It was good while it lasted, the gig working for Harvey, but once it was over, Simon did his best to vanish again. Sorry, Jack, Jon, or whoever you are. Sell your own LSD. Hide your own corpses, if you make any. Simon has no desire to be caught if, God forbid, Mr. Dent decides to tell people where the bodies went
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It's on the way back to his car from one of these, scarf tight around his face and heavy canvas bag rattling with bits of sharp, cold metal, that he passes by that street corner.
He knows that voice, that pale, big-eyed face. And he almost freezes in the middle of the street, staring -- only barely turns it into a pretense of checking his bag. What do I do? What would Rorschach... he'd run after him and probably get stabbed again. Jeez, look at him, out here in just that coat, he must be freezing. No wonder he was... God, what'll he do for a place to stay if someone else offers? He's just a kid. Even he doesn't deserve...He takes a deep breath, and ( ... )
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But as Nite Owl he'd have his costume, and his tools, and he'd have Rorschach. But in Arkham he'd have files, and he'd have needles, and he'd have assistance at the press of a button. In here he doesn't have any of that, and it's just him and this little maniac, and his soft, warm throat, and his scream as he flails and tries to pull him away.
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This evening, when he comes in, it's earlier than usual. The scream that greets him, however, says it isn't early enough. He runs towards the sound of Daniel's distress. For a short man, he crosses the distance with surprising quickness. He drops everything along the way and, the trained competitive boxer, swings a hard left for Simon's kidney while reaching to get the other arm around the kid's neck.
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"He's a biter!"
Mind you, Walter may have been able to figure that out on his own.
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It's obvious he bites. If Daniel weren't talking and trying to help, however, Walter would be worried. With full knowledge that his friend is safe, Walter grabs for Simon's shirt with both hands, looking to throw the young man to the floor.
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As soon as the boy hits the ground, Walter is on top of him. He wraps his fingers tightly in the hair on the back of Simon's head and slams the boy's face into the linoleum floor. Walter growls, low and hateful as he lifts Simon up to bash him again.
"Filthy scum!"
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Goddamn, names, he shouldn't have -- but he had to get his attention, right? "Ease up! Don't kill him, for chrissakes! Subdue and restrain!"
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Walter growls in response to the feral teen under him. He tries to bash Simon's skull again even as he works to justify his actions to his partner.
"Attacked you. Could have killed. Deserves no better!"
If he'd been a minute later. If he'd stayed out and away from Daniel again tonight, to avoid his own shame and sickness under the guise of helping this city. Walter can't believe he let this monster come that close to killing his friend. Surely a little beating into unconsciousness is justified here? The look on his face when he momentarily turns towards Daniel to avoid Simon's struggling says Walter isn't much further from animal rage than the boy he's fighting.
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He was already moving to try and separate them, or at least keep Walter from killing someone on his kitchen floor,, when the chair goes tumbling. It's enough to stall him a precious few seconds, between him and them.
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Suddenly, he's struck with the chair. He'd been expecting the kicks and flailing that bruise his legs and sides, but not a blow to the head. For a moment, at least, it loosens his grip and he slips a little to one side.
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