Dissolve (fic)
The first time he sees Nite Owl unmasked it is surreal, the interior of the Owl Ship prodding insistently at the peripherals of his vision. He can’t comprehend the words that tumble from his partner’s soft lips, standing nervously in front of him, cowl thrown back, goggles resting slightly askew on the edge of his scalp.
The strange creature in front of him clears his throat uncertainly, extending his still gloved hand in obvious mock confidence, and Walter just stares dumbly beneath his mask. “I’m Daniel.” His partner says with a smile, and at the same time it’s not his partner, just some flesh and blood imitation made too real under the harsh lights. “Daniel Dreiberg.”
Walter is repulsed and he doesn’t move, can’t take his eyes off of the strong chin and brown hair and kind eyes and the man’s warm smile falters noticeably at the corners. Walter is stunned, taken aback by the wrongness of the whole thing, as if it’s some crime against nature, a deviation from the proper structure of things.
“Uh, Rorschach?” The fake Nite Owl asks, offered hand drooping a bit. When Walter doesn’t answer, just stands slightly more rigid at the use of his name by the stranger, he continues, withdrawing the hand to run it through his hair, averting his eyes. “Maybe… Maybe this was a bad idea.” He pauses here to glance up at him, to gauge his reaction, but Walter knows all he’ll find are shifting blots and an unsettling abyss in each picture they form. “I just thought… Uh, I thought it would be nice. We’ve been through a lot, so I thought maybe it would be a nice sign of trust or something.” The man called Daniel grins nervously again and Walter comes back to reality, and he’s scared. Scared because the longer he stares the more he finds the stranger with the overly kind smile just as beautiful as Nite Owl. Scared because a nagging part of him wants to return the favor and remove his mask.
When he doesn’t, instead offering a gloved hand which the other man immediately grasps, an unmistakable look of relief settling over his features, he tells himself it’s because he can’t compromise his identity, can’t risk what he does just to share a pleasantry with his partner. And this is true, at least partly; but another truth is that he can’t be that vulnerable, can’t make this relationship something it’s not. Can’t let his partner’s image of Rorschach be sullied by Walter’s dopey brown eyes and crooked nose.
Walter shakes the hand that grips his own tightly, stiff but firm. “Daniel.” He says, an acknowledgement of the other man’s identity, the only meager bit he can offer with the handshake. The name sounds wrong in his mouth, plastic and hollow, an unconvincing echo of the clean cut edge that Nite Owl possesses. “It’s nice to meet you, Daniel.”
He ends the handshake, returning his fisted hands to the pockets of his trenchcoat, and he stares at the obvious pleasure with which the other man smiles, flushed and placated by the simple acknowledgement of the line he’s crossed.
As Walter watches Nite Owl turn to Archie’s controls, sliding his goggles back on, he rolls the name over in his head, and maybe, just maybe, Daniel isn’t such a bad name after all.
Static
It’s the first time they’ve ever socialized after patrol, and Walter realizes dully that it’s the first time he’s ever really socialized with anyone, let alone his partner.
He’s on a couch in Daniel’s living room, still fully masked and clothed for the most part; Daniel has persuaded him to remove his overcoat, partly because of the heat, partly because of a splatter of blood that runs from his lapels to his belt. He has finally assented, removing the blood stained garment, (not his, probably from one of the goons they cuffed earlier and left for the police to find,) wishing to ease the obvious tension of the situation, to make it as normal as possible.
Daniel is on the opposite side of the couch, legs casually kicked up on the coffee table, and Walter thinks distractedly that he really should leave, that he has to be up in less than three hours for work. That this is a mistake.
Daniel laughs loudly at some asinine program that flashes across the screen of the television, eyes twinkling behind his glasses in some kind of boyish delight. Walter grimaces, scoots further away, retreating from the heat he can almost sense radiating from the other man’s skin, as if the mirth might infect him, make him less serious. This is too personal, he thought he could handle it, but every few seconds he catches himself glancing at Daniel’s sloppy grin and relaxed posture. He knows it’s time to leave when he finds himself examining the soft lips that press to the beer, gulping down the alcohol thirstily as the bottle sweats in Daniel’s hand.
“I should go.” He mumbles abruptly, standing quickly and nodding at Daniel, who looks almost concerned and stands as well, adjusting his glasses.
“Well, y’know… You could stay a bit longer.” Daniel says sheepishly, again fixing his glasses, and Walter swears he can hear a hint of desperation in the suggestion. “If you want to, I mean.” He quickly amends, setting his bear onto a coaster.
Walter shakes his head, shifting awkwardly, contemplating if he should take the tunnel attached to the Owl’s Nest. “I really have to get going.” He explains, somehow managing to avoid actually explaining anything.
For a moment it looks like Dan is disappointed, but he immediately pulls his face into an effortless smile. “OK, sure. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow night for patrol, right?” On the TV people are talking and Walter does his best to ignore them, nodding an affirmation.
“Yes. Thanks for the food Daniel.” He pauses awkwardly then turns to leave, tossing the soiled overcoat across his shoulder, doing his best to not look back, to avoid the eyes of his partner.
“Hey, don’t mention it.” Dan says from somewhere behind him in an honest voice, causing him to pause in the doorway. “It’s what friends are for.”
Walter blinks beneath his mask, and when he turns to look at Daniel uncertainly, almost distrustfully, the look of simultaneous sincerity and warmth that mar Daniel’s features cause his breath to freeze in his throat. The TV turns to static and Daniel jumps, startled.
“Shit.” He mumbles in frustration, turning to fiddle with the antennae and dials.
Walter slips out unnoticed, the pleasant crackle of the static buzzing in his ears.
Leather
It’s the first time he’s masturbated to thoughts of Daniel, and it feels good in ways it shouldn’t and hurts in ways he needs; simultaneous gratification and punishment.
His pace is violent and unforgiving, and the sweat pours down his face in sheets, dripping into his gaping mouth, the salt stinging a cut in his tongue. He grunts and grips himself tighter, licking the perspiration from his lips.
He’s in the hovel that serves as his apartment, stripped down to the boxers that pool around his ankles, a wife-beater, and the leather gloves that he rubs himself with. They elicit a burning sensation as he bucks up into them, despite the old unused bottle of lotion he allowed himself for lubricant, and he squeezes his eyes shut, teeth clenched. He needs them, the creased leather gloves, needs them to distance his hands from the disgusting act he commits.
“Daniel.” He whispers, half a moan, half a whimper. He’s about to come and he continues the furious movements, digging his head back into the wall so hard it hurts, heart going a mile a minute. When he finally ejaculates, body trembling and hips bucking from the sheer force of his orgasm, his eyes widen for one earth shattering moment before slowly drifting closed.
He’s still panting dully and he just sits there, staring at the ceiling and thinking of the brotherly pat on the back he was graced with after patrol today. Of Nite Owl’s friendly smile.
Coffee Grounds
They’re in Dan’s kitchen after patrol, mostly because Daniel insisted he at least come in for a cup of coffee, and partly because Walter finds it difficult to deny his partner something so simple.
He leans against the counter a few feet from Daniel who is drying a pile of dishes while they wait for the coffee to be ready. Next to him is a forgotten pile of coffee grounds, and even with his mask on the overhead light is pounding down on him, pushing his headache dangerously close to a migraine. He can’t think and he can’t breath and as Daniel blathers on about some species of bird indigenous to Africa he pushes his mask onto his nose in an effort to circumvent the possibility of hyperventilation.
“So get this, to avoid the local predators they can actually…” Dan glances at him and the sentence trails off, brow knitting in worry. “Hey Rorschach, you OK buddy?”
Walter nods woozily, refusing to acknowledge his body’s weakness; he’s managed a whole night with the fever and he’ll be damned if he’ll let it drag him down now. “I’m fine.” Hey says unconvincingly, crossing his arms and leaning harder on the counter to keep his balance. Daniel’s frown deepens and he sets down the bowl he was working on, walking over to lean and peer cautiously down at the exposed lower half of Walter’s face, towel still in hand.
“You sure?” Daniel asks, leaning so close that Walter feels the man’s breath on his skin and shudders. “Forgive me for saying this but, uh, you don’t look so good.”
“I’m fine.” Walter insists, even as he struggles to stand straight. But Daniel keeps staring at him, almost suspiciously, refusing to give him a shred of personal space, and finally he relents. “No.” He admits finally, sighing. “Feeling hot and woozy. Nothing serious.”
Daniel actually looks sympathetic, crossing his arms. “Jesus Rorschach. You should’ve said something.” He unclasps his arms, reaching up to place the back of his right hand on Walter’s cheek, checking the temperature of the flushed skin, and Walter’s hand shoots up reflexively, grabbing Daniel’s wrist.
“Daniel.” He warns, vision swimming, head thrumming. “Don’t.”
Daniel freezes, hand still on him, and then, looking at Walter searchingly he turns it so that his palm rests on the red cheek instead and Walter’s grip tightens threateningly, breath rasping through his throat. “Rorschach.” Daniel says softly, as if soothing a small child. “You need to trust me.”
Walter nods slowly, eyelids fluttering beneath his mask and removes his grasping hand, too sick to battle with the part of him that enjoy Daniel’s gentle, almost maternal touch. Daniel smiles reassuringly, but his hand doesn’t move, and he leaves it there much longer than necessary. Their faces seem so close, only inches away, and then Daniel leans down tentatively and kisses him.
The first time Walter and Daniel kiss it’s brief and soft and innocent and Daniel pulls away. The thing that strikes Walter strongest is that Daniel looks just as surprised by this as him, as if it had been an accident. “I’ll… Get you a cold rag.” He says, removing his hand quickly with a nervous smile, the bravado he possesses as Nite Owl seemingly non-existent. Walter can only nod and contemplate the warmth he still tastes on his lips, and will only feel the anger and disgust later, avoiding Dan for several days. For now he sinks into a chair and waits for the promised wash cloth, the smell of the coffee grounds clinging to his nostrils.
Skin
The first time they have sex it’s anything but gentle; the moment won’t allow it, the adrenaline pumping through their veins after the bust of the drug ring propelling them head first into this, into each other.
The alley is dark and dirty like every other piece of the city, trash strewn about their feet like some diseased snow, and the way their mouths clash together is pure chaos as teeth click together and bite at bruised lips.
“Nit Owl.” Walter gasps lowly, his mask rolled up sloppily to the crooked bridge of his nose as the other man’s fingers, at this point ungloved, fumble with his belt and finally his zipper.
“Rorschach.” His partner returns breathily, and now Walter is turned around, face pressing into graffiti covered brick, and he can’t remember which of them is responsible for this but Daniel is pressing against his back and he can feel the obvious erection against him through their respective layers of clothing, and this seems much more urgent.
Daniel is sucking on the back of his neck clumsily, and there’s rustling noises and Walter knows without looking that Daniel has gotten his tights down when one hand returns to dig at his hip. Even amongst all the fervor and the heat Daniel manages to pause, voice’s concern mingled with unmistakable lust. “Are you sure about this?”
Walter can’t talk and he just nods, pressing back against Daniel’s hardness, eliciting a choked moan. There’s a noise and he thinks that it’s Daniel spitting into a bare palm, the slick sound as he coats his erection with it in lieu of a better lubricant. Then Daniel slides Walter’s pants and underwear down and presses a finger in, then another, scissoring them in a hurried attempt to prepare Walter who at this point is grimacing in pain.
After what seems like an eternity but is probably happening in a course of seconds, Daniel is inside of him, gently sliding deeper, one arm around Walter and rubbing at his cock, the other steadying them against the wall. He says something, maybe curses, but Walter doesn’t hear and just thrusts his hips backwards despite the searing pain. It occurs to him that he’s probably bleeding but he doesn’t care, takes the punishment gratefully as Daniel strokes him and groans, beginning to rock into him at a rapidly escalating speed.
Walter focuses on the myriad sensations, the pain and pleasure and feel of skin on skin, the texture of Daniel’s thumb as it flicks over his slick head, and it goes quickly as their pace increases. He comes first, biting down weakly on one of Daniel’s fingers which somehow ended up inside of his mouth, probing at his tongue. This seems to spur Daniel on, who pumps in and out of him jerkily a few more times before coming with a muffled cry against Walter’s sweat slicked neck, collapsing against him after the last jolts of his orgasm subside. They don’t linger, don’t hold each other, just straighten their clothes and pull up their pants as soon as Dan slides out.
Walter pulls down his mask now, turns to leave, and Daniel places a hand on his shoulder. “Rorschach?” He says and Walter’s stomach turns, body aching in ways it never has before. “I think we need to talk…” But Walter shrugs his hand off and walks away, refusing to face his partner now, unable to look into the honest brown eyes that lay beneath the goggles.
He’s a whore like his mother, a filthy degenerate copulating in a back alley with a man, and all he can think of are the noises that used to waft through his walls on the nights she had her customers over. He feels dirty all over, coated in filth and guilt for corrupting Daniel, and it occurs to him that no amount of soap can ever cleanse his skin.
Sugar
The first time Daniel says he loves him they’ve collapsed into Dan’s bed after sex, both sweat drenched and bare skinned besides Walter’s mask, and he makes the statement in such a quiet normal tone that Walter manages to ignore it at first.
But as they lay there in the twisted sheets, their heartbeats slowly returning to a normal pace, the words nag at Walter’s mind so insistently that he almost feels smothered by them. It’s unbearably humid and for a brief moment he feels an anger intense and terrible, directed at nothing and everything at the same time; the stuffy smell of the cotton sheets, the way the sweat dries to a fine powder on his skin, the insufferably pristine silence that ensconces them, and most of all or least of all, (he can not seem to decide,) the weak words that have tumbled from his partner’s lips into the stale summer air.
Finally, once his unexplainable anger has passed, leaving in its place a sinking dread in the pit of his stomach, he speaks. “I’m a man, Daniel.” He says quietly, sitting and beginning to dress as he has on the past four occasions he’s been unable to restrain his unwholesome desires. Or, if not unable, then unwilling.
Daniel seems to let out a laugh beside him, and he looks over to find an amused grin on his partner’s face. “I’m aware.” Daniel says, propping himself up, still smiling. Then, pausing as if to consider the implications; “It doesn’t change what I said.”
Walter continues dressing, standing now to pull on his pants. He can already feel the familiar shame of what they’ve done knotting in his stomach, and his heart is wrenched unexpectedly by the notion of what Daniel is saying to him. He shrugs on his suit coat, stifling the traitorous urge to return the disgusting confession. “You can’t love me.” He says simply, as if this makes perfect sense, as if it is backed by the most perfect logic he has ever employed. Something in him wants to cry but this doesn’t happen, hasn’t happened in a long time. Instead his teeth clench and then unclench, mouth sour, tongue bitter from licking at sweaty skin. “You can’t.”
Daniel is looking at him, he can feel it, the stare boring into his back, searing and burning and suffocating him all at once. The mattress creaks behind him as he finishes dressing, pulling on his gloves and flexing his fingers. There’s a stray sugar cube in his pocket and he unwraps it with nimble fingers, needing to erase the distinctive taste of sex, the evidence of it, from his mouth.
He pops the small cube into his mouth and it’s white as bone and Daniel has apparently stood up because a hand lightly rests on his shoulder.
“If I can’t, then…” Daniel begins, removing his hand from Walter’s tensed shoulder, an odd timber to his voice as if the words are impossible to say. “Then maybe we shouldn’t… Shouldn’t patrol together for a while. Because I think that we both need to think about, uh, about this.” Walter can hear the sadness in the words, the frustration, and he feels a sick amusement at the fact that Daniel is trying to treat this like it’s normal. Like they’re a couple, a regular couple.
He walks to the doorway, pausing in the frame, and without looking back he tells Daniel more than he should, communicates his feelings without making himself vulnerable. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
The granules of sugar melt over his tongue, sweet and disturbingly bitter.
Smoke
The first time Rorschach knows there is no God blood is soaking into the cloth of his trench coat and he has set a building on fire. A man named Gerald Anthony Grice sits inside, probably trying to saw his own hand off, and really he is not a man at all, just a monster. Soon, he will be nothing.
No, there is no God, only human kind to blame for the rapes and the murders and the children who sit in the streets with nothing in their bloated stomach but moldy bread and malaria infested water.
Only human kind to blame for Kitty Genovese. For Blaire Roche.
Smoke is twisting in the sky, billowing out like a vast grey sea, and he thinks he can smell human hair burning now, fat and bone and meat and skin. It does not bother him, does not sicken him, only causes him to stare harder at the smoke.
He has never felt so empty or so complete and the blood pumping through his veins is enough to convince him he’s alive. Walter would have needed Daniel to convince him of this; Rorschach does not. No one comes out of the burning building, no one staggers out, a bloody stump where their wrist should begin, and Rorschach just stares at the way the flames dance, lapping hungrily at brick and stone and wood.
After an hour has passed he leaves. After and hour has passed he knows exactly who he is and what he must do. After an hour has passed he forgets all of the tender moments he shared with Daniel as Walter.
Because after an hour there is no Walter. There is only Rorschach.
The strange creature in front of him clears his throat uncertainly, extending his still gloved hand in obvious mock confidence, and Walter just stares dumbly beneath his mask. “I’m Daniel.” His partner says with a smile, and at the same time it’s not his partner, just some flesh and blood imitation made too real under the harsh lights. “Daniel Dreiberg.”
Walter is repulsed and he doesn’t move, can’t take his eyes off of the strong chin and brown hair and kind eyes and the man’s warm smile falters noticeably at the corners. Walter is stunned, taken aback by the wrongness of the whole thing, as if it’s some crime against nature, a deviation from the proper structure of things.
“Uh, Rorschach?” The fake Nite Owl asks, offered hand drooping a bit. When Walter doesn’t answer, just stands slightly more rigid at the use of his name by the stranger, he continues, withdrawing the hand to run it through his hair, averting his eyes. “Maybe… Maybe this was a bad idea.” He pauses here to glance up at him, to gauge his reaction, but Walter knows all he’ll find are shifting blots and an unsettling abyss in each picture they form. “I just thought… Uh, I thought it would be nice. We’ve been through a lot, so I thought maybe it would be a nice sign of trust or something.” The man called Daniel grins nervously again and Walter comes back to reality, and he’s scared. Scared because the longer he stares the more he finds the stranger with the overly kind smile just as beautiful as Nite Owl. Scared because a nagging part of him wants to return the favor and remove his mask.
When he doesn’t, instead offering a gloved hand which the other man immediately grasps, an unmistakable look of relief settling over his features, he tells himself it’s because he can’t compromise his identity, can’t risk what he does just to share a pleasantry with his partner. And this is true, at least partly; but another truth is that he can’t be that vulnerable, can’t make this relationship something it’s not. Can’t let his partner’s image of Rorschach be sullied by Walter’s dopey brown eyes and crooked nose.
Walter shakes the hand that grips his own tightly, stiff but firm. “Daniel.” He says, an acknowledgement of the other man’s identity, the only meager bit he can offer with the handshake. The name sounds wrong in his mouth, plastic and hollow, an unconvincing echo of the clean cut edge that Nite Owl possesses. “It’s nice to meet you, Daniel.”
He ends the handshake, returning his fisted hands to the pockets of his trenchcoat, and he stares at the obvious pleasure with which the other man smiles, flushed and placated by the simple acknowledgement of the line he’s crossed.
As Walter watches Nite Owl turn to Archie’s controls, sliding his goggles back on, he rolls the name over in his head, and maybe, just maybe, Daniel isn’t such a bad name after all.
Static
It’s the first time they’ve ever socialized after patrol, and Walter realizes dully that it’s the first time he’s ever really socialized with anyone, let alone his partner.
He’s on a couch in Daniel’s living room, still fully masked and clothed for the most part; Daniel has persuaded him to remove his overcoat, partly because of the heat, partly because of a splatter of blood that runs from his lapels to his belt. He has finally assented, removing the blood stained garment, (not his, probably from one of the goons they cuffed earlier and left for the police to find,) wishing to ease the obvious tension of the situation, to make it as normal as possible.
Daniel is on the opposite side of the couch, legs casually kicked up on the coffee table, and Walter thinks distractedly that he really should leave, that he has to be up in less than three hours for work. That this is a mistake.
Daniel laughs loudly at some asinine program that flashes across the screen of the television, eyes twinkling behind his glasses in some kind of boyish delight. Walter grimaces, scoots further away, retreating from the heat he can almost sense radiating from the other man’s skin, as if the mirth might infect him, make him less serious. This is too personal, he thought he could handle it, but every few seconds he catches himself glancing at Daniel’s sloppy grin and relaxed posture. He knows it’s time to leave when he finds himself examining the soft lips that press to the beer, gulping down the alcohol thirstily as the bottle sweats in Daniel’s hand.
“I should go.” He mumbles abruptly, standing quickly and nodding at Daniel, who looks almost concerned and stands as well, adjusting his glasses.
“Well, y’know… You could stay a bit longer.” Daniel says sheepishly, again fixing his glasses, and Walter swears he can hear a hint of desperation in the suggestion. “If you want to, I mean.” He quickly amends, setting his bear onto a coaster.
Walter shakes his head, shifting awkwardly, contemplating if he should take the tunnel attached to the Owl’s Nest. “I really have to get going.” He explains, somehow managing to avoid actually explaining anything.
For a moment it looks like Dan is disappointed, but he immediately pulls his face into an effortless smile. “OK, sure. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow night for patrol, right?” On the TV people are talking and Walter does his best to ignore them, nodding an affirmation.
“Yes. Thanks for the food Daniel.” He pauses awkwardly then turns to leave, tossing the soiled overcoat across his shoulder, doing his best to not look back, to avoid the eyes of his partner.
“Hey, don’t mention it.” Dan says from somewhere behind him in an honest voice, causing him to pause in the doorway. “It’s what friends are for.”
Walter blinks beneath his mask, and when he turns to look at Daniel uncertainly, almost distrustfully, the look of simultaneous sincerity and warmth that mar Daniel’s features cause his breath to freeze in his throat. The TV turns to static and Daniel jumps, startled.
“Shit.” He mumbles in frustration, turning to fiddle with the antennae and dials.
Walter slips out unnoticed, the pleasant crackle of the static buzzing in his ears.
Leather
It’s the first time he’s masturbated to thoughts of Daniel, and it feels good in ways it shouldn’t and hurts in ways he needs; simultaneous gratification and punishment.
His pace is violent and unforgiving, and the sweat pours down his face in sheets, dripping into his gaping mouth, the salt stinging a cut in his tongue. He grunts and grips himself tighter, licking the perspiration from his lips.
He’s in the hovel that serves as his apartment, stripped down to the boxers that pool around his ankles, a wife-beater, and the leather gloves that he rubs himself with. They elicit a burning sensation as he bucks up into them, despite the old unused bottle of lotion he allowed himself for lubricant, and he squeezes his eyes shut, teeth clenched. He needs them, the creased leather gloves, needs them to distance his hands from the disgusting act he commits.
“Daniel.” He whispers, half a moan, half a whimper. He’s about to come and he continues the furious movements, digging his head back into the wall so hard it hurts, heart going a mile a minute. When he finally ejaculates, body trembling and hips bucking from the sheer force of his orgasm, his eyes widen for one earth shattering moment before slowly drifting closed.
He’s still panting dully and he just sits there, staring at the ceiling and thinking of the brotherly pat on the back he was graced with after patrol today. Of Nite Owl’s friendly smile.
Coffee Grounds
They’re in Dan’s kitchen after patrol, mostly because Daniel insisted he at least come in for a cup of coffee, and partly because Walter finds it difficult to deny his partner something so simple.
He leans against the counter a few feet from Daniel who is drying a pile of dishes while they wait for the coffee to be ready. Next to him is a forgotten pile of coffee grounds, and even with his mask on the overhead light is pounding down on him, pushing his headache dangerously close to a migraine. He can’t think and he can’t breath and as Daniel blathers on about some species of bird indigenous to Africa he pushes his mask onto his nose in an effort to circumvent the possibility of hyperventilation.
“So get this, to avoid the local predators they can actually…” Dan glances at him and the sentence trails off, brow knitting in worry. “Hey Rorschach, you OK buddy?”
Walter nods woozily, refusing to acknowledge his body’s weakness; he’s managed a whole night with the fever and he’ll be damned if he’ll let it drag him down now. “I’m fine.” Hey says unconvincingly, crossing his arms and leaning harder on the counter to keep his balance. Daniel’s frown deepens and he sets down the bowl he was working on, walking over to lean and peer cautiously down at the exposed lower half of Walter’s face, towel still in hand.
“You sure?” Daniel asks, leaning so close that Walter feels the man’s breath on his skin and shudders. “Forgive me for saying this but, uh, you don’t look so good.”
“I’m fine.” Walter insists, even as he struggles to stand straight. But Daniel keeps staring at him, almost suspiciously, refusing to give him a shred of personal space, and finally he relents. “No.” He admits finally, sighing. “Feeling hot and woozy. Nothing serious.”
Daniel actually looks sympathetic, crossing his arms. “Jesus Rorschach. You should’ve said something.” He unclasps his arms, reaching up to place the back of his right hand on Walter’s cheek, checking the temperature of the flushed skin, and Walter’s hand shoots up reflexively, grabbing Daniel’s wrist.
“Daniel.” He warns, vision swimming, head thrumming. “Don’t.”
Daniel freezes, hand still on him, and then, looking at Walter searchingly he turns it so that his palm rests on the red cheek instead and Walter’s grip tightens threateningly, breath rasping through his throat. “Rorschach.” Daniel says softly, as if soothing a small child. “You need to trust me.”
Walter nods slowly, eyelids fluttering beneath his mask and removes his grasping hand, too sick to battle with the part of him that enjoy Daniel’s gentle, almost maternal touch. Daniel smiles reassuringly, but his hand doesn’t move, and he leaves it there much longer than necessary. Their faces seem so close, only inches away, and then Daniel leans down tentatively and kisses him.
The first time Walter and Daniel kiss it’s brief and soft and innocent and Daniel pulls away. The thing that strikes Walter strongest is that Daniel looks just as surprised by this as him, as if it had been an accident. “I’ll… Get you a cold rag.” He says, removing his hand quickly with a nervous smile, the bravado he possesses as Nite Owl seemingly non-existent. Walter can only nod and contemplate the warmth he still tastes on his lips, and will only feel the anger and disgust later, avoiding Dan for several days. For now he sinks into a chair and waits for the promised wash cloth, the smell of the coffee grounds clinging to his nostrils.
Skin
The first time they have sex it’s anything but gentle; the moment won’t allow it, the adrenaline pumping through their veins after the bust of the drug ring propelling them head first into this, into each other.
The alley is dark and dirty like every other piece of the city, trash strewn about their feet like some diseased snow, and the way their mouths clash together is pure chaos as teeth click together and bite at bruised lips.
“Nit Owl.” Walter gasps lowly, his mask rolled up sloppily to the crooked bridge of his nose as the other man’s fingers, at this point ungloved, fumble with his belt and finally his zipper.
“Rorschach.” His partner returns breathily, and now Walter is turned around, face pressing into graffiti covered brick, and he can’t remember which of them is responsible for this but Daniel is pressing against his back and he can feel the obvious erection against him through their respective layers of clothing, and this seems much more urgent.
Daniel is sucking on the back of his neck clumsily, and there’s rustling noises and Walter knows without looking that Daniel has gotten his tights down when one hand returns to dig at his hip. Even amongst all the fervor and the heat Daniel manages to pause, voice’s concern mingled with unmistakable lust. “Are you sure about this?”
Walter can’t talk and he just nods, pressing back against Daniel’s hardness, eliciting a choked moan. There’s a noise and he thinks that it’s Daniel spitting into a bare palm, the slick sound as he coats his erection with it in lieu of a better lubricant. Then Daniel slides Walter’s pants and underwear down and presses a finger in, then another, scissoring them in a hurried attempt to prepare Walter who at this point is grimacing in pain.
After what seems like an eternity but is probably happening in a course of seconds, Daniel is inside of him, gently sliding deeper, one arm around Walter and rubbing at his cock, the other steadying them against the wall. He says something, maybe curses, but Walter doesn’t hear and just thrusts his hips backwards despite the searing pain. It occurs to him that he’s probably bleeding but he doesn’t care, takes the punishment gratefully as Daniel strokes him and groans, beginning to rock into him at a rapidly escalating speed.
Walter focuses on the myriad sensations, the pain and pleasure and feel of skin on skin, the texture of Daniel’s thumb as it flicks over his slick head, and it goes quickly as their pace increases. He comes first, biting down weakly on one of Daniel’s fingers which somehow ended up inside of his mouth, probing at his tongue. This seems to spur Daniel on, who pumps in and out of him jerkily a few more times before coming with a muffled cry against Walter’s sweat slicked neck, collapsing against him after the last jolts of his orgasm subside. They don’t linger, don’t hold each other, just straighten their clothes and pull up their pants as soon as Dan slides out.
Walter pulls down his mask now, turns to leave, and Daniel places a hand on his shoulder. “Rorschach?” He says and Walter’s stomach turns, body aching in ways it never has before. “I think we need to talk…” But Walter shrugs his hand off and walks away, refusing to face his partner now, unable to look into the honest brown eyes that lay beneath the goggles.
He’s a whore like his mother, a filthy degenerate copulating in a back alley with a man, and all he can think of are the noises that used to waft through his walls on the nights she had her customers over. He feels dirty all over, coated in filth and guilt for corrupting Daniel, and it occurs to him that no amount of soap can ever cleanse his skin.
Sugar
The first time Daniel says he loves him they’ve collapsed into Dan’s bed after sex, both sweat drenched and bare skinned besides Walter’s mask, and he makes the statement in such a quiet normal tone that Walter manages to ignore it at first.
But as they lay there in the twisted sheets, their heartbeats slowly returning to a normal pace, the words nag at Walter’s mind so insistently that he almost feels smothered by them. It’s unbearably humid and for a brief moment he feels an anger intense and terrible, directed at nothing and everything at the same time; the stuffy smell of the cotton sheets, the way the sweat dries to a fine powder on his skin, the insufferably pristine silence that ensconces them, and most of all or least of all, (he can not seem to decide,) the weak words that have tumbled from his partner’s lips into the stale summer air.
Finally, once his unexplainable anger has passed, leaving in its place a sinking dread in the pit of his stomach, he speaks. “I’m a man, Daniel.” He says quietly, sitting and beginning to dress as he has on the past four occasions he’s been unable to restrain his unwholesome desires. Or, if not unable, then unwilling.
Daniel seems to let out a laugh beside him, and he looks over to find an amused grin on his partner’s face. “I’m aware.” Daniel says, propping himself up, still smiling. Then, pausing as if to consider the implications; “It doesn’t change what I said.”
Walter continues dressing, standing now to pull on his pants. He can already feel the familiar shame of what they’ve done knotting in his stomach, and his heart is wrenched unexpectedly by the notion of what Daniel is saying to him. He shrugs on his suit coat, stifling the traitorous urge to return the disgusting confession. “You can’t love me.” He says simply, as if this makes perfect sense, as if it is backed by the most perfect logic he has ever employed. Something in him wants to cry but this doesn’t happen, hasn’t happened in a long time. Instead his teeth clench and then unclench, mouth sour, tongue bitter from licking at sweaty skin. “You can’t.”
Daniel is looking at him, he can feel it, the stare boring into his back, searing and burning and suffocating him all at once. The mattress creaks behind him as he finishes dressing, pulling on his gloves and flexing his fingers. There’s a stray sugar cube in his pocket and he unwraps it with nimble fingers, needing to erase the distinctive taste of sex, the evidence of it, from his mouth.
He pops the small cube into his mouth and it’s white as bone and Daniel has apparently stood up because a hand lightly rests on his shoulder.
“If I can’t, then…” Daniel begins, removing his hand from Walter’s tensed shoulder, an odd timber to his voice as if the words are impossible to say. “Then maybe we shouldn’t… Shouldn’t patrol together for a while. Because I think that we both need to think about, uh, about this.” Walter can hear the sadness in the words, the frustration, and he feels a sick amusement at the fact that Daniel is trying to treat this like it’s normal. Like they’re a couple, a regular couple.
He walks to the doorway, pausing in the frame, and without looking back he tells Daniel more than he should, communicates his feelings without making himself vulnerable. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
The granules of sugar melt over his tongue, sweet and disturbingly bitter.
Smoke
The first time Rorschach knows there is no God blood is soaking into the cloth of his trench coat and he has set a building on fire. A man named Gerald Anthony Grice sits inside, probably trying to saw his own hand off, and really he is not a man at all, just a monster. Soon, he will be nothing.
No, there is no God, only human kind to blame for the rapes and the murders and the children who sit in the streets with nothing in their bloated stomach but moldy bread and malaria infested water.
Only human kind to blame for Kitty Genovese. For Blaire Roche.
Smoke is twisting in the sky, billowing out like a vast grey sea, and he thinks he can smell human hair burning now, fat and bone and meat and skin. It does not bother him, does not sicken him, only causes him to stare harder at the smoke.
He has never felt so empty or so complete and the blood pumping through his veins is enough to convince him he’s alive. Walter would have needed Daniel to convince him of this; Rorschach does not. No one comes out of the burning building, no one staggers out, a bloody stump where their wrist should begin, and Rorschach just stares at the way the flames dance, lapping hungrily at brick and stone and wood.
After an hour has passed he leaves. After and hour has passed he knows exactly who he is and what he must do. After an hour has passed he forgets all of the tender moments he shared with Daniel as Walter.
Because after an hour there is no Walter. There is only Rorschach.