic in the movement, almost considerate and damn it, Dan wants to drown in that, that sympathy.
"You have beautiful eyes," she purrs.
*
He's head-deep in Archie's metal guts when he hears a familiar step echoing down the tunnel.
"Dressed early today, Nite Owl." There's a hint of good humor in that voice, almost teasing over the name. Dan bites his lower lip. There's a bolt that's in particularly tight, and he can't--
He realizes that Rorschach is waiting for a response. "Didn't want to get my clothes dirty," Dan says briskly. "And Archie's been needing a tune-up." He gestures in the array of tools lying on the workbench. "Hand me a screwdriver, buddy?"
An instrument is passed into his hand. "Thanks-- oh, wait. I meant-- the ratcheting one."
A hurm. "No discernable difference in utility."
"Sure there is-- the ratcheting one is easier to-- aw, hell. I'll get it myself." Dan jumps down and nearly cries out as the armor scrapes against his ass, the front of his- god, the chafing--
Gruffly, "Daniel," as Rorschach steps closer, and is that concern--? Damn it, damn it, damn it, Dan can only take a deep breath and wait it out, wait for the burning to subside. "Didn't hurt yourself, did you?"
Twilight Lady rubbing a gloved hand over his rear, a soothing touch over where she had just spanked him for being a bad, filthy, filthy boy! that wasn't so bad, was it, darling? in this position, his hand suspended above his head and his legs spread out wide and--
"What? No, I'm fine." He wipes a hand across his brow, something wet smearing over it. Engine oil. Dan curses.
"Have something-" Rorschach's hand, dangerously close to brushing his face, hanging between them for a split second too long before it's pulled back. “Daniel,” Rorschach says instead, like gritting it out between his teeth. Dan tells himself that the inflection doesn't mean anything.
"I know, I know." His voice is clipped but he needs to find a cloth to wipe his face with. Maybe there's one in the kitchen-- all the ones down here are dirty. Rorschach trails behind him as he heads upstairs. His ears feel like they’re glowing in the dark, hot and livid.
"How was earlier engagement with vice queen?"
Dan picks up a cloth, filthy with a rainbow of stains and smelling of rotting food and dish soap, and scrubs it over his face. Black patches come off in swathes and in Nite Owl's tenor he says,
"I'm working on it, buddy."
*
She's doing up her hair as he lays on his stomach on one of the fur rugs, boneless. Something soothing is playing in the background, jazzy and cheap and Dan usually hates stuff like that but right now his brain is buzzing with endorphins and he can't see straight much less think straight. A part of him whispers that now! is his chance, now! is his chance to knock her out and get her the hell out of here, she won't be expecting it in the least, not right now!
The other part tells him that it would be the most uncourteous thing he's ever done.
Twilight Lady glides back over to him, dressed in a robe (but still in her boots, he can see them peeking out under the hem of the terrycloth), and with the mask gone, her hair down, she looks just like any other woman, any other Leslie, save for the glint in her eyes. "I'm turning in," she murmurs. "You've really worn me out, big boy."
Dan struggles to sit up, head twisting around as he looks around for his costume.
"I had my girls put everything in the room back there." She points behind a curtain, and hey, Dan had never noticed that door before, when did that get there-- "Our washrooms are very well stocked," she winks. He feels laughter welling up inside of him, a pressure like hysteria pushing it up from the bottom of his lungs. As if he'd still be in the mood for anything now, now that he's been so thoroughly, so thoroughly--
"Feel free to... freshen up.” Her eyes flicker up and down and Dan can only imagine what he looks like right now.
"Wait--" He sits up, very aware that he's naked but not caring in the least. "This can't be..." his arm sweeps around the room in a half-aborted gesture, and he can't make himself say the next words.
Leslie’s gaze is steely even as she smiles wider. Wider yet. "I think you know what our arrangement is, Nite Owl."
A beat, and then she laughs lightly, like she doesn't mean it, like it's all totally innocuous. Just a joke, just a game, and Dan is any other Manhattan Joe. It soothes Dan in the practiced way that it's supposed to, mitigating his anxiety at what this means, what he's going to have to do, and what he's going to have to tell Rorschach-
- he’s going to have to tell Rorschach something-
She pecks him on the nose and saunters out. "Be seeing you, handsome."
It's not a question.
*