Fic: Masquerade (Daniel/Walter) 2/2
Title: Masquerade (2/2)
Author: MustInvestigate
Disclaimer: I only own action figures
Rating: NC-17
Character(s)/Pairing: Daniel/Walter
Warning: Unbeta’d. Also, graphic male/male sexual activity and abuse of clubbing stereotypes.
Summary: Sundry ideas nicked from the kink meme. Rorschach secretly follows Nite Owl and Ozymandias’ investigation into a notorious vice club, with surprising results. And, as always, by ‘surprising results,’ I mean ‘really awkward sexy time.’ For once, this is set in a purely movie!verse, meaning Walter is five or so years into vigilantism, but still a young ‘un of 21, and Daniel is somewhat older.
Dan gave himself a mental pat on the back as Walter helped him into the seat and spoke to the driver. Aside from falling on his ass (why were they greasing those rechargers now, anyway?), he seemed to have navigated the tricky waters of the homosexual scene brilliantly.
He normally wouldn’t have pushed ahead with such a non-starter conversation, but he could just tell Walter wanted to talk. Something about his posture - drawn inward, but with an ear always cocked in his direction - told him Walter was really listening to the banal sentences he managed to blurt out. He could easily imagine long conversations, Walter leaning over his notebook in that same pose, or pacing - he was definitely a pacer, Dan could tell - if he could just properly break the ice.
Well, Adrian had certainly taken care of that, he thought sourly. Insulted the man to his face - as if Dan would really want any of the empty-headed peacocks Adrian surrounded himself with. He was now definitely sure they weren’t his type. His type of guy had turned out to be a lot like his type of woman, which was a relief - intelligent, bookish, strong - and good god, the guy was strong, from the feel of those arms. Why did he hide them under the layers of a suit?
Why did a writer even have arms like that? Maybe he was really an axe murderer. Big biceps from…axe murdering. Axes were heavy. Wasn’t that what they told women, don’t bring strange men home, they might be serial killers?
Well, most women weren’t the goddamn Nite Owl.
Anyway, if Walter was a sociopathic homophobe, he would have killed him back at the club. Not…whimpered…and grabbed his hair like a drowning man.
Dan touched his bottom lip, not noticing when Walter’s eyes followed the gesture before turning resolutely to watch the traffic.
Anyway, Adrian was wrong. Walter wasn’t ugly, wasn’t even unattractive. Under the streetlight he had startlingly bright red hair and the pale complexion of someone who burned just thinking of sunlight. High cheekbones models would kill for. Aaaaaand…okay, that was about it for features anyone else would approve of. But, it was a damned interesting face that looked like it didn’t smile very often, and even the small twists of the lips he’d managed to coax made Dan feel privileged to see them.
And he hadn’t realised there was such a difference in their heights until Walter stood up. He seemed at least Dan’s height before, somehow, but he was really…pocket-sized!
Dan giggled, thinking that he could tuck the guy into his wallet and carry him off, ignoring the strange look he got from the driver. Walter only focused more intently on the streets outside.
And he’d agreed to come home with Dan, even before Adrian nettled him into mauling the guy. It was meant to be a single kiss, reassurance and apology for Adrian’s rudeness and his own foot-in-mouth babbling, but it sure hadn’t ended there.
How much attention was the driver paying to them, anyway? Not much. Daniel slid closer and caressed Walter’s knee.
Walter startled out of his thoughts and grabbed Dan’s hand, stopping its progress up his thigh. “You like owls?” he blurted out.
Dan snatched his hand back, the words like a bucket of cold water directly applied to his libido. “Why do you ask?” he said finally, after every dire scenario had run through his head, everything from the almost sensible (there was something interesting and owl-related outside the window Walter was about to show him) to the less likely (Walter was one of his former collars and wanted to confirm his identity before breaking out the axe of vengeance) to the sublimely ridiculous (Walter was his partner in disguise and trying to distract him from uninvited molestation using Dan’s favourite subject).
Walter pointed. “Your tie, Daniel. There’s an owl on it.”
Dan unsuccessfully fought the urge to smack himself in the forehead. “Yes, there is. And I do.”
“Are you all right?”
Dan could have sworn the other man was snickering at his distress, somewhere underneath the expressionless visage.
“Which ones are your favorite?”
“You don’t really want to talk about owls, do you?” Dan asked, incredulous.
The other man shrugged. “I also like…owls.”
“Which ones are your favorite, then?” Daniel demanded.
“…the brown ones.”
Dan laughed. “You don’t know anything about them, do you?”
Walter crossed his arms. “In ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics, owl characters represented the ‘m’ sound.”
“Huh,” Dan said, then rallied. “You just made that up.”
Walter actually smiled, for a fraction of a second. “No, that’s true. So, just tell me, which owl is your favorite?”
Dan needed no more encouragement to launch into a description of burrowing owls, the topic of his most recent academic article. “…and they make a rattlesnake noise to scare away predators - I swear to god, I’ve heard them do it, and it’s the most uncanny…oh, we’re here.”
Walter had already gotten ready to leave, checking his pockets and grabbing the door handle. Something about that struck Dan as weird, but his foggy brain couldn’t pinpoint the problem.
“I’m sorry,” he said, handing the driver a tenner. “I’ve been going on and on.”
He had been distracted, and quite neatly. Was Walter…no. He’d come home with him, right? He was just shy. Unwilling to neck like kids in the back of a car, especially one being driven by a witness. An attitude to fit the stuffy suit.
“No,” Walter replied quietly, opening his door. “It was nice to…talk. Like two ordinary people.”
He stepped out quickly and into traffic. Someone blew a horn as they detoured around him. Dan tried to catch him, but the curb wasn’t where it was supposed to be and he twisted his ankle between it and the car’s doorframe.
“Well, fuck,” he mumbled miserably and kicked the door closed with his uninjured foot. Strong hands pulled him to his feet, and he automatically swung an arm over the offered shoulder. Again, he felt that tingle of false familiarity, but knew it for deja vu - how often had he or Rorschach helped the other into Archie on a bum leg after patrol?
“Can you walk?” the other man asked.
“You know, I usually don’t do this. Fall twice in one night.” He tried to put his weight on the foot and winced. “In fact, usually quite the opposite. It’s the bad guys I make…well…I mean…”
He trailed off. It wasn’t like it mattered if he confessed his secret identity - Walter knew him as someone who fell down if hit by a light breeze, and would just take it as a joke.
“I don’t usually drink,” he finished lamely.
“Good,” the other man growled, leading him up the steps.
“I live here, by the way,” Daniel said, fumbling for his keys. “Not two doors down, where the taxi was parked. God, I must be stink-o. How many times have I already told you which door is mine?”
Walter wondered again why anyone would enjoy getting drunk, watching his usually agile partner struggle to remove his shoes without sliding off the sofa. He sighed and went to the kitchen, returning moments later with ice wrapped in a tea towel and a handful of sugar cubes stashed in his pocket. He would have taken them anyway, but felt he was particularly owed tonight.
“Thanks,” Daniel said, but did not take it. He motioned instead for Walter to sit at the other end of the sofa, and when he’d done so, plopped his stocking feet in the other man’s lap. Walter suppressed another sigh and the automatic urge to squirm away from the unexpected contact, instead carefully applying the ice pack.
Apparently large amounts of alcohol made one feel entitled to be waited on hand and foot, as well. Walter looked at his watch - just past midnight. By the time he got back across town to his uniform, he’d only get a few hours to patrol. Unfortunately, he was convinced that Daniel, left alone, would manage to break his neck while making a cup of coffee or brushing his teeth. He concluded reluctantly that it would be irresponsible to abandon his partner until he was safely in bed. Perhaps handcuffed there.
In his current state, the man would simply not stay rescued.
Daniel hissed at the cold as it made contact with his bare ankle. “’s not really that bad,” he protested, wiggling his toes. “I’ll be back on it tomorrow.”
Walter made a mental note to keep on eye on Nite Owl’s performance the next night. It occurred to him the other man would have a sore head as well as a weak ankle, and was momentarily torn between worry and anticipation of the other man’s just punishment for…indulging himself, at Walter’s expense.
“Make sure to wrap it up,” he insisted gruffly, trying to ignore the heel sliding, ever so slightly, up and down the dark green fabric covering his thigh.
Daniel sat up and took the ice pack out of his hands, dumping it on the coffee table to leak across the varnish. “Think that’s enough cold,” he murmured in a voice an octave lower than Walter was used to. The heel slid higher on his thigh as the other man drew closer.
“Tired?” Walter asked hopefully, his voice squeaking.
Daniel grinned like a kid in a candy store - or, given that this was his partner, a pimply teenager in Radio Shack with birthday money to spend - and growled, “Let’s go upstairs, and I’ll show you how tired I am.”
Walter took him at his word, too disconcerted to consider the alternative. He stood and pulled Daniel to his feet. Daniel didn’t seem interested in balancing himself against Walter’s shoulder, letting the arm that Walter ducked under slide down to rub small circles on the small of his back, so Walter grabbed the other man around the waist and hauled him up the stairs.
Daniel only laughed at the rough treatment and tickled Walter’s side. “Not so shy now, hmm?”
Walter’s frown deepened as he suddenly comprehended several of the Comedian’s jokes. Particularly the one about “beer goggles.” He’d never believed a mere consumable could seduce anyone into doing something - or someone - they’d regret, certain that the human soul only wanted an excuse to leap into darkness. But here was proof that even the best men could be affected, so badly they’d mistake ugly, unwanted Walter Kovacs for…
Walter suddenly wondered exactly what Adrian’s intentions had been, tricking Daniel into visiting a fleshpit and plying him with alcohol. He decided to keep watch while his partner slept it off. Rorschach would be better for the job - far, far better - but Walter was better than nothing. Rorschach would deal with Adrian tomorrow night.
He only hoped handcuffing Daniel to the bed would not actually prove necessary.
Walter manoeuvred Daniel to the top of the stairs, letting the other man unbutton his jacket on the way. The effort kept his hands busy and off Walter’s body long enough to open the bedroom door.
“I’ll be - ” he began, intending to drop Daniel on the bed and set up watch outside the door, after checking that the building’s perimeter was secure, “ - oof!”
With a dexterity no one that inebriated should possess, his partner shoved him onto the bed and straddled him. Walter froze as his erection - which had subsided in the taxi only after ten minutes of studiously memorising every licence plate in sight - sprang back to life and prayed the other man couldn’t feel it.
Daniel squirmed on his lap and gave him a very dirty grin. Walter watched with dismayed amazement as the lusty expression spread to corrupt the entire honest face.
Some small and neglected part of him was suddenly very proud to have caused that. From the polar opposite end of his brain, where Rorschach had retreated, an even smaller voice pointed out that he could easily escape, and had a moral obligation to -
Walter, reaching up to touch that smile with a shaking hand, told the voice that if it was going to abandon him to his weakness, it could damn well shut up.
Daniel caught his hand and drew two of the fingers into his mouth, running his tongue carefully over the jagged nails and biting gently on the fingertips. He stared intently into Walter’s eyes, and Walter felt pinned by the gaze, as if blinking would shatter him to pieces. Daniel looked away first, abruptly releasing the fingers and hmmming to himself self-consciously.
Feeling suddenly exposed, Walter pulled his partner down, wanting the other man’s bulk between him and the harsh light invading from the hallway. Daniel made a happier hmmmm and kissed him.
He thought it was disgusting, messy and repellent as he did what he now knew what was expected, opening his lips and touching the smoothness of Daniel’s even teeth - the moan he could feel vibrating Daniel’s broad chest when he did made something twist painfully inside him - and he also thought it was better than before, in the club. He closed his eyes. The heavy body crushing the breath from him - he wanted to throw it off, he did - the alien puffs of someone else’s urgent respiration on his face…it felt, somehow, safe. Horribly, suffocatingly safe. And when Daniel rocked back over his hips, trapping and kneading his urgent flesh, Walter felt crushed and safe and dirty and incredibly good and dirty and safe and too good and he never wanted it to stop, needed it to stop, and oh god -
Daniel stopped. “Could you, uh, your knee is - ”
Walter swallowed hard and scooted back on the bed. Daniel stretched out next to him, hesitated a moment, then sat up to pull off his jacket and tie, dropping his glasses on the bedside table. Walter slid out of his jacket, folded it in one practiced movement and put it on the floor, but couldn’t bring himself to remove any more layers. Daniel didn’t seem to care, pulling him close again and kissing the back of his neck, one hand sliding from Walter’s stomach down to undo his belt.
Walter bit his lip and forced back a moan as Daniel bit his earlobe and the sensation shot straight to his groin. He thought that he should probably be touching Daniel, too, but he was frozen, paralyzed by horror and sensation as the other man’s hand ghosted across his abdomen. So close to what he dreaded to feel, need to feel -
Daniel stopped and hrmmed, sitting back up on the edge of the bed.
Walter fought down an irrational surge of rage, breathing deeply, and could only watch while the other man rubbed his face, turning away. He waited for the other man to speak, or even look at him as the silence stretched unbearably, and knew suddenly he’d done something wrong. Something so terribly wrong his partner, always so understanding and careful with others, couldn’t even put it into words.
He wished he knew what to apologise for. He wished that the bed would swallow him whole, or at least that leaving didn’t require crossing Daniel’s line of sight. He wished he didn’t desperately need the man to touch him again, just for a little while. How would he face his partner again, even masked?
“I’m sorry,” the other man finally whispered. “Look, it’s not you, it’s…I’ve had a lot to drink. That’s all. It’s…you’re…it just happens sometimes, okay?”
Daniel covered his face, half laughing, half groaning. “All the goddamn time, it feels like. Look, I understand if you want to…”
He gestured vaguely toward the door and stared at the wall.
Walter sat behind him, drawing his knees to his chest and resting his chin on them. His erection still throbbed and was only slightly mollified by the body curled tightly around it. He grit his teeth and wondered how the other man could suffer this hardened sickness so quietly, before peeking around the slumped body and realising Daniel wasn’t suffering at all. Not that way.
Relief cut through him like a gulp of cold water on a sticky summer night. Daniel was stronger than him. Even inebriated, he was too good a man to go through with something so foul. He’d saved them both.
“Walter?”
But his voice was shaking. Daniel wasn’t relieved, he was…ashamed? Walter furrowed his brow in confusion. He watched the tense back, fitting the pieces together until he thought he had the picture, confusing as it was: not being weak made Daniel feel bad, somehow. As bad as Walter felt in succumbing.
Walter felt a wave of frustrated affection for his partner, who had it all backwards. He touched the dark hair where it curled at the back of his neck and offered the only, inadequate, words he had: “Don’t feel bad.”
The tense muscles under his fingertips slowly relaxed. “You know, that actually means something, coming from another guy. Funny, huh?”
“You should sleep,” Walter said, thinking of the long night ahead of him. There were six hours until dawn - he realised he was thinking of Adrian like a vampire, and decided it was appropriate - after which Daniel would be back to his usual self.
His body refused to listen to the sensible plan. It ached, physically cramping now between his legs, and he resisted the need to rub the pain away. It wasn’t unbearable.
He realised he was still touching Daniel’s hair.
Daniel shook himself. “Hey, now - I’m being selfish. I, uh, just because I’m not…that doesn’t mean you can’t…er…”
“What do you mean?” Walter asked, dread and hope suddenly warring in his chest.
Daniel blushed, the skin under Walter’s fingers suddenly warmer. “Easier to show than tell, I think.”
He pushed Walter’s knees apart and reached between his thighs, grasping the straining length through his trousers. Walter gasped at the spike of pain and pleasure and barely felt any dismay when his bones melted and left him limp across the bed. He watched without resisting as Daniel opened his trousers, nervously licking his lips. He wasn’t sure his limbs would move in any case. Every nerve in his body was centred now under Daniel’s hands and he felt his heart would explode when Daniel tightened his fingers and pulled -
“What a pair we are,” Dan murmured at the semi-conscious man underneath him, wiping his chin. “Mine doesn’t work, yours works too well.”
“Hurm,” the other man grimaced, struggling toward consciousness.
Dan rubbed his stomach soothingly. “Relax,” he said, and the other man stilled, slipping into a shallow doze.
Dan tucked him away and struggled down the hall to the bathroom, sliding along the wall. The first stabbing pains of what promised to be a memorable hangover pierced the fogbank of his mental processes - not to even think of his tongue, which felt like Ghandi’s sandal - so he fumbled two aspirin out of the bottle on the counter and greedily drank directly from the tap until he sloshed.
He carried a glass of water back to the bedroom - only spilling a third or so on the way, when he forgot and tried to balance on his bad ankle - but paused in the doorway to look at the man sprawled across his bed. Walter twitched in his sleep, frowning at whatever dreams played across his mind.
Dan wished he’d stayed sober, and not just because he had a miserable recovery ahead of him. He envied the other man, even if he was just as dysfunctional as Dan, in his own way. He’d looked as if he was being disembowelled when he came. But in a good way. It had been far, far too long since Dan had felt anything like that.
Walter clenched his fists, and Dan felt the tickle of familiarity trying to force its way into his frontal lobe again. He sipped the water and told himself he was being silly. It was just the suit, he thought. Dark fabric rucked up and tangled around the other man’s body, and not even pinstriped. But in the dark bedroom, it could be purple. He even wore the right shoes, but then nearly every man Dan knew wore those low-heeled boots.
No, he tiredly told his brain. That was not Rorschach spread across his bed, looking angrily debauched.
His cock twitched.
Dan drained the glass and carefully set it on his dresser. That was a coincidence, he told himself, and to test the theory, stared a little harder at the unconscious man. He tried to line it up with the man he saw night after night, and wondered where Rorschach was. Had he gone by the warehouse or come up through the tunnel looking for Nite Owl before he went out on his own? Dan felt a little guilty at the thought. He should be out there with his partner. Rorschach and Nite Owl, patrolling the docks and alleys, rescuing the helpless and chasing down the wicked. He could almost feel the flexible armour encasing his body, the cape Hollis hated so much flowing back from his shoulders, even the warmth of the oddly formal handshake Rorschach sometimes offered when they parted after a particularly successful night…
“Oh, hell,” he mumbled, sliding a hand inside his trousers.
He let himself see pinstripes, pictured a trenchcoat and fedora carelessly thrown behind the bed, imagined shifting black motion covering the hair and eyes - but not the sharp chin or frown, those could stay - pretended the loose fabric around his hips was confining and armoured…
Dan bit his lip and stroked his rapidly hardening cock. “Ooooh, god, this is messed up,” he muttered to himself.
A terrible idea occurred to him, more than a little sick but appealing enough that he let go of himself to dig through his chest of drawers, looking for the leather gloves he could never find or remember when the weather turned cold, slamming the drawer shut in triumph when he had them.
“Daniel?” Walter’s voice was deeper, rough with sleep, almost right. Daniel turned and let himself see Rorschach, face hidden in shadow, body tense and ready to fight.
“Here,” Dan said, thrusting the gloves at him. “Put these on.”
Walter hesitated, and Dan felt the weight of his measuring gaze. Finally, the other man slid the stiff leather over his hands, flexing his fingers. They didn’t fit, they were the wrong color, but none of that mattered when Dan grabbed them and forced Walter’s - no, Rorschach’s - hands up over his head.
He felt muscles tense against his arms and knew that the other man could break out of his grip - and knew as well that he’d chosen not to. For now. Nite Owl tightened his hold and captured the other man’s lips before he could speak and ruin the effect.
Walter moaned against him, sounding both lost and greedy, and Nite Owl imagined instead the surprised huff his partner sometimes made when one of the bastards got lucky and landed a hard punch or kick. Walter resisted, nipping at the tongue that forced its way into his mouth, and that was better. Nite Owl relished the scrape of teeth along his as they struggled for control.
His heart lurched in his chest when the other man wrenched his hands free, the vicious beatings he’d witnessed Rorschach mete out suddenly filling his consciousness - the thoughts, if anything, leaving his cock even harder. To his relief, the hands only grabbed his hips and pulled him flush against his pelvis. Nite Owl marvelled at the other man’s refractory resilience, squeezing the urgent flesh harder than he would his own, and was rewarded with a strangled groan and teeth sinking into his shoulder through the fabric. And that, too, was better.
Clothes. Off. Now.
Before his imagination gave out.
Nite Owl stripped in record time, his last scrap of sanity remembering to fish the condom he’d bought in the grip of some vague hope months before out of his wallet before throwing his pants in a corner. Wal- Rorschach struggled with the top button of his waistcoat, the overlarge gloves getting in the way. Nite Owl pushed his hands aside.
“Leave it on,” he demanded, yanking off the other man’s boots and pitching them over his shoulder into the darkness. Rorschach’s trousers were still undone; he jerked them and the underwear underneath off together. He saw that he’d somehow left the man still wearing one sock, but there was no time to fix that.
“Roll over,” he told Rorschach, and the other man obeyed, hiding his face in his hands. Nite Owl dug a nearly empty bottle of lotion out of Dan’s bedside table and tried to remember how it went. He’d done this once with an adventurous co-ed girlfriend, but he’d been drunk that night, too. She’d enjoyed the experience, he remembered, but not enough try it again once she’d ticked it off her list.
He slid the condom on one-handed, running his other fingers along Rorschach’s back under his shirt. They encountered a scar that ran around one side of his torso, just over his hip. Appendectomy operation, part of him thought. Knife wound, Nite Owl insisted, tracing the ridge. Rorschach squirmed away from the touch.
“Be still,” Nite Owl ordered, grinning, and lightly smacked the exposed ass. The body underneath him went rigid, but made no other effort to escape.
“Wrong, Daniel,” the other man groaned when a coated finger teased his entrance. “Filthy.”
He arched back into the touch.
“God, that’s perfect. Keep talking,” Nite Owl whispered, sliding one finger into the tense body. Rorschach clenched around the invasion, shuddering. Nite Owl moved gently, forcing the tight muscles to relax enough to add another finger. He scratched lightly at the man’s buttock with his spare hand. “C’mon, talk to me.”
“Daniel! You know it’s wrong, perversion of…oh…” The scandalised voice, choked into a whimper as Nite Owl found a spot that felt particularly good, left him perilously close to losing it. He tried to find the spot again, making the other man keen into the pillow and rock back on his hand. “Degenerate,” he mumbled miserably into the pillow.
Nite Owl cupped the other man’s balls, lightly pitching the loose skin. “Say something about…about whores…or…or…fluoridation in the water,” he insisted.
“Whores don’t…fluoridate…water,” Rorschach replied in a breathy, bewildered voice. “…Jewish conspirators…”
Nite Owl was impressed the other man had the presence of mind to joke. He hoped that was a joke. He pulled his fingers free - the other man shivered at the sudden emptiness - and lined himself up.
“Tell me if I hurt you,” he said, but still pushed in more roughly than he meant to. Maybe he was punishing him for the flip comment - what New Yorker thought anti-Semitic jokes were okay, really? - or the uncomfortable reminder of a sore spot between him and his partner. This was fantasy-Rorschach, dammit, not the prickly and sometimes infuriating real one.
This Rorschach, at least, was fine with the rough treatment. When Nite Owl paused, remorse burning away the irritated meanness that had momentarily gripped him, the other man whimpered and shoved his hips back. Nite Owl pressed the rest of the way in to avoid being knocked off the bed, wincing at the tightness.
“You okay?”
He shook his head, keeping his face pressed into the pillow.
“We can stop, it’s fine,” Dan said. He braced one hand against the other man’s back. “I’ll just…”
He pushed back into Dan again instead, rocking unsteadily. He asked, in a remarkably small and polite voice, “Please?”
Dan moved carefully, unable to thrust into the tense ring of muscle that held him almost painfully. Bit by bit, it eased, allowing him finally to slide freely. He floundered for a few minutes, thrusting shallowly and unable to find a good rhythm. He’d lost the thread of the fantasy - which already felt ridiculous, the first delicate forerunners of the bone-deep embarrassment that would undoubtedly consume him every time he saw his partner for the next few decades - and now he only wanted to see the man he’d actually brought home, who made strangled wounded-bird noises deep in his chest with every stroke.
Dan tugged on Walter’s shoulder until he rolled over, one arm flung protectively across his face. Walter’s eyes were screwed shut, his face flushed and lined with sweat. Daniel hooked his knees up over his shoulders and gently worked his way back in. He watched the man’s mouth tighten in rhythm, fighting to stay quiet and failing.
This was better, that same desperate, knife edged trembling expression he’d only had a flash of earlier. He leaned over to touch the tightly closed eyes - Walter gasped at the contact - and moved faster, running one finger across the clenched lips.
Walter’s eyes flew open when Daniel took him in hand and pumped - distracted by the feel of a foreskin shifting under his thumb, he missed the warring terror and bliss in the man’s eyes as he convulsed and came, splattering his dark vest. The spasming muscles around his cock dragged Daniel after him. He choked out the other man’s name - not “Rorschach,” he thought afterward, thankfully - and even in the moment couldn’t help noticing it wasn’t the earth-shattering orgasm Walter seemed to enjoy.
But it was still pretty damn good.
He threw the spent condom in the trash and fished a teeshirt out of the laundry hamper to clean them off as best as he could manage. There were towels in the bathroom, but he didn’t think his legs would carry him that far. Walter lay on the bed like a broken doll, both arms over his face, struggling to regain either his breath or composure. Dan collapsed next to him, not quite daring to pull him close.
Funny, after everything they’d just done. Attempting a cuddle was what felt like an imposition, too intimate to demand.
Walter dressed quickly, afterward, seeming not to hear Daniel’s offer of a shower, or a cup of coffee.
“You can stay, you know. You’ll never get a cab at this time of night.”
Walter shook his head, looking closely at the carpet.
“I think your boot ended up behind the dresser.”
“…can’t find my other sock.”
“You can borrow a pair of mine. Behind you, left top drawer.”
Walter only shook his head again and took off the other sock, stuffing it in his trouser pocket and putting both shoes on barefoot.
Daniel sat up against the headboard, under the covers. He tried not to ask, but blurted the words out when Walter stood.
“Can I call you? See you again, maybe…?”
The other man paused, staring at his feet.
“I don’t have a phone,” he finally replied.
Daniel nodded. Of course. That’s not how these things worked.
The suit jacket was neatly folded on the floor next to him. He picked it up to hand it over, missing the collar and grabbing the bottom hem instead.
“Here,” he began, when a handful of sugar cubes tumbled out of the pocket, loose grains catching in the hair on Dan’s arm.
Dan picked one up.
Walter snatched the jacket away from him and froze, clutching it to his chest. His eyes locked with Dan’s for one long moment, Daniel stubbornly resisting the awful comprehension that battered to be let in and Walter with the look of a man praying to spontaneously combust.
“You can’t be - ” Daniel insisted, speaking more to himself than the other man.
Walter squeaked and fled down the stairs. Daniel kicked the covers off and chased him, seeing the shoulder seam rip as Walter forced his jacket on. He ran not out the front door but into the kitchen, and this - after the sugar cubes, the incongruously strong build, after the Jewish Conspiracy for Christ’s sake - was what convinced him.
Daniel grabbed the door to the basement before it could swing shut and took the stairs three at a time, ignoring the pain in his ankle, but heard running footsteps and the resounding clank of a sewer grating slamming back into place before he could force himself to call out the name.
Rorschach.
Author: MustInvestigate
Disclaimer: I only own action figures
Rating: NC-17
Character(s)/Pairing: Daniel/Walter
Warning: Unbeta’d. Also, graphic male/male sexual activity and abuse of clubbing stereotypes.
Summary: Sundry ideas nicked from the kink meme. Rorschach secretly follows Nite Owl and Ozymandias’ investigation into a notorious vice club, with surprising results. And, as always, by ‘surprising results,’ I mean ‘really awkward sexy time.’ For once, this is set in a purely movie!verse, meaning Walter is five or so years into vigilantism, but still a young ‘un of 21, and Daniel is somewhat older.
Dan gave himself a mental pat on the back as Walter helped him into the seat and spoke to the driver. Aside from falling on his ass (why were they greasing those rechargers now, anyway?), he seemed to have navigated the tricky waters of the homosexual scene brilliantly.
He normally wouldn’t have pushed ahead with such a non-starter conversation, but he could just tell Walter wanted to talk. Something about his posture - drawn inward, but with an ear always cocked in his direction - told him Walter was really listening to the banal sentences he managed to blurt out. He could easily imagine long conversations, Walter leaning over his notebook in that same pose, or pacing - he was definitely a pacer, Dan could tell - if he could just properly break the ice.
Well, Adrian had certainly taken care of that, he thought sourly. Insulted the man to his face - as if Dan would really want any of the empty-headed peacocks Adrian surrounded himself with. He was now definitely sure they weren’t his type. His type of guy had turned out to be a lot like his type of woman, which was a relief - intelligent, bookish, strong - and good god, the guy was strong, from the feel of those arms. Why did he hide them under the layers of a suit?
Why did a writer even have arms like that? Maybe he was really an axe murderer. Big biceps from…axe murdering. Axes were heavy. Wasn’t that what they told women, don’t bring strange men home, they might be serial killers?
Well, most women weren’t the goddamn Nite Owl.
Anyway, if Walter was a sociopathic homophobe, he would have killed him back at the club. Not…whimpered…and grabbed his hair like a drowning man.
Dan touched his bottom lip, not noticing when Walter’s eyes followed the gesture before turning resolutely to watch the traffic.
Anyway, Adrian was wrong. Walter wasn’t ugly, wasn’t even unattractive. Under the streetlight he had startlingly bright red hair and the pale complexion of someone who burned just thinking of sunlight. High cheekbones models would kill for. Aaaaaand…okay, that was about it for features anyone else would approve of. But, it was a damned interesting face that looked like it didn’t smile very often, and even the small twists of the lips he’d managed to coax made Dan feel privileged to see them.
And he hadn’t realised there was such a difference in their heights until Walter stood up. He seemed at least Dan’s height before, somehow, but he was really…pocket-sized!
Dan giggled, thinking that he could tuck the guy into his wallet and carry him off, ignoring the strange look he got from the driver. Walter only focused more intently on the streets outside.
And he’d agreed to come home with Dan, even before Adrian nettled him into mauling the guy. It was meant to be a single kiss, reassurance and apology for Adrian’s rudeness and his own foot-in-mouth babbling, but it sure hadn’t ended there.
How much attention was the driver paying to them, anyway? Not much. Daniel slid closer and caressed Walter’s knee.
Walter startled out of his thoughts and grabbed Dan’s hand, stopping its progress up his thigh. “You like owls?” he blurted out.
Dan snatched his hand back, the words like a bucket of cold water directly applied to his libido. “Why do you ask?” he said finally, after every dire scenario had run through his head, everything from the almost sensible (there was something interesting and owl-related outside the window Walter was about to show him) to the less likely (Walter was one of his former collars and wanted to confirm his identity before breaking out the axe of vengeance) to the sublimely ridiculous (Walter was his partner in disguise and trying to distract him from uninvited molestation using Dan’s favourite subject).
Walter pointed. “Your tie, Daniel. There’s an owl on it.”
Dan unsuccessfully fought the urge to smack himself in the forehead. “Yes, there is. And I do.”
“Are you all right?”
Dan could have sworn the other man was snickering at his distress, somewhere underneath the expressionless visage.
“Which ones are your favorite?”
“You don’t really want to talk about owls, do you?” Dan asked, incredulous.
The other man shrugged. “I also like…owls.”
“Which ones are your favorite, then?” Daniel demanded.
“…the brown ones.”
Dan laughed. “You don’t know anything about them, do you?”
Walter crossed his arms. “In ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics, owl characters represented the ‘m’ sound.”
“Huh,” Dan said, then rallied. “You just made that up.”
Walter actually smiled, for a fraction of a second. “No, that’s true. So, just tell me, which owl is your favorite?”
Dan needed no more encouragement to launch into a description of burrowing owls, the topic of his most recent academic article. “…and they make a rattlesnake noise to scare away predators - I swear to god, I’ve heard them do it, and it’s the most uncanny…oh, we’re here.”
Walter had already gotten ready to leave, checking his pockets and grabbing the door handle. Something about that struck Dan as weird, but his foggy brain couldn’t pinpoint the problem.
“I’m sorry,” he said, handing the driver a tenner. “I’ve been going on and on.”
He had been distracted, and quite neatly. Was Walter…no. He’d come home with him, right? He was just shy. Unwilling to neck like kids in the back of a car, especially one being driven by a witness. An attitude to fit the stuffy suit.
“No,” Walter replied quietly, opening his door. “It was nice to…talk. Like two ordinary people.”
He stepped out quickly and into traffic. Someone blew a horn as they detoured around him. Dan tried to catch him, but the curb wasn’t where it was supposed to be and he twisted his ankle between it and the car’s doorframe.
“Well, fuck,” he mumbled miserably and kicked the door closed with his uninjured foot. Strong hands pulled him to his feet, and he automatically swung an arm over the offered shoulder. Again, he felt that tingle of false familiarity, but knew it for deja vu - how often had he or Rorschach helped the other into Archie on a bum leg after patrol?
“Can you walk?” the other man asked.
“You know, I usually don’t do this. Fall twice in one night.” He tried to put his weight on the foot and winced. “In fact, usually quite the opposite. It’s the bad guys I make…well…I mean…”
He trailed off. It wasn’t like it mattered if he confessed his secret identity - Walter knew him as someone who fell down if hit by a light breeze, and would just take it as a joke.
“I don’t usually drink,” he finished lamely.
“Good,” the other man growled, leading him up the steps.
“I live here, by the way,” Daniel said, fumbling for his keys. “Not two doors down, where the taxi was parked. God, I must be stink-o. How many times have I already told you which door is mine?”
Walter wondered again why anyone would enjoy getting drunk, watching his usually agile partner struggle to remove his shoes without sliding off the sofa. He sighed and went to the kitchen, returning moments later with ice wrapped in a tea towel and a handful of sugar cubes stashed in his pocket. He would have taken them anyway, but felt he was particularly owed tonight.
“Thanks,” Daniel said, but did not take it. He motioned instead for Walter to sit at the other end of the sofa, and when he’d done so, plopped his stocking feet in the other man’s lap. Walter suppressed another sigh and the automatic urge to squirm away from the unexpected contact, instead carefully applying the ice pack.
Apparently large amounts of alcohol made one feel entitled to be waited on hand and foot, as well. Walter looked at his watch - just past midnight. By the time he got back across town to his uniform, he’d only get a few hours to patrol. Unfortunately, he was convinced that Daniel, left alone, would manage to break his neck while making a cup of coffee or brushing his teeth. He concluded reluctantly that it would be irresponsible to abandon his partner until he was safely in bed. Perhaps handcuffed there.
In his current state, the man would simply not stay rescued.
Daniel hissed at the cold as it made contact with his bare ankle. “’s not really that bad,” he protested, wiggling his toes. “I’ll be back on it tomorrow.”
Walter made a mental note to keep on eye on Nite Owl’s performance the next night. It occurred to him the other man would have a sore head as well as a weak ankle, and was momentarily torn between worry and anticipation of the other man’s just punishment for…indulging himself, at Walter’s expense.
“Make sure to wrap it up,” he insisted gruffly, trying to ignore the heel sliding, ever so slightly, up and down the dark green fabric covering his thigh.
Daniel sat up and took the ice pack out of his hands, dumping it on the coffee table to leak across the varnish. “Think that’s enough cold,” he murmured in a voice an octave lower than Walter was used to. The heel slid higher on his thigh as the other man drew closer.
“Tired?” Walter asked hopefully, his voice squeaking.
Daniel grinned like a kid in a candy store - or, given that this was his partner, a pimply teenager in Radio Shack with birthday money to spend - and growled, “Let’s go upstairs, and I’ll show you how tired I am.”
Walter took him at his word, too disconcerted to consider the alternative. He stood and pulled Daniel to his feet. Daniel didn’t seem interested in balancing himself against Walter’s shoulder, letting the arm that Walter ducked under slide down to rub small circles on the small of his back, so Walter grabbed the other man around the waist and hauled him up the stairs.
Daniel only laughed at the rough treatment and tickled Walter’s side. “Not so shy now, hmm?”
Walter’s frown deepened as he suddenly comprehended several of the Comedian’s jokes. Particularly the one about “beer goggles.” He’d never believed a mere consumable could seduce anyone into doing something - or someone - they’d regret, certain that the human soul only wanted an excuse to leap into darkness. But here was proof that even the best men could be affected, so badly they’d mistake ugly, unwanted Walter Kovacs for…
Walter suddenly wondered exactly what Adrian’s intentions had been, tricking Daniel into visiting a fleshpit and plying him with alcohol. He decided to keep watch while his partner slept it off. Rorschach would be better for the job - far, far better - but Walter was better than nothing. Rorschach would deal with Adrian tomorrow night.
He only hoped handcuffing Daniel to the bed would not actually prove necessary.
Walter manoeuvred Daniel to the top of the stairs, letting the other man unbutton his jacket on the way. The effort kept his hands busy and off Walter’s body long enough to open the bedroom door.
“I’ll be - ” he began, intending to drop Daniel on the bed and set up watch outside the door, after checking that the building’s perimeter was secure, “ - oof!”
With a dexterity no one that inebriated should possess, his partner shoved him onto the bed and straddled him. Walter froze as his erection - which had subsided in the taxi only after ten minutes of studiously memorising every licence plate in sight - sprang back to life and prayed the other man couldn’t feel it.
Daniel squirmed on his lap and gave him a very dirty grin. Walter watched with dismayed amazement as the lusty expression spread to corrupt the entire honest face.
Some small and neglected part of him was suddenly very proud to have caused that. From the polar opposite end of his brain, where Rorschach had retreated, an even smaller voice pointed out that he could easily escape, and had a moral obligation to -
Walter, reaching up to touch that smile with a shaking hand, told the voice that if it was going to abandon him to his weakness, it could damn well shut up.
Daniel caught his hand and drew two of the fingers into his mouth, running his tongue carefully over the jagged nails and biting gently on the fingertips. He stared intently into Walter’s eyes, and Walter felt pinned by the gaze, as if blinking would shatter him to pieces. Daniel looked away first, abruptly releasing the fingers and hmmming to himself self-consciously.
Feeling suddenly exposed, Walter pulled his partner down, wanting the other man’s bulk between him and the harsh light invading from the hallway. Daniel made a happier hmmmm and kissed him.
He thought it was disgusting, messy and repellent as he did what he now knew what was expected, opening his lips and touching the smoothness of Daniel’s even teeth - the moan he could feel vibrating Daniel’s broad chest when he did made something twist painfully inside him - and he also thought it was better than before, in the club. He closed his eyes. The heavy body crushing the breath from him - he wanted to throw it off, he did - the alien puffs of someone else’s urgent respiration on his face…it felt, somehow, safe. Horribly, suffocatingly safe. And when Daniel rocked back over his hips, trapping and kneading his urgent flesh, Walter felt crushed and safe and dirty and incredibly good and dirty and safe and too good and he never wanted it to stop, needed it to stop, and oh god -
Daniel stopped. “Could you, uh, your knee is - ”
Walter swallowed hard and scooted back on the bed. Daniel stretched out next to him, hesitated a moment, then sat up to pull off his jacket and tie, dropping his glasses on the bedside table. Walter slid out of his jacket, folded it in one practiced movement and put it on the floor, but couldn’t bring himself to remove any more layers. Daniel didn’t seem to care, pulling him close again and kissing the back of his neck, one hand sliding from Walter’s stomach down to undo his belt.
Walter bit his lip and forced back a moan as Daniel bit his earlobe and the sensation shot straight to his groin. He thought that he should probably be touching Daniel, too, but he was frozen, paralyzed by horror and sensation as the other man’s hand ghosted across his abdomen. So close to what he dreaded to feel, need to feel -
Daniel stopped and hrmmed, sitting back up on the edge of the bed.
Walter fought down an irrational surge of rage, breathing deeply, and could only watch while the other man rubbed his face, turning away. He waited for the other man to speak, or even look at him as the silence stretched unbearably, and knew suddenly he’d done something wrong. Something so terribly wrong his partner, always so understanding and careful with others, couldn’t even put it into words.
He wished he knew what to apologise for. He wished that the bed would swallow him whole, or at least that leaving didn’t require crossing Daniel’s line of sight. He wished he didn’t desperately need the man to touch him again, just for a little while. How would he face his partner again, even masked?
“I’m sorry,” the other man finally whispered. “Look, it’s not you, it’s…I’ve had a lot to drink. That’s all. It’s…you’re…it just happens sometimes, okay?”
Daniel covered his face, half laughing, half groaning. “All the goddamn time, it feels like. Look, I understand if you want to…”
He gestured vaguely toward the door and stared at the wall.
Walter sat behind him, drawing his knees to his chest and resting his chin on them. His erection still throbbed and was only slightly mollified by the body curled tightly around it. He grit his teeth and wondered how the other man could suffer this hardened sickness so quietly, before peeking around the slumped body and realising Daniel wasn’t suffering at all. Not that way.
Relief cut through him like a gulp of cold water on a sticky summer night. Daniel was stronger than him. Even inebriated, he was too good a man to go through with something so foul. He’d saved them both.
“Walter?”
But his voice was shaking. Daniel wasn’t relieved, he was…ashamed? Walter furrowed his brow in confusion. He watched the tense back, fitting the pieces together until he thought he had the picture, confusing as it was: not being weak made Daniel feel bad, somehow. As bad as Walter felt in succumbing.
Walter felt a wave of frustrated affection for his partner, who had it all backwards. He touched the dark hair where it curled at the back of his neck and offered the only, inadequate, words he had: “Don’t feel bad.”
The tense muscles under his fingertips slowly relaxed. “You know, that actually means something, coming from another guy. Funny, huh?”
“You should sleep,” Walter said, thinking of the long night ahead of him. There were six hours until dawn - he realised he was thinking of Adrian like a vampire, and decided it was appropriate - after which Daniel would be back to his usual self.
His body refused to listen to the sensible plan. It ached, physically cramping now between his legs, and he resisted the need to rub the pain away. It wasn’t unbearable.
He realised he was still touching Daniel’s hair.
Daniel shook himself. “Hey, now - I’m being selfish. I, uh, just because I’m not…that doesn’t mean you can’t…er…”
“What do you mean?” Walter asked, dread and hope suddenly warring in his chest.
Daniel blushed, the skin under Walter’s fingers suddenly warmer. “Easier to show than tell, I think.”
He pushed Walter’s knees apart and reached between his thighs, grasping the straining length through his trousers. Walter gasped at the spike of pain and pleasure and barely felt any dismay when his bones melted and left him limp across the bed. He watched without resisting as Daniel opened his trousers, nervously licking his lips. He wasn’t sure his limbs would move in any case. Every nerve in his body was centred now under Daniel’s hands and he felt his heart would explode when Daniel tightened his fingers and pulled -
“What a pair we are,” Dan murmured at the semi-conscious man underneath him, wiping his chin. “Mine doesn’t work, yours works too well.”
“Hurm,” the other man grimaced, struggling toward consciousness.
Dan rubbed his stomach soothingly. “Relax,” he said, and the other man stilled, slipping into a shallow doze.
Dan tucked him away and struggled down the hall to the bathroom, sliding along the wall. The first stabbing pains of what promised to be a memorable hangover pierced the fogbank of his mental processes - not to even think of his tongue, which felt like Ghandi’s sandal - so he fumbled two aspirin out of the bottle on the counter and greedily drank directly from the tap until he sloshed.
He carried a glass of water back to the bedroom - only spilling a third or so on the way, when he forgot and tried to balance on his bad ankle - but paused in the doorway to look at the man sprawled across his bed. Walter twitched in his sleep, frowning at whatever dreams played across his mind.
Dan wished he’d stayed sober, and not just because he had a miserable recovery ahead of him. He envied the other man, even if he was just as dysfunctional as Dan, in his own way. He’d looked as if he was being disembowelled when he came. But in a good way. It had been far, far too long since Dan had felt anything like that.
Walter clenched his fists, and Dan felt the tickle of familiarity trying to force its way into his frontal lobe again. He sipped the water and told himself he was being silly. It was just the suit, he thought. Dark fabric rucked up and tangled around the other man’s body, and not even pinstriped. But in the dark bedroom, it could be purple. He even wore the right shoes, but then nearly every man Dan knew wore those low-heeled boots.
No, he tiredly told his brain. That was not Rorschach spread across his bed, looking angrily debauched.
His cock twitched.
Dan drained the glass and carefully set it on his dresser. That was a coincidence, he told himself, and to test the theory, stared a little harder at the unconscious man. He tried to line it up with the man he saw night after night, and wondered where Rorschach was. Had he gone by the warehouse or come up through the tunnel looking for Nite Owl before he went out on his own? Dan felt a little guilty at the thought. He should be out there with his partner. Rorschach and Nite Owl, patrolling the docks and alleys, rescuing the helpless and chasing down the wicked. He could almost feel the flexible armour encasing his body, the cape Hollis hated so much flowing back from his shoulders, even the warmth of the oddly formal handshake Rorschach sometimes offered when they parted after a particularly successful night…
“Oh, hell,” he mumbled, sliding a hand inside his trousers.
He let himself see pinstripes, pictured a trenchcoat and fedora carelessly thrown behind the bed, imagined shifting black motion covering the hair and eyes - but not the sharp chin or frown, those could stay - pretended the loose fabric around his hips was confining and armoured…
Dan bit his lip and stroked his rapidly hardening cock. “Ooooh, god, this is messed up,” he muttered to himself.
A terrible idea occurred to him, more than a little sick but appealing enough that he let go of himself to dig through his chest of drawers, looking for the leather gloves he could never find or remember when the weather turned cold, slamming the drawer shut in triumph when he had them.
“Daniel?” Walter’s voice was deeper, rough with sleep, almost right. Daniel turned and let himself see Rorschach, face hidden in shadow, body tense and ready to fight.
“Here,” Dan said, thrusting the gloves at him. “Put these on.”
Walter hesitated, and Dan felt the weight of his measuring gaze. Finally, the other man slid the stiff leather over his hands, flexing his fingers. They didn’t fit, they were the wrong color, but none of that mattered when Dan grabbed them and forced Walter’s - no, Rorschach’s - hands up over his head.
He felt muscles tense against his arms and knew that the other man could break out of his grip - and knew as well that he’d chosen not to. For now. Nite Owl tightened his hold and captured the other man’s lips before he could speak and ruin the effect.
Walter moaned against him, sounding both lost and greedy, and Nite Owl imagined instead the surprised huff his partner sometimes made when one of the bastards got lucky and landed a hard punch or kick. Walter resisted, nipping at the tongue that forced its way into his mouth, and that was better. Nite Owl relished the scrape of teeth along his as they struggled for control.
His heart lurched in his chest when the other man wrenched his hands free, the vicious beatings he’d witnessed Rorschach mete out suddenly filling his consciousness - the thoughts, if anything, leaving his cock even harder. To his relief, the hands only grabbed his hips and pulled him flush against his pelvis. Nite Owl marvelled at the other man’s refractory resilience, squeezing the urgent flesh harder than he would his own, and was rewarded with a strangled groan and teeth sinking into his shoulder through the fabric. And that, too, was better.
Clothes. Off. Now.
Before his imagination gave out.
Nite Owl stripped in record time, his last scrap of sanity remembering to fish the condom he’d bought in the grip of some vague hope months before out of his wallet before throwing his pants in a corner. Wal- Rorschach struggled with the top button of his waistcoat, the overlarge gloves getting in the way. Nite Owl pushed his hands aside.
“Leave it on,” he demanded, yanking off the other man’s boots and pitching them over his shoulder into the darkness. Rorschach’s trousers were still undone; he jerked them and the underwear underneath off together. He saw that he’d somehow left the man still wearing one sock, but there was no time to fix that.
“Roll over,” he told Rorschach, and the other man obeyed, hiding his face in his hands. Nite Owl dug a nearly empty bottle of lotion out of Dan’s bedside table and tried to remember how it went. He’d done this once with an adventurous co-ed girlfriend, but he’d been drunk that night, too. She’d enjoyed the experience, he remembered, but not enough try it again once she’d ticked it off her list.
He slid the condom on one-handed, running his other fingers along Rorschach’s back under his shirt. They encountered a scar that ran around one side of his torso, just over his hip. Appendectomy operation, part of him thought. Knife wound, Nite Owl insisted, tracing the ridge. Rorschach squirmed away from the touch.
“Be still,” Nite Owl ordered, grinning, and lightly smacked the exposed ass. The body underneath him went rigid, but made no other effort to escape.
“Wrong, Daniel,” the other man groaned when a coated finger teased his entrance. “Filthy.”
He arched back into the touch.
“God, that’s perfect. Keep talking,” Nite Owl whispered, sliding one finger into the tense body. Rorschach clenched around the invasion, shuddering. Nite Owl moved gently, forcing the tight muscles to relax enough to add another finger. He scratched lightly at the man’s buttock with his spare hand. “C’mon, talk to me.”
“Daniel! You know it’s wrong, perversion of…oh…” The scandalised voice, choked into a whimper as Nite Owl found a spot that felt particularly good, left him perilously close to losing it. He tried to find the spot again, making the other man keen into the pillow and rock back on his hand. “Degenerate,” he mumbled miserably into the pillow.
Nite Owl cupped the other man’s balls, lightly pitching the loose skin. “Say something about…about whores…or…or…fluoridation in the water,” he insisted.
“Whores don’t…fluoridate…water,” Rorschach replied in a breathy, bewildered voice. “…Jewish conspirators…”
Nite Owl was impressed the other man had the presence of mind to joke. He hoped that was a joke. He pulled his fingers free - the other man shivered at the sudden emptiness - and lined himself up.
“Tell me if I hurt you,” he said, but still pushed in more roughly than he meant to. Maybe he was punishing him for the flip comment - what New Yorker thought anti-Semitic jokes were okay, really? - or the uncomfortable reminder of a sore spot between him and his partner. This was fantasy-Rorschach, dammit, not the prickly and sometimes infuriating real one.
This Rorschach, at least, was fine with the rough treatment. When Nite Owl paused, remorse burning away the irritated meanness that had momentarily gripped him, the other man whimpered and shoved his hips back. Nite Owl pressed the rest of the way in to avoid being knocked off the bed, wincing at the tightness.
“You okay?”
He shook his head, keeping his face pressed into the pillow.
“We can stop, it’s fine,” Dan said. He braced one hand against the other man’s back. “I’ll just…”
He pushed back into Dan again instead, rocking unsteadily. He asked, in a remarkably small and polite voice, “Please?”
Dan moved carefully, unable to thrust into the tense ring of muscle that held him almost painfully. Bit by bit, it eased, allowing him finally to slide freely. He floundered for a few minutes, thrusting shallowly and unable to find a good rhythm. He’d lost the thread of the fantasy - which already felt ridiculous, the first delicate forerunners of the bone-deep embarrassment that would undoubtedly consume him every time he saw his partner for the next few decades - and now he only wanted to see the man he’d actually brought home, who made strangled wounded-bird noises deep in his chest with every stroke.
Dan tugged on Walter’s shoulder until he rolled over, one arm flung protectively across his face. Walter’s eyes were screwed shut, his face flushed and lined with sweat. Daniel hooked his knees up over his shoulders and gently worked his way back in. He watched the man’s mouth tighten in rhythm, fighting to stay quiet and failing.
This was better, that same desperate, knife edged trembling expression he’d only had a flash of earlier. He leaned over to touch the tightly closed eyes - Walter gasped at the contact - and moved faster, running one finger across the clenched lips.
Walter’s eyes flew open when Daniel took him in hand and pumped - distracted by the feel of a foreskin shifting under his thumb, he missed the warring terror and bliss in the man’s eyes as he convulsed and came, splattering his dark vest. The spasming muscles around his cock dragged Daniel after him. He choked out the other man’s name - not “Rorschach,” he thought afterward, thankfully - and even in the moment couldn’t help noticing it wasn’t the earth-shattering orgasm Walter seemed to enjoy.
But it was still pretty damn good.
He threw the spent condom in the trash and fished a teeshirt out of the laundry hamper to clean them off as best as he could manage. There were towels in the bathroom, but he didn’t think his legs would carry him that far. Walter lay on the bed like a broken doll, both arms over his face, struggling to regain either his breath or composure. Dan collapsed next to him, not quite daring to pull him close.
Funny, after everything they’d just done. Attempting a cuddle was what felt like an imposition, too intimate to demand.
Walter dressed quickly, afterward, seeming not to hear Daniel’s offer of a shower, or a cup of coffee.
“You can stay, you know. You’ll never get a cab at this time of night.”
Walter shook his head, looking closely at the carpet.
“I think your boot ended up behind the dresser.”
“…can’t find my other sock.”
“You can borrow a pair of mine. Behind you, left top drawer.”
Walter only shook his head again and took off the other sock, stuffing it in his trouser pocket and putting both shoes on barefoot.
Daniel sat up against the headboard, under the covers. He tried not to ask, but blurted the words out when Walter stood.
“Can I call you? See you again, maybe…?”
The other man paused, staring at his feet.
“I don’t have a phone,” he finally replied.
Daniel nodded. Of course. That’s not how these things worked.
The suit jacket was neatly folded on the floor next to him. He picked it up to hand it over, missing the collar and grabbing the bottom hem instead.
“Here,” he began, when a handful of sugar cubes tumbled out of the pocket, loose grains catching in the hair on Dan’s arm.
Dan picked one up.
Walter snatched the jacket away from him and froze, clutching it to his chest. His eyes locked with Dan’s for one long moment, Daniel stubbornly resisting the awful comprehension that battered to be let in and Walter with the look of a man praying to spontaneously combust.
“You can’t be - ” Daniel insisted, speaking more to himself than the other man.
Walter squeaked and fled down the stairs. Daniel kicked the covers off and chased him, seeing the shoulder seam rip as Walter forced his jacket on. He ran not out the front door but into the kitchen, and this - after the sugar cubes, the incongruously strong build, after the Jewish Conspiracy for Christ’s sake - was what convinced him.
Daniel grabbed the door to the basement before it could swing shut and took the stairs three at a time, ignoring the pain in his ankle, but heard running footsteps and the resounding clank of a sewer grating slamming back into place before he could force himself to call out the name.
Rorschach.