[fic] Watchmen; Like Water; Dan/Ror
Title: Like Water
Rating: PG
Pairing: Dan/Rorschach
Warnings: None
Summary: Dan does his best to deny his feelings. It doesn't work out very well.
Written as a Secret Santa gift for lukadron !
There are certain things Dan doesn't think about. If he says so himself, he's developed a distinct talent for it. It isn't really that he lies to himself, exactly-it's just that he knows that there are times when examining too closely doesn't bring very many rewards.
Take Rorschach, for example. Rorschach has been Nite Owl's partner in fighting crime for a few years now, and a friend for almost as long. Dan has never really had what he would consider a close friend before. Sure, he's always gotten along well with classmates and lab partners, but that's different compared to a guy who sits in your kitchen complaining about the quality of your coffee, roughhouses with you under the guise of training, laughs at your good jokes and grumbles good-naturedly at your bad ones. So if Dan has inappropriate thoughts about the dexterity of Rorschach's fingers, or looks a little too long at the span of his shoulders beneath that suit jacket, or starts to wonder when he'll return the favor of taking off his mask once in a while, he doesn't even bother to berate himself. Berating would acknowledge he had a thought worth berating in the first place. Aikido training has taught him to direct his energy like water around obstructions, and it's very easy to let his mind do the same thing.
That plan probably would have worked out just fine if it wasn't for a particular night in December 1967 when Nite Owl put his foot straight through a roof.
//
Getting used to sleeping during the day has never been hard for Dan. It's almost like a private joke: he's just living up to his costumed name. No, the hard part is realizing that Rorschach apparently never, ever sleeps at all. A lesser man would start wondering if there's even a real person under all those careful layers of clothing. Dan can simply accept that some people are just quirky as hell, and one of those people is his partner.
He's awakened, as usual, by the phone. Two rings and silence, two rings and silence: Rorschach's code for get dressed, because I'll be sitting in your kitchen in fifteen minutes. There's no use in answering; he'll only get three words at best and a dial tone at worst. There's no use in tracing the number, either. It's his own personal alarm clock with no snooze button.
The funny thing is, he doesn't mind at all.
//
It's the dead of winter and, predictably, pretty damn cold. Dan discovered that Rorschach was smarter than he seemed years ago, but that discovery is reinforced by the fact that he's the only one out of all of them to have a coat as a standard part of his costume. Still, even a trenchcoat can't be keeping out this wind that feels sharper than a knife-edge, driving powdery gusts of snow from the few drifts which haven't already succumbed to a bleak and mushy grey. But Dan knows better than to suggest a break.
Rorschach's favorite winter activity is hunting pimps who employ underaged prostitutes. Dan sometimes thinks the man uses his driving determination and obviously personal fury as a method to keep himself warm. Besides, winter makes it easy to spot the working women who're treated the worst: they're the ones still standing outside in fifteen degree weather when everyone else is holed up in brothels or advertised by surprisingly well-designed leaflets.
But sometimes, other criminals present themselves during the course of their investigations. Other criminals like the three who've just caught sight of them rounding the alley corner and are bursting into a sprint before anyone even has a chance to be intimidating. It's such a blatant admission of guilt that the only thing left to do is take off after them now and figure out what their actual crime is later. The alley rushes by in a jolting blur, the two of them falling into a coordinated pursuit worn easy by practice.
Sometimes it's a little unfair how Rorschach can scale the side of a building like some kind of damn spider. Dan watches him shimmy up a drainpipe a little jealously (not admiring any kind of hypothetical view this situation might be giving him) before the sticky trigger to his grappling gun finally catches, whirling him up with a familiar jolt to the shoulder and disorienting speed. He and Rorschach scramble over the roof ledge together and give dual growls of triumph to find their quarry just a few steps ahead, clattering unsteadily across the roof toward the other edge.
There are two things he realizes before it happens: one, that he can feel the reverbrations of everyone else's footsteps pounding up through his feet, and two, that he really shouldn't be able to feel something like that on a roof. What follows is a loud crack, a wet, hot pain radiating through his ankle, and the realization that there is now nothing beneath his right foot because the roof is now up to mid-calf.
They really should get around to inspecting these things, Dan thinks as momentum sends him tumbling forward onto thankfully gauntleted hands.
It's almost worth it to see Rorschach whirl around in exasperation, then startle in surprise at the way a full quarter of his leg has been swallowed up. Prey forgotten, he's already turning back to help when a much louder crack tells Dan the roof is in even worse shape than he already knew. He only has time to think, absurdly, I hope I don't die before the rest of the rotten roof beneath him gives way with a groan and sends him plummeting.
Dan has seen Rorschach fall a few times: he always lands on his feet, or tucks into a roll, or transfers the shock into a frankly impressive half-cartwheel. As it is, Nite Owl falls flat on his back.
"Nite Owl! Nite Owl!"
It really should be hurting a lot more than this. The bloom of warmth spreading through his back muscles is a little terrifying, but he doesn't quite remember hearing bones crack. Maybe he's dead. Maybe the afterlife is a cavernous old warehouse filled with dusty wood pallets and he's condemned here forever for not telling Ms. Forsythe why the classroom hampster died in the fourth grade. Among other things.
When Rorschach leans over the edge of the vageuly Nite Owl-shaped hole to yell down at him, he dislodges several sodden pieces of ineffective roof which hit Dan smack in the face. Yeah. He's alive.
"I'm okay! Just. Ow." Now that he's able to sit up and wave somewhat reassuringly, the pain in his ankle is starting to reassert itself into something just south of all-consuming.
When Rorschach's silhouette disappears from the sky, Dan isn't sure what he's expecting. Maybe that he's going to get help of some kind, although "Rorschach" and "help" get along about as well as a cat and dog thrown together in a burlap sack. What he doesn't expect is to see Rorschach leaping through the hole onto the highest tower of pallets and clambering down with perfect grace until he can hop down the last few feet (landing perfectly).
Dan adjusts his goggles and sits up a little more, still unsure of how to react to falling through a hole and having his partner jump right in after him. Maybe flattered, but that depends on what Rorschach's about to say to him.
Except he doesn't say anything, just crouches down on his haunches and gives Dan a look so intense he can feel it through the mask.
"Rorschach?" He'd really rather not analyze why his voice just cracked. "Hey. I'm okay, really."
His posture relents a little, but he's still looking right into Dan's face. At least he thinks so. "Are you certain? You fell at least fifteen feet, Daniel."
"Yeah-well, no. My ankle hurts, but-"
Whatever he was going to say, it's cut off by the way Rorschach is already moving around to kneel by his feet. When he reaches out to touch the torn fabric of his boot, Dan sucks in a breath and holds it, watching him. Being under Rorschach's scrutiny is what most people would call a unique experience. Which the only reason why Dan feels like he's about two seconds away from squirming under his attention. Of course. But nonetheless, his breath rushes out in a forceful exhale when he feels fingers prodding gently but firmly at his ankle through the boot, sliding expertly up his ankle bone and rotating his foot just enough to assess range of movement.
"It doesn't appear to be broken. A sprain, probably. The boot took most of the force. Good costume."
"Oh," is all Dan has the presence of mind to say.
"Do you think you can walk?"
The sobering reality of the question snaps him out of whatever this little reverie is. It feels a lot worse than any past sprains he's had. There's no way he'll be able to put weight on that ankle, not now. "Sorry. I'm gonna have to rest it a while."
"No matter." Rorschach's already rising, brushing his gloves off on his thighs. "You can lean on me. I'll find the door." And with that, he turns neatly and disappears into the darker reaches of the warehouse.
It's always so hard to read him, Dan laments to himself. Is he angry at having patrol cut short?
Disappointed to have lost sight of a good chase? Exasperated at Dan for managing to fall through a roof all by himself? Or maybe it's nothing at all and Dan's just letting his insecurity get the better of him again. Honestly, he's still getting used to spending time with a person who doesn't think he's strange or boring. Or at least doesn't care that he is. They're both a little strange, and maybe that's okay.
A series of increasingly loud metallic clangs, however, means the situation at hand is probably not okay at all.
His suspicion is confirmed when Rorschach comes back to sit next to him, entirely businesslike except for the way his hat is askew.
"It appears we have a problem."
"The door's chained shut, huh?"
"Yes."
"Maybe I should learn to carry backup CO2 canisters for the grappling gun."
"Hmm."
"And I really should finish that handheld laser."
"No rush."
Dan isn't sure whether he should feel better or worse over the knowledge that Rorschach's probably smirking under that mask of his.
//
They'd decided to wait out some of the night in the closest corner Dan could slink over to, almost cozy in the way it was shaded by a few stacks of nondescript boxes, but still just as bitterly cold as any place that's bounded on two sides by a freezing concrete floor and a gaping hole. When he told Rorschach there was no reason for him to stay too, he'd simply pretended not to hear Dan at all.
Despite the way that he has shivering aches all over now, a burning dry mouth, and has an ass that's gone numb, Dan must have somehow managed to sleep at some point. He doesn't remember when Rorschach leaned into his side to share body heat, or when he took off his trenchcoat to spread across Dan's upper half. The touching is nothing new, a not entirely unpleasant side effect of becoming friends with someone who seems to have taken most of his social cues from old movies. But the trenchcoat thing is what Dan is almost tempted to call sweet. Maybe this is one of those things guys are supposed to do for each other but never mention later. Still, it's-there were a lot of times when he was a little kid and got sick and no one-
"Daniel." Oh, God. How long has he been watching my face? "How do you feel?"
Like crap. "Getting better. Not all the way there yet. Pretty thirsty." His voice croaks embrassingly as if to prove the point.
Rorschach stands, stretching in an entirely too fluid way. "Mm. Stay there." Funny; as if he had a choice.
He only has barely enough time to muzzily regret the loss of his heat source before Rorschach's already returning, hand carefully cupped and held near his chest. When he kneels beside Dan, he can see that it's a tiny handful of water, black in the warehouse's darkness and reflecting nothing. Dan can't begin to care where it came from, only that it's here and his thirst is spiking hot and dry and it would feel so good on the raw surfaces inside his throat; and so he cups one hand under Rorschach's, bends his head to take in a half-mouthful of cold, blessed water and only distantly thinks, he's got me drinking out of the palm of his hand.
He probably should be worrying about the expansive list of germs he's just introduced to his mouth, but all he can think about is the taste of soft leather, warmth seeping onto his tongue, and the faintest twitch in Rorschach's hand that could just be his heartbeat. It's the only movement he's made.
"Melted snow," Rorschach explains in a voice that isn't steady at all.
There wasn't that much water at all and Dan should be done by now but his mouth and tongue are inexplicably still working even though a tiny portion of his brain is screaming at him to stop but he doesn't want to because damn it, this is probably one of the nicest things anyone's ever done for him. And shit, this is one of the things he likes about Rorschach the most, how he can be considerate in the strangest fucking ways and it doesn't matter because he actually tries, which is more than what anyone's cared to do for Dan before. The rush of grateful affection for his best friend is so deep it hurts. And sad, given that the likelihood of his affection being returned is so low it's miniscule. He's learned from his nightly job how to tell when a line of inquiry is fruitless.
It would be better, Dan thinks self-pityingly, if this was only teenaged knee-shaking lust, like the first time he saw Sandy Chalmers on the schoolbus-no, it's worse, because this is some kind of admiration mixed with his old hero-worship for masks combined with a sick crush reserved for schoolyard kids (schoolyard kids who are supposed to like girls).
Dan gets the sudden mental image of leaving a do you like me? Circle yes or no note in Rorschach's mail drop. Something like hopeless, hysterical laughter is starting to bubble up in his chest so really the only choice he has left is to dip his head again, tighten his fingers around Rorschach's hand, and suck one gloved finger into his mouth.
Suddenly it all feels so quiet in this abandoned junk heap of a warehouse, tranquil like there's nothing in the world but them and the occasional flurry making its way through the hole in the roof. Dan breathes in and out through his nose, softly, and tries not to think at all.
It ocurrs to him with a sudden pang of sympathy that Rorschach has no clue what to do. Kick him and he'll clock you with a nasty left hook. Make a move on him and he'll just freeze the way animals do when they're hoping that being still will turn them invisible. Suddenly, indulging his stupid crush seems like a pretty bad reason for confusing and possibly even upsetting the one person who's willing to put up with endless bird facts and still come back the next day.
Dan finally draws back, wincing at the new sting of wet cold on his bottom lip, and assesses the inkblot situation with a guilty look up. The mask doesn't tell much at all; that slow, sluggish movement is normal in these temperatures. The tilt of Rorschach's head says he's looking down at where their hands are still resting together, and a quick movement in the latex over his mouth means he's just licked his lips in nervous habit. It hits Dan with a visceral need to find out more about his mouth in a very personal way, a need he fights back with as much willpower as he can muster.
"Sorry," Dan whispers into the space between them, still watching the lazy rise and fall of splotches for any kind of clue as to what level of damage he's just done to their partnership.
"Fine." Rorschach's not doing anything but drawing his hand back and curling his fingers until Dan can hear the leather creak.
Oh no. Monosyllabic. You've done it now, Dreiberg. "No, really, I don't know..."
All he can do is trail off miserably and watch his breath rise in a white sheen between them and up into the air, disappearing.
After a moment's consideration, Rorschach huffs softly beneath his mask and wedges their shoulders together again, definitely looking away. But at least it's enough of a message that Dan feels only halfway stupid and hopeless.
//
That's not when it happens. Dan gets out of the warehouse without further incident and very little further conversation the next morning. The swelling goes down far enough that he can climb up loading pallets to Archie's waiting ladder, with Rorschach's help.
It happens when he's recuperating at home two days later with his ankle propped up on a pile of pillows, a late night show going on his TV, and a truly impressive petulant mood to keep himself company. His dreams have been broken up by unpleasant-okay, maybe too pleasant-speculations, and now he's just about as rumpled and disconsolate as he gets. It was better to not think about his extremely tangled and fucked-up romantic prospects, but now that he has, he can't get himself to stop.
The two ring signal cuts through a joke that probably wasn't worth it anyway. Dan wonders just what the hell's Rorschach doing when they both know he won't be able to patrol for another day or two yet. He's been known to push Dan, but never through an injury. Social visit? It seems unlikely and frankly a little confusing, but Dan finds himself watching the clock nonetheless until his basement door makes its telltale creak open.
It doesn't even occur to him until it's too late that Rorschach may want to talk about The Incident, and the realization is useless anyway; it's not like he can run anywhere.
Rorschach seats himself on the coffee table, folds his hands on his knees, and just looks at Dan. It would be enough to stoke his discomfort into full on irritation if Dan wasn't pathetically glad to see him and silently thankful he didn't just run away or denounce the whole partnership completely.
"Daniel." He starts, stops, removes his hat from his head, rubs his fingers over the brim, puts it back on again. Maybe Dan isn't the only one who's confused and uncomfortable, and he quirks a half-smile at Rorschach in sympathy and a little bit of self-loathing for getting them both into this.
"Daniel, I was. Concerned." The mask briefly wrinkles between his eyebrows as he apparently frowns at his own word choice. "When you fell, it- You are my friend, and I-"
Oh fuck it, Dan thinks as he leans forward, grabs Rorschach by the shoulders, and kisses the mask where he hopes the other man's mouth might be.
The latex is slick and smooth and he can feel Rorschach's mouth beneath his slackened in surprise and a ghost of warm breath escaping through to his own lips. He's never touched the trenchcoat with his bare hands before and it's bunching into his fists as he pulls Rorschach's wiry body closer, working at his mouth feverishly, insistently until he can feel in his hands one long shudder going through the body beneath them. There's a strangled sound made into his mouth, then one gloved hand clenching at his hair followed by Rorschach's best approximation of a kiss from old movies and it's actually not so bad because all Dan can think is oh God, this is- this-
When Rorschach pulls away to push up his mask high enough to catch a breath, Dan can't help thinking that the ankle was completely worth it.
Rating: PG
Pairing: Dan/Rorschach
Warnings: None
Summary: Dan does his best to deny his feelings. It doesn't work out very well.
Written as a Secret Santa gift for lukadron !
There are certain things Dan doesn't think about. If he says so himself, he's developed a distinct talent for it. It isn't really that he lies to himself, exactly-it's just that he knows that there are times when examining too closely doesn't bring very many rewards.
Take Rorschach, for example. Rorschach has been Nite Owl's partner in fighting crime for a few years now, and a friend for almost as long. Dan has never really had what he would consider a close friend before. Sure, he's always gotten along well with classmates and lab partners, but that's different compared to a guy who sits in your kitchen complaining about the quality of your coffee, roughhouses with you under the guise of training, laughs at your good jokes and grumbles good-naturedly at your bad ones. So if Dan has inappropriate thoughts about the dexterity of Rorschach's fingers, or looks a little too long at the span of his shoulders beneath that suit jacket, or starts to wonder when he'll return the favor of taking off his mask once in a while, he doesn't even bother to berate himself. Berating would acknowledge he had a thought worth berating in the first place. Aikido training has taught him to direct his energy like water around obstructions, and it's very easy to let his mind do the same thing.
That plan probably would have worked out just fine if it wasn't for a particular night in December 1967 when Nite Owl put his foot straight through a roof.
//
Getting used to sleeping during the day has never been hard for Dan. It's almost like a private joke: he's just living up to his costumed name. No, the hard part is realizing that Rorschach apparently never, ever sleeps at all. A lesser man would start wondering if there's even a real person under all those careful layers of clothing. Dan can simply accept that some people are just quirky as hell, and one of those people is his partner.
He's awakened, as usual, by the phone. Two rings and silence, two rings and silence: Rorschach's code for get dressed, because I'll be sitting in your kitchen in fifteen minutes. There's no use in answering; he'll only get three words at best and a dial tone at worst. There's no use in tracing the number, either. It's his own personal alarm clock with no snooze button.
The funny thing is, he doesn't mind at all.
//
It's the dead of winter and, predictably, pretty damn cold. Dan discovered that Rorschach was smarter than he seemed years ago, but that discovery is reinforced by the fact that he's the only one out of all of them to have a coat as a standard part of his costume. Still, even a trenchcoat can't be keeping out this wind that feels sharper than a knife-edge, driving powdery gusts of snow from the few drifts which haven't already succumbed to a bleak and mushy grey. But Dan knows better than to suggest a break.
Rorschach's favorite winter activity is hunting pimps who employ underaged prostitutes. Dan sometimes thinks the man uses his driving determination and obviously personal fury as a method to keep himself warm. Besides, winter makes it easy to spot the working women who're treated the worst: they're the ones still standing outside in fifteen degree weather when everyone else is holed up in brothels or advertised by surprisingly well-designed leaflets.
But sometimes, other criminals present themselves during the course of their investigations. Other criminals like the three who've just caught sight of them rounding the alley corner and are bursting into a sprint before anyone even has a chance to be intimidating. It's such a blatant admission of guilt that the only thing left to do is take off after them now and figure out what their actual crime is later. The alley rushes by in a jolting blur, the two of them falling into a coordinated pursuit worn easy by practice.
Sometimes it's a little unfair how Rorschach can scale the side of a building like some kind of damn spider. Dan watches him shimmy up a drainpipe a little jealously (not admiring any kind of hypothetical view this situation might be giving him) before the sticky trigger to his grappling gun finally catches, whirling him up with a familiar jolt to the shoulder and disorienting speed. He and Rorschach scramble over the roof ledge together and give dual growls of triumph to find their quarry just a few steps ahead, clattering unsteadily across the roof toward the other edge.
There are two things he realizes before it happens: one, that he can feel the reverbrations of everyone else's footsteps pounding up through his feet, and two, that he really shouldn't be able to feel something like that on a roof. What follows is a loud crack, a wet, hot pain radiating through his ankle, and the realization that there is now nothing beneath his right foot because the roof is now up to mid-calf.
They really should get around to inspecting these things, Dan thinks as momentum sends him tumbling forward onto thankfully gauntleted hands.
It's almost worth it to see Rorschach whirl around in exasperation, then startle in surprise at the way a full quarter of his leg has been swallowed up. Prey forgotten, he's already turning back to help when a much louder crack tells Dan the roof is in even worse shape than he already knew. He only has time to think, absurdly, I hope I don't die before the rest of the rotten roof beneath him gives way with a groan and sends him plummeting.
Dan has seen Rorschach fall a few times: he always lands on his feet, or tucks into a roll, or transfers the shock into a frankly impressive half-cartwheel. As it is, Nite Owl falls flat on his back.
"Nite Owl! Nite Owl!"
It really should be hurting a lot more than this. The bloom of warmth spreading through his back muscles is a little terrifying, but he doesn't quite remember hearing bones crack. Maybe he's dead. Maybe the afterlife is a cavernous old warehouse filled with dusty wood pallets and he's condemned here forever for not telling Ms. Forsythe why the classroom hampster died in the fourth grade. Among other things.
When Rorschach leans over the edge of the vageuly Nite Owl-shaped hole to yell down at him, he dislodges several sodden pieces of ineffective roof which hit Dan smack in the face. Yeah. He's alive.
"I'm okay! Just. Ow." Now that he's able to sit up and wave somewhat reassuringly, the pain in his ankle is starting to reassert itself into something just south of all-consuming.
When Rorschach's silhouette disappears from the sky, Dan isn't sure what he's expecting. Maybe that he's going to get help of some kind, although "Rorschach" and "help" get along about as well as a cat and dog thrown together in a burlap sack. What he doesn't expect is to see Rorschach leaping through the hole onto the highest tower of pallets and clambering down with perfect grace until he can hop down the last few feet (landing perfectly).
Dan adjusts his goggles and sits up a little more, still unsure of how to react to falling through a hole and having his partner jump right in after him. Maybe flattered, but that depends on what Rorschach's about to say to him.
Except he doesn't say anything, just crouches down on his haunches and gives Dan a look so intense he can feel it through the mask.
"Rorschach?" He'd really rather not analyze why his voice just cracked. "Hey. I'm okay, really."
His posture relents a little, but he's still looking right into Dan's face. At least he thinks so. "Are you certain? You fell at least fifteen feet, Daniel."
"Yeah-well, no. My ankle hurts, but-"
Whatever he was going to say, it's cut off by the way Rorschach is already moving around to kneel by his feet. When he reaches out to touch the torn fabric of his boot, Dan sucks in a breath and holds it, watching him. Being under Rorschach's scrutiny is what most people would call a unique experience. Which the only reason why Dan feels like he's about two seconds away from squirming under his attention. Of course. But nonetheless, his breath rushes out in a forceful exhale when he feels fingers prodding gently but firmly at his ankle through the boot, sliding expertly up his ankle bone and rotating his foot just enough to assess range of movement.
"It doesn't appear to be broken. A sprain, probably. The boot took most of the force. Good costume."
"Oh," is all Dan has the presence of mind to say.
"Do you think you can walk?"
The sobering reality of the question snaps him out of whatever this little reverie is. It feels a lot worse than any past sprains he's had. There's no way he'll be able to put weight on that ankle, not now. "Sorry. I'm gonna have to rest it a while."
"No matter." Rorschach's already rising, brushing his gloves off on his thighs. "You can lean on me. I'll find the door." And with that, he turns neatly and disappears into the darker reaches of the warehouse.
It's always so hard to read him, Dan laments to himself. Is he angry at having patrol cut short?
Disappointed to have lost sight of a good chase? Exasperated at Dan for managing to fall through a roof all by himself? Or maybe it's nothing at all and Dan's just letting his insecurity get the better of him again. Honestly, he's still getting used to spending time with a person who doesn't think he's strange or boring. Or at least doesn't care that he is. They're both a little strange, and maybe that's okay.
A series of increasingly loud metallic clangs, however, means the situation at hand is probably not okay at all.
His suspicion is confirmed when Rorschach comes back to sit next to him, entirely businesslike except for the way his hat is askew.
"It appears we have a problem."
"The door's chained shut, huh?"
"Yes."
"Maybe I should learn to carry backup CO2 canisters for the grappling gun."
"Hmm."
"And I really should finish that handheld laser."
"No rush."
Dan isn't sure whether he should feel better or worse over the knowledge that Rorschach's probably smirking under that mask of his.
//
They'd decided to wait out some of the night in the closest corner Dan could slink over to, almost cozy in the way it was shaded by a few stacks of nondescript boxes, but still just as bitterly cold as any place that's bounded on two sides by a freezing concrete floor and a gaping hole. When he told Rorschach there was no reason for him to stay too, he'd simply pretended not to hear Dan at all.
Despite the way that he has shivering aches all over now, a burning dry mouth, and has an ass that's gone numb, Dan must have somehow managed to sleep at some point. He doesn't remember when Rorschach leaned into his side to share body heat, or when he took off his trenchcoat to spread across Dan's upper half. The touching is nothing new, a not entirely unpleasant side effect of becoming friends with someone who seems to have taken most of his social cues from old movies. But the trenchcoat thing is what Dan is almost tempted to call sweet. Maybe this is one of those things guys are supposed to do for each other but never mention later. Still, it's-there were a lot of times when he was a little kid and got sick and no one-
"Daniel." Oh, God. How long has he been watching my face? "How do you feel?"
Like crap. "Getting better. Not all the way there yet. Pretty thirsty." His voice croaks embrassingly as if to prove the point.
Rorschach stands, stretching in an entirely too fluid way. "Mm. Stay there." Funny; as if he had a choice.
He only has barely enough time to muzzily regret the loss of his heat source before Rorschach's already returning, hand carefully cupped and held near his chest. When he kneels beside Dan, he can see that it's a tiny handful of water, black in the warehouse's darkness and reflecting nothing. Dan can't begin to care where it came from, only that it's here and his thirst is spiking hot and dry and it would feel so good on the raw surfaces inside his throat; and so he cups one hand under Rorschach's, bends his head to take in a half-mouthful of cold, blessed water and only distantly thinks, he's got me drinking out of the palm of his hand.
He probably should be worrying about the expansive list of germs he's just introduced to his mouth, but all he can think about is the taste of soft leather, warmth seeping onto his tongue, and the faintest twitch in Rorschach's hand that could just be his heartbeat. It's the only movement he's made.
"Melted snow," Rorschach explains in a voice that isn't steady at all.
There wasn't that much water at all and Dan should be done by now but his mouth and tongue are inexplicably still working even though a tiny portion of his brain is screaming at him to stop but he doesn't want to because damn it, this is probably one of the nicest things anyone's ever done for him. And shit, this is one of the things he likes about Rorschach the most, how he can be considerate in the strangest fucking ways and it doesn't matter because he actually tries, which is more than what anyone's cared to do for Dan before. The rush of grateful affection for his best friend is so deep it hurts. And sad, given that the likelihood of his affection being returned is so low it's miniscule. He's learned from his nightly job how to tell when a line of inquiry is fruitless.
It would be better, Dan thinks self-pityingly, if this was only teenaged knee-shaking lust, like the first time he saw Sandy Chalmers on the schoolbus-no, it's worse, because this is some kind of admiration mixed with his old hero-worship for masks combined with a sick crush reserved for schoolyard kids (schoolyard kids who are supposed to like girls).
Dan gets the sudden mental image of leaving a do you like me? Circle yes or no note in Rorschach's mail drop. Something like hopeless, hysterical laughter is starting to bubble up in his chest so really the only choice he has left is to dip his head again, tighten his fingers around Rorschach's hand, and suck one gloved finger into his mouth.
Suddenly it all feels so quiet in this abandoned junk heap of a warehouse, tranquil like there's nothing in the world but them and the occasional flurry making its way through the hole in the roof. Dan breathes in and out through his nose, softly, and tries not to think at all.
It ocurrs to him with a sudden pang of sympathy that Rorschach has no clue what to do. Kick him and he'll clock you with a nasty left hook. Make a move on him and he'll just freeze the way animals do when they're hoping that being still will turn them invisible. Suddenly, indulging his stupid crush seems like a pretty bad reason for confusing and possibly even upsetting the one person who's willing to put up with endless bird facts and still come back the next day.
Dan finally draws back, wincing at the new sting of wet cold on his bottom lip, and assesses the inkblot situation with a guilty look up. The mask doesn't tell much at all; that slow, sluggish movement is normal in these temperatures. The tilt of Rorschach's head says he's looking down at where their hands are still resting together, and a quick movement in the latex over his mouth means he's just licked his lips in nervous habit. It hits Dan with a visceral need to find out more about his mouth in a very personal way, a need he fights back with as much willpower as he can muster.
"Sorry," Dan whispers into the space between them, still watching the lazy rise and fall of splotches for any kind of clue as to what level of damage he's just done to their partnership.
"Fine." Rorschach's not doing anything but drawing his hand back and curling his fingers until Dan can hear the leather creak.
Oh no. Monosyllabic. You've done it now, Dreiberg. "No, really, I don't know..."
All he can do is trail off miserably and watch his breath rise in a white sheen between them and up into the air, disappearing.
After a moment's consideration, Rorschach huffs softly beneath his mask and wedges their shoulders together again, definitely looking away. But at least it's enough of a message that Dan feels only halfway stupid and hopeless.
//
That's not when it happens. Dan gets out of the warehouse without further incident and very little further conversation the next morning. The swelling goes down far enough that he can climb up loading pallets to Archie's waiting ladder, with Rorschach's help.
It happens when he's recuperating at home two days later with his ankle propped up on a pile of pillows, a late night show going on his TV, and a truly impressive petulant mood to keep himself company. His dreams have been broken up by unpleasant-okay, maybe too pleasant-speculations, and now he's just about as rumpled and disconsolate as he gets. It was better to not think about his extremely tangled and fucked-up romantic prospects, but now that he has, he can't get himself to stop.
The two ring signal cuts through a joke that probably wasn't worth it anyway. Dan wonders just what the hell's Rorschach doing when they both know he won't be able to patrol for another day or two yet. He's been known to push Dan, but never through an injury. Social visit? It seems unlikely and frankly a little confusing, but Dan finds himself watching the clock nonetheless until his basement door makes its telltale creak open.
It doesn't even occur to him until it's too late that Rorschach may want to talk about The Incident, and the realization is useless anyway; it's not like he can run anywhere.
Rorschach seats himself on the coffee table, folds his hands on his knees, and just looks at Dan. It would be enough to stoke his discomfort into full on irritation if Dan wasn't pathetically glad to see him and silently thankful he didn't just run away or denounce the whole partnership completely.
"Daniel." He starts, stops, removes his hat from his head, rubs his fingers over the brim, puts it back on again. Maybe Dan isn't the only one who's confused and uncomfortable, and he quirks a half-smile at Rorschach in sympathy and a little bit of self-loathing for getting them both into this.
"Daniel, I was. Concerned." The mask briefly wrinkles between his eyebrows as he apparently frowns at his own word choice. "When you fell, it- You are my friend, and I-"
Oh fuck it, Dan thinks as he leans forward, grabs Rorschach by the shoulders, and kisses the mask where he hopes the other man's mouth might be.
The latex is slick and smooth and he can feel Rorschach's mouth beneath his slackened in surprise and a ghost of warm breath escaping through to his own lips. He's never touched the trenchcoat with his bare hands before and it's bunching into his fists as he pulls Rorschach's wiry body closer, working at his mouth feverishly, insistently until he can feel in his hands one long shudder going through the body beneath them. There's a strangled sound made into his mouth, then one gloved hand clenching at his hair followed by Rorschach's best approximation of a kiss from old movies and it's actually not so bad because all Dan can think is oh God, this is- this-
When Rorschach pulls away to push up his mask high enough to catch a breath, Dan can't help thinking that the ankle was completely worth it.