[Canon fic] Sickness of Need (final draft of Atrocity Exhibition)
Adrenaline is still burning its way up and down every vein long after the scum has been captured and handed over to the police. Rorschach and Nite Owl are left to revel in their victory. Underboss will be locked up and see trial for his crimes and maybe, the two vigilantes will get a nod for their work. Either way, the laughter between the two of them for the whole trip back to Nite Owl's home is still ringing in Rorschach's ears.
Daniel's gone to bed after only a short bit of celebration. He's shed Nite Owl and put the hero away because the man underneath --the good and honest and strong man who trusts Rorschach enough to show himself-- has work to do in the morning. Has deadlines to meet. His partner is given permission to stay. To sleep on the couch and to 'make himself at home'. Rorschach is left awake and anxious in the living room, unable to rest, to settle, to sleep. He tells himself it's the rush of their success, but he knows that isn't all. The nagging feel of his pulse pounding out his needs like a telegraph of unbidden lust and the tight strain against his pants won't let him forget. He can't forget Daniel's smile exposed in Nite Owl's mask, panting with exertion as his suit shone with a light glisten of the drizzling rain on his heaving chest. He can't forget the way Daniel's voice sounded --Nite Owl's voice sounded-- when he shouted for The Game Master to 'Give up and come quietly. The game's over and you lose' and how it sent shivers through him. ... He can't forget how sick he is.
He growls in frustration, in anger, in perverse need. Walter rips his mask off and tosses it aside. He pulls his gloves off as fast as he can, fumbling with them. Rorschach doesn't have these thoughts. Rorschach's hands don't do these ...these things Walter wants to do. Less than a hundred feet away, Daniel Dreiberg is dreaming a hero's dreams. He's clean and noble and worthy of his place as one of this city's protectors. Not like Walter. Not like horrible, dirty, whoreson Walter.
Walter drops down pitifully on the couch --on Daniel's couch, dear god-- and lets out a small sound between a gasp and a sob as he shoves a hand under his waistband. So many nights now, he and Daniel have sat together here or in the lair below. Side by side, poring over clues and leads and police reports. Working as a team. He undoes his fly and rubs a bit more firmly. Walter bites back a moan and leans back, head tilting back to stare up at the ceiling. He's fallen asleep in this position before. In Daniel's home, like this. He's woken up here to Daniel's gentle voice and a soft touch on his shoulder. He wraps his fingers around the hot skin of his sinful erection.
'I'm sorry, Daniel', is all he can think as his body shivers with the feel of his own touch. Walter rolls his head to the side. He can smell Daniel's cologne on the couch's upholstery. He lets the breath out, slow and shaking, as if his body is trying to hold that scent captive. All the while, Walter's hand pumps with a mind of its own. He thinks of the phone ringing and Daniel stepping out from the shower in nothing but a towel to answer. Standing there, wet and barely covered and never noticing Rorschach watching from the kitchen. God, how he stared; how his throat seemed to close and he had to turn his head. Walter turns his head now from the sweet smell --from the memory-- and his back arches with the intensity of sensation, long denied.
No. He can't do this. He can't do this to Daniel. Walter can't dirty the man's home, his image, the thought of him... They're friends, and he's destroying it with the tool of his sickness gripped firm in one hand. Walter grunts and reaches his free hand up, pulling at his scarf. The fabric tightens, rather than slipping free. This is what sodomites deserve. This is what abominations deserve. Walter wraps the material of the scarf around his hand twice and pulls again. Pulls harder. A quiet, choked, gasp gurgles past the constriction on this throat and two streams of saline slip down from the corners of two watering eyes. His face is hot and he can hear his pulse --feel it-- thudding like a bass drum in his ears. His lips mouth the word 'mother' as his body jerks.
He feels like he may explode in that split moment before the hot, thick evidence of his deviancy runs over his hand and stomach. Bright, white flowers bloom and burst in his vision and darkness encroaches from all sides. His hand and the scarf loosen enough as dizziness claims him for the last note of a strangled cry to escape his throat as Walter falls in a heap to lay, unconscious, sweaty, and soiled on Daniel's couch. Daniel's scent rises to him from the upholstery.
Daniel's gone to bed after only a short bit of celebration. He's shed Nite Owl and put the hero away because the man underneath --the good and honest and strong man who trusts Rorschach enough to show himself-- has work to do in the morning. Has deadlines to meet. His partner is given permission to stay. To sleep on the couch and to 'make himself at home'. Rorschach is left awake and anxious in the living room, unable to rest, to settle, to sleep. He tells himself it's the rush of their success, but he knows that isn't all. The nagging feel of his pulse pounding out his needs like a telegraph of unbidden lust and the tight strain against his pants won't let him forget. He can't forget Daniel's smile exposed in Nite Owl's mask, panting with exertion as his suit shone with a light glisten of the drizzling rain on his heaving chest. He can't forget the way Daniel's voice sounded --Nite Owl's voice sounded-- when he shouted for The Game Master to 'Give up and come quietly. The game's over and you lose' and how it sent shivers through him. ... He can't forget how sick he is.
He growls in frustration, in anger, in perverse need. Walter rips his mask off and tosses it aside. He pulls his gloves off as fast as he can, fumbling with them. Rorschach doesn't have these thoughts. Rorschach's hands don't do these ...these things Walter wants to do. Less than a hundred feet away, Daniel Dreiberg is dreaming a hero's dreams. He's clean and noble and worthy of his place as one of this city's protectors. Not like Walter. Not like horrible, dirty, whoreson Walter.
Walter drops down pitifully on the couch --on Daniel's couch, dear god-- and lets out a small sound between a gasp and a sob as he shoves a hand under his waistband. So many nights now, he and Daniel have sat together here or in the lair below. Side by side, poring over clues and leads and police reports. Working as a team. He undoes his fly and rubs a bit more firmly. Walter bites back a moan and leans back, head tilting back to stare up at the ceiling. He's fallen asleep in this position before. In Daniel's home, like this. He's woken up here to Daniel's gentle voice and a soft touch on his shoulder. He wraps his fingers around the hot skin of his sinful erection.
'I'm sorry, Daniel', is all he can think as his body shivers with the feel of his own touch. Walter rolls his head to the side. He can smell Daniel's cologne on the couch's upholstery. He lets the breath out, slow and shaking, as if his body is trying to hold that scent captive. All the while, Walter's hand pumps with a mind of its own. He thinks of the phone ringing and Daniel stepping out from the shower in nothing but a towel to answer. Standing there, wet and barely covered and never noticing Rorschach watching from the kitchen. God, how he stared; how his throat seemed to close and he had to turn his head. Walter turns his head now from the sweet smell --from the memory-- and his back arches with the intensity of sensation, long denied.
No. He can't do this. He can't do this to Daniel. Walter can't dirty the man's home, his image, the thought of him... They're friends, and he's destroying it with the tool of his sickness gripped firm in one hand. Walter grunts and reaches his free hand up, pulling at his scarf. The fabric tightens, rather than slipping free. This is what sodomites deserve. This is what abominations deserve. Walter wraps the material of the scarf around his hand twice and pulls again. Pulls harder. A quiet, choked, gasp gurgles past the constriction on this throat and two streams of saline slip down from the corners of two watering eyes. His face is hot and he can hear his pulse --feel it-- thudding like a bass drum in his ears. His lips mouth the word 'mother' as his body jerks.
He feels like he may explode in that split moment before the hot, thick evidence of his deviancy runs over his hand and stomach. Bright, white flowers bloom and burst in his vision and darkness encroaches from all sides. His hand and the scarf loosen enough as dizziness claims him for the last note of a strangled cry to escape his throat as Walter falls in a heap to lay, unconscious, sweaty, and soiled on Daniel's couch. Daniel's scent rises to him from the upholstery.