Watchmen fic: How To Fall Off A Pedestal
Title: How To Fall Off A Pedestal
Characters/Pairing: Rorschach/63!Dan
Rating: Mature, explicit. Het/porn.
Word count: 5260
Summary: Danielle seduces Rorschach. Granted, she doesn't have to try very hard.
===
He has a disturbing habit of breaking into her house.
That should worry her. It should worry her a lot.
Instead - because she's an idiot, and she knows it - she tolerates him. When she arrives home one day and finds him sitting at her kitchen table, eating cold tomato soup from a can, she just gives him an oh, Rorschach sort of look, and brews coffee for the both of them, while feeling a bit disgusted with herself.
"Hello, Danielle," he says. He sounds rough. Not his usual sort of rough, but... tired. He looks as if he hasn't shaved for a few days, and there's dried blood crusted around his left nostril.
"Rorschach," she replies. "What brings you here?" He wouldn't visit unless he wanted something.
"Believe you still have case files on the Campisi family," he says. "Would like to look at them again."
Danielle sets a coffee mug down in front of him, then sits opposite. She does still have the case files, although it's a wonder that she hasn't thrown them out by now. They're probably somewhere in the basement, going rotten. "Campisi family, huh?"
"Antonio Campisi was released from prison a few weeks ago. Believe that he's preparing to reclaim old turf. Want to deal with him before one of the Five Families does," says Rorschach. "Could use information."
The almighty Rorschach wants me to help. I'm so flattered, Danielle thinks, because hey, sometimes she's allowed to be petty and bitter. They didn't split on good terms. Still, she wants to do what she can for him. Because she's an idiot, and she knows it.
Sure, she's been retired for a year, but quitting is an ongoing process. She should tell Rorschach she's not interested, but she can't find the words.
"How did you get in here?" she asks, changing the subject.
"Basement tunnel. Cheap padlock on the door," he says. He cants his head to one side, studying her, and purses his lips. "...Unsafe for an unmarried woman to be living alone."
Danielle just peers at him over her glasses. She's not sure when she went from being 'Nite Owl' to 'an unmarried woman'.
"You keeping okay?" she says.
"Fine." He drops the spoon into the empty soup can, and goes to stand up.
"Wait." She leans over to wipe a fleck of soup off his chin.
He lets her.
"Wait here. I'll go find the case files," she says, with bland resignation.
---
While she's gone, he does an inventory of the kitchen. He notes the stacks of dirty dishes, and the empty take-out carton on one of the counters. The calendar on the wall is a month behind. Despite her retirement, the dish towel next to the sink has fresh oil stains on it.
Her abandoned coffee mug bears a picture of a twee cartoon owl. Infantile, he thinks. Perhaps that's what happens to women who don't have children: they behave like children. No sense of responsibility at all. She's letting herself go. No makeup. Getting fat. Longer hair, worn in a messy bun, held in place with a screwdriver. Lazy and indulgent.
Also, she needs to buy new clothes. Her shirt is too tight.
...Then he feels slightly traitorous, so he puts the empty soup can in the trash and places the spoon with the dirty dishes.
---
Danielle digs the case files out of storage, trudges back up the stairs to the kitchen, and dumps the files on the table next to her ex-partner.
He hmphs at her.
You're welcome, asshole, she thinks, but keeps her lips pursed.
She dislikes the idea of leaving him alone, so she finds things to do that'll keep her in the kitchen. She makes a big show of cleaning up, then sits across from Rorschach and reads a book that she's been meaning to finish. Occasionally, she glances over at him.
As always, she tries to think of a tactful way to ask about the Roche case. As always, she fails.
He ignores her, as he's focused on reading, lost in thought. The mask has been pulled down over his face again, but she can read the languorous way the ink moves; the effect is hypnotic, like a lava lamp.
After two hours, she catches him yawn.
"As you're here, you might as well take a shower and sleep in the guest bedroom," she says.
He squares his shoulders, seems to consider it... then nods. Sometimes, if she uses the right tone of voice, he does what she says. He's not yet so far gone that he's willing to turn down the offer of a hot shower and a comfortable bed, and he looks as if he hasn't washed or slept properly for a while. She's relieved by his acquiescence.
Without a word, he stands up, and heads upstairs to the bathroom.
Danielle notices that he's favoring his left leg. She wonders if he's trying to disguise his limp for her benefit. Then she smiles thinly, and reminds herself that his pride isn't endearing.
She rises from her own chair, and sits down in his empty seat, which is still warm. Out of idle curiosity, she starts to read through the Campisi family's case files.
The files are infused with the faint smell of aviation fuel - it's the sort of odor that gets everywhere, no matter how careful she is - and Danielle catches herself guiltily sniffing one of the pages. When she realizes what she's doing, she pushes the files away until they're out of arm's reach, and feels very silly.
She drums her fingers against the tabletop, and fidgets.
---
Rorschach also does an inventory of the bathroom. He avoids touching anything unless he has to. The room is reasonably clean, so there's nothing to justify his disapproval.
The shower feels better than it ought to, although washing is still a minor annoyance. There are rows of fresh stitches on his body, and he tries to keep them dry, but his efforts are futile. It wasn't as if he really needed the shower, but that's twenty-twenty hindsight. Afterwards, his clothes itch against his skin, so he feels worse than he did originally.
He returns to the kitchen, but Danielle isn't there. The door to the basement is open, so he descends the steps.
He finds her at the computer in the basement's corner, with one of the Campisi files open on her lap. Her glasses reflect the phosphor green of the monitor.
She hears him approach, and looks up. "Hey. My databases are out of date by a year or so, but I found some old stuff that I'd pulled from NCIC a while back. I don't know how relevant it'll be, but I figured it might help." She pauses, looking thoughtful, and removes her glasses so that she can clean them on her cardigan. "...When did we go after the Campisi family, anyway? Must've been during the late sixties."
"1968," Rorschach says.
"I thought that Antonio Campisi was meant to be locked up for another two years?"
"He's out on parole. Made a deal."
Danielle offers an unladylike grunt, and absently straightens out a dog-eared corner on the cover of the case file.
Rorschach crosses his arms, and takes stock of her. "Miss it," he accuses.
She blinks. "I miss what?"
"You know." He nods to the computer, then casts a brief glance to the owlship.
Danielle gets the message. "I still don't regret my retirement, if that's what you mean," she says, and puts her back glasses on. She hammers a few commands into the keyboard, and the printer springs to life, spewing out a ream of paper. The paper is then torn off the spool and offered to him.
He tries to take the paper from her, but she doesn't let go.
"I miss you, sometimes," she admits. "...And fighting. I, uh, miss fighting. God, I don't know. I'm talking bullshit."
He doesn't say anything.
She stands up, and looks slightly defensive. "I'm allowed to miss you, right?"
He tries to think of an answer that won't reveal how completely perplexed he is.
She smiles, and lets him take the piece of paper. Then she marches back up to the kitchen.
Rorschach has the sinking feeling that something is expected of him. Like an idiot, he follows.
On the stairs, she's a few steps above him, so he notices how her hips have broadened. She remains unaware of his gaze, which makes it worse.
He opts to stare at his feet.
---
Danielle feels extremely stupid, but she should be used to that by now.
It's funny: back when she and Rorschach worked together, people had always assumed that there was something going on between them. It used to make her angry. Hell, it'd been bad enough when people had speculated about her relationship with Hollis. Looking back, she finds it all a bit silly. (And with hindsight, perhaps she should have just been glad that everyone assumed she was heterosexual.)
But... 'I miss you, sometimes'? What the hell was that?
Maybe she's just bored. Maybe she's just horny.
She realizes that she hasn't been horny in ages. She wonders why that is.
Anyway, she's probably giving it too much thought. Sure, she'd always considered that she might be attracted to Rorschach, but he's always been... Well, unavailable. Verboten. Off-limits. Hell, for the longest time, she'd suspected he was gay. And if she had tried to instigate any sort of romantic relationship, then it could have ruined their partnership.
But they no longer have a partnership, so...
She makes more coffee, just to keep her hands busy.
He stands a few paces behind her, and flicks through his journal, re-reading his notes. She watches him in the reflection of a window. He almost seems relaxed and, as much as she hates to admit it, there's something reassuringly familiar about his presence. Most of his gritty mystique has faded over the years, so he just looks like a bedraggled, wiry little guy with a very creepy sock on his head.
"I didn't weird you out when we were in the basement just then, did I?" she asks.
He grunts at her.
She goes to push a stray strand of hair back behind her ear, and notices that there's still the faint smell of aviation fuel on her fingers, probably from handling the case files. Somehow, it galvanizes her, and she says, "I care about you."
His body language suggests confusion. "Oh."
"Do you have a problem with that?"
"No."
"Good."
"Don't require your concern, however," he says. "Your care is misplaced."
"Misplaced?"
"Would be better invested elsewhere."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Danielle says. "Better invested where?"
"Most women your age have families."
Danielle gives him a withering look. "You think I should settle down and find a husband?"
"You've already settled down," Rorschach says, with obvious resentment.
She smirks. "Who's going to marry me? You?"
He bristles.
"I'm joking," she says quickly.
"You can't spend the rest of your life idling," he replies, while sounding suspiciously like her mother.
Danielle's life is none of his business. She decides to yank his chain. "You think I'm a good catch?"
"You're not a bad woman."
"Oh. Thanks, buddy." She's feeling slightly cruel tonight. "You don't think I'm attractive, then?"
She's expecting him to say no, because he's always been blunt to a fault. Instead, he primly replies, "It doesn't matter what I think."
"That never stopped you from sharing your opinion before."
"This conversation is inane."
Danielle resists the urge to reply with, 'you started it.' She crosses her arms, and stares at him.
"You're a good woman," he admits, grudgingly. "Most of the time." He has that quiet, respectful tone that he usually reserves for talking about the Comedian.
She studies him very carefully. He absently removes his fedora, and hold it in both hands.
"Um. Hey," says Danielle. "Come closer."
"Why?"
Danielle's nerve falters. "Actually, never mind."
The ink blots make a rough estimation of a frown, and he approaches her anyway.
When he's a step or so away from her, she says, "You can kiss me."
He seems to give this a lot of thought, then makes a quiet heh noise, similar to a laugh. "Joking, of course."
Danielle isn't. She proves it by placing her hands on the lapels on his coat, and waits for him to push her away. He doesn't move. She leans in and presses her mouth against his, enjoying the resistance of the fabric. It tastes bland and earthy and a little metallic, and she ought to find it disgusting.
She feels him stop breathing.
"Sorry," she says.
Everything - her voice, the way she moves, her thoughts - seems stilted. She'd always assumed that, if they were to do this sort of thing, then they'd end up doing it in the heat of the moment, fumbling mindlessly in some stinking alley. The reality of it feels wrong. It's as if she's transgressed against something.
And shit, she feels like such an idiot. A misogynistic asshole has just admitted that he respects you, she thinks to herself, so what do you do? You come on to him.
Rorschach just stands there, perfectly still.
She's reminded of an incident that happened a few years ago: he'd made a nasty comment about her weight and appearance (he really had no idea how creepy and invasive he could be) and she'd slapped him. His arms had hung uselessly by his sides and he'd stared at her as if to say, you hit me. Now he has the same posture, the same air of disconnection.
She steps away from him, to give him some space.
He grabs her arms.
He does it so suddenly that her training kicks in, and her lizard brain almost interprets it as an attack. She has to fight the reflex to shove him away. She's never entirely trusted him, but.... no, he's a sexist asshole (and god, so creepy) but he's always been so careful around women, he wouldn't...
He pushes his mask back up over his nose, and kisses her. The kiss is so clumsy and hurried that, if she was a nastier person, she'd laugh.
Well, she thinks, now you've done it.
It's a small comfort, but he's such a bad kisser that he makes her feel relatively experienced and confident. Adrenaline courses through her, and she feels more like her old self, although there's an insinuating little voice at the back of her mind that's saying, is it really fair to do this to him, just because you're bored and horny?
Why does everything have to be my responsibility? she argues back. He's an adult. I'm not forcing him into anything.
But, says the voice of reason, you're meant to know better. He's a sexist asshole, and you're probably the only woman he's ever liked. If he thinks you're seducing him, then it's going to confirm every prejudice he's ever had.
It's such bullshit. Her behavior shouldn't be taken as representative of her entire gender, and she's always hated the way that she's felt obligated to accommodate some of Rorschach's nastier... issues. Still, just as she's considering pushing him away, one of his hands tentatively wanders to her left breast.
She's so surprised, she can't even decide if she minds it or not.
His hand remains there for a moment, and then he pulls away.
"Sorry," he murmurs, and then his tone becomes more accusatory: "You're meant to be better than this." There's a slight tremor in his voice. She notices the way he adjusts his coat to hide his erection.
"Sorry," she echoes, and then she grows a spine: "You just grabbed my tit."
"I didn't..." Rorschach begins. "I thought..." It's the first time she's ever seen him at a loss for words. It might be cute if it wasn't so horrible. "I wasn't..."
Despite everything, she finds herself reassuring him. "It's okay," she says. "I'm not angry at you. I mean, you didn't even grab it, really, I just wasn't expecting you to get so hands-on so quickly. It's okay."
She knows that she's coddling him, but he seems so upset. His breathing is ragged as if he's just been in a fight, and his mouth betrays a dejected expression. Christ, she doesn't want to feel as if she's molesting the guy, but he looks so hopeless, and it stirs a very twisted sort of savior complex in her... Which is awful, because being attracted to someone's psychological vulnerability is extremely fucked up. And cruel. She is meant to be a better than that.
She's probably as confused as he is.
As she's trying to summon the willpower to stop things, he tentatively approaches her again. He's always had a morbid sense of curiosity about everything - god knows it's got him into trouble before - although he doesn't seem to know where to put his hands.
She wants to hug him. Instead, she takes his wrist and makes him follow her to her bedroom.
---
He feels disgusted. He wishes that he felt disgusted enough to walk away.
Danielle's hand is warm, and she seems nervous. He suspects that she doesn't trust him. He doesn't trust himself either.
He wonders what she stands to gain by doing this.
---
Danielle searches the nightstand for a condom packet that still has a decent date on it. Actually, it's a small miracle that she still has any condoms in the house - she must be an eternal optimist. When she finds one, she resists the urge to give an undignified whoop of glee.
She removes her glasses, setting them down somewhere safe, then sits on the edge of the bed. She makes Rorschach stand in front of her, so that she can unfasten his coat, then his fly, until she can finally free his cock from the constraints of his underwear. His cock is uncut and faintly curved. It's also slightly larger than average, which is proof that god has a cruel sense of humor. Or maybe it just looks larger, because the rest of him is so compact.
(People used to treat their height difference as an unfunny joke. Once, she stood next to him for a photo - back when he used to allow photos, anyway - and she felt simultaneously gangly and fat.)
When she rolls the condom onto him, he flinches.
She searches for something reassuring to say, but what comes out is, "I like redheads."
His posture bristles again, as if she's not giving sex the seriousness it deserves. He still looks unhappy. Hell, he's probably the sorriest looking guy with a hard-on she's ever seen. She wonders how he manages to stay erect while looking so miserable, especially as she's hardly even touched him.
His expression makes her own desire wane, so she strokes his bare thigh. This isn't what she expected at all.
(When she was younger, she used to catch herself thinking that she'd like him to ravish her. 'Ravish?' Really, Danielle, really?)
"It's okay," she says, without thinking. "I love you." She's not sure if it's true. She hopes it's true, because if it isn't, then she ought to hate herself.
The ink blots shift, but Danielle can't read them.
She busies herself with unbuttoning her shirt, because she feels as if she ought to take her clothes off. She wishes that she'd worn nicer underwear, although its not as if the rest of her outfit is particularly conductive to amor; her cardigan alone should have been enough to send a lesser man running. (Granted, it's a nice cardigan. And it's warm. But it's still a cardigan.) Rorschach doesn't seem to be particularly fussy, though. Perhaps he's more interested in what she looks like without clothes on. She has a nasty moment when she remembers that she hasn't shaved her legs in a while, but it's too late to do anything about that now.
Rorschach grows impatient, and tries to help. She quite likes that, so she doesn't swat his hands away, even when he breaks the zipper on her skirt. (Which is odd, because he's normally quite dexterous.)
She wiggles out of her pantyhose and underwear. He takes great interest as she does this; he's probably unaware that he's staring.
Something instinctive makes her spread her legs.
He hesitates. His face is rendered unreadable - his mouth is just a thin, almost bloodless line. He's always been gaunt, but now the muscles of his jaw seem to stand out in sharp relief.
His expression almost makes Danielle want to stop, for his sake, but he pulls off his gloves and curiously runs a hand along the inside of her thigh.
Very carefully, she takes his right hand and guides it between her legs, so that his fingers can explore. He's tentative, as if he's touching something that's either sacred or disgusting. She remembers how sex used to seem when she was a kid: messy and alien.
She grins at him, then leans back on the bed, wrapping her legs around his waist to make him press closer. As his hips draw level with hers, she sits up and guides his cock into her.
She can only pray that she won't get an attack of performance anxiety. She thinks she feels confident, but there's still a sense of risk. The risk doesn't feel sexy, like it did with the Twilight Lady - instead, it feels... sad, somehow. She and Rorschach have watched each other's backs over the years, but there are so many unknown variables in Rorschach's past, so many warning signs, that Danielle still isn't sure if this is a good idea.
Then he starts to thrust, and she loses her train of thought. Her body obliges and relaxes itself.
---
His body operates out of idiot animal instinct. She engulfs him; she seems to take up too much space. He just grips her hips and ruts into her. There's no joy in what he does, but there's a satisfaction in it, like scratching a scab. He doesn't care about re-opening old wounds.
The smell of sex makes his stomach twist, but it doesn't deter him.
Danielle is strangely radiant. She keeps her eyes open, and her gaze is full of gratitude - he has no idea why - but there's an edge to her expression. It's like the expression she has while fighting: a mix of awe and self-satisfaction, turned inwards, as if she's just broken a taboo and feels somehow proud about it. It's irritating. He wants her to focus on him, look at him... and at the same time, he doesn't.
He pushes her legs up to her chest, then feels angry at her for letting him do it. She moans, but he isn't so naive that he mistakes it for a noise of protest.
If he was hurting her, how would he know? Would she say something? Of course she'd say something, then she'd tell you to leave. Or she wouldn't say anything at all, but would just let him do it. He isn't sure which would be worse. What if he hurt her and she liked it? No, women don't work that way; that's probably just something people tell themselves to justify their weakness. And if women did like it, then they shouldn't.
It gets difficult to think, though.
He forgets who he is, but finds that he prefers it that way. Danielle writhes under him, pinned. He wants to keep her there, because he's temporarily stupid enough to believe that if he does that, she can't abandon him.
---
She knows he's getting close, although it's too soon. She tugs on his coat to pull him nearer, and he leans in. Unthinkingly, she puts her arms around him, and slips a hand under the back of his mask so she can feel his damp hair. In return, his fingers claw into the flesh on her hips.
His thrusts lose their rhythm. He bows his head and bites her left breast - she's too surprised to cry out - then spills himself into her.
She still has the presence of mind to study the face he makes: the way he bares his teeth, the inkblot pattern that translates as anger. He makes no sound.
When he's finished, he just sags against her, which makes her want to laugh again - not unkindly, though.
"Hold on to the condom when you pull out," she says.
He grunts at her as if to say, 'I'm not stupid, woman.'
As his cock pulls free of her body, she's mildly annoyed. There's still a slippery warmth between her legs. She sits up, and a small bead of sweat and arousal runs from her sex and trickles between her buttocks, making her fidget.
There's a very unsexy moment where he fumbles with removing the condom; she pushes his hands away, and neatly removes it for him. He hasn't yet pulled the mask back down, so she can see some of his expression: his face is a picture of digust. She's seen him covered in blood and god knows what else before, but oh no, he's squeamish about semen.
She knows what he's like. She has a nasty suspicion that, once he's collected his wits again, he's just going to walk out.
"Stay there," she tells him.
---
He still isn't thinking clearly, but he has just enough self-awareness left to hate how easily he obeys.
She remains on the bed, a soft female form that looks oppressively vulnerable, threatening to bring out the worst in him. Her left breast bears a circle of reddened skin. He tries to make sense of it.
She gives him a wry look, but her smile is genuine.
He remembers that he's still exposed, so he starts to tuck his cock away and cover up, but she gently takes his hand. There's a hardness to her eyes - again, it's like the expression she has while fighting - and he's transfixed.
"Do you want me to stop?" she asks.
He hears himself say, "No."
Danielle nods. Her legs are still parted quite shamelessly, as she's propped her heels on the edge of the bed, and he's very grateful that she's unable to see where his gaze is focused. There's barely any lust left in him, but he's still full of perverse curiosity and a horrible need for contact.
She makes him put two fingers inside her. They fit easily. She contains a wet heat, as slippery as blood. As the worst of his arousal has subsided, he has a better capacity for revulsion, and he can't shake the belief that it's like putting his fingers inside an open wound.
A small sigh escapes her.
She positions his thumb so that it's pressed between the soft folds at the front of her sex. Then, with little warning, she begins to thrusts against his hand. There isn't a shred of restraint or dignity in her body, and he wonders how she can do such things without feeling humiliated. Sweat gives her skin a feverish sheen; her breasts sway as she moves.
He unthinkingly leans in closer, and she braces herself against his shoulder. Her sex greedily tightens around his fingers, and she makes soft, lost sounds.
Rorschach ought to be surprised by her behavior, but he isn't. So much for Virgin Athena. He curls his fingers in a moment of childish spite, making her gasp.
She looks at him unfocused, pleading eyes; he instinctively moves his hand, clumsily rocking it against her thrusts. If that's what she wants, then fine. She lets out a small sob that grants him a nasty insight into how much he'd enjoy hurting her, and the weight of the guilt and need makes him hide his face against her neck.
There's another sobbing breath, and she clenches and unclenches around his hand, writhing like a person who can no longer bear her own body. She looks as if she's going to cry - but, when it subsides, she smiles at him again.
He gently pulls his hand away, and wipes it on his coat. She laughs at him, making him feel like an idiot, and he hates her a little bit.
Then she flops back on the bed.
---
Wow, she thinks when her mind clears. That was weird. A bit like fucking your brother.
The bed is soft under her back, and she wants to relax, but Rorschach looms over her like a gargoyle. He looks fairly ominous, until he realizes that he still has his pants halfway down his thighs. He frantically covers himself up.
Danielle studies him carefully. She suspects that she's going to get the blame for what they've just done.
She summons her courage. "Do you think I'm some sort of slut now?"
The question makes him freeze. In retrospect, he probably thought that she was a slut already, ever since her involvement with the Twilight Lady... But, even though he's unlikely to have forgiven her for that, he's always managed to hide the depth of his resentment.
"Don't talk to me like that," he says, and actually sounds offended.
Danielle fights the urge to apologize again; instead, she fixes him with a hard stare.
Rorschach just stands there and looks at the floor. "I shouldn't have done that to you, but you kept..." She waits, but he doesn't finish the sentence.
"Oh c'mon, Rorschach, it's not as if you've ruined me forever. I liked it."
Now it's his turn to stare back at her. His mouth hangs open, as if he wants to speak, but his brain is lagging a few seconds behind.
"I liked it," Danielle repeats, forcing herself to speak above a murmur. She reminds herself that she's still Nite Owl, but she just has to be Nite Owl without the benefit of the costume. "I enjoyed it. Didn't you?"
The ink blots shift, and the set of his mouth changes - she doesn't need to see his eyes to know that he's frowning. He takes a few steps back from her. He's apparently incapable of giving an answer that's as straightforward as 'yes' or 'no'.
It's hopeless. It wouldn't work out. He'd be terrible boyfriend material: jealous and clingy and old-fashioned at best, cruel and invasive at worst. He's an asshole. He's a piece of work. He's a wanted criminal. And he's always had unreasonable expectations of her, although she's sometimes surprised by how much he tolerates.
She's not entirely sure what she means to him.
"So, you're going to just walk out now, or what?" she asks.
Rorschach doesn't answer, doesn't walk away, but quickly pulls the mask back down over his face.
Danielle sighs. "Come here."
He obeys.
When he's within arm's reach, she sits upright, grabs his coat, and pulls him down on top of her. He doesn't protest. His dirty clothes are rough against her skin, and he still has his shoes on, but she doesn't care.
"I'll try to crack into the NCIC database tomorrow, so we can access information that's up to date. Just this once, though. I won't do it again," she murmurs. "And I'll cook you breakfast."
He grunts at her, as his face is muffled between her breasts. It's undignified as all hell. She quite likes it.
She wraps her limbs around him and holds on until she's sure he's asleep.
She tells herself that she doesn't intend to make a habit of having sex with strange men who break into her house.
She wonders what she's got herself into.
Characters/Pairing: Rorschach/63!Dan
Rating: Mature, explicit. Het/porn.
Word count: 5260
Summary: Danielle seduces Rorschach. Granted, she doesn't have to try very hard.
===
He has a disturbing habit of breaking into her house.
That should worry her. It should worry her a lot.
Instead - because she's an idiot, and she knows it - she tolerates him. When she arrives home one day and finds him sitting at her kitchen table, eating cold tomato soup from a can, she just gives him an oh, Rorschach sort of look, and brews coffee for the both of them, while feeling a bit disgusted with herself.
"Hello, Danielle," he says. He sounds rough. Not his usual sort of rough, but... tired. He looks as if he hasn't shaved for a few days, and there's dried blood crusted around his left nostril.
"Rorschach," she replies. "What brings you here?" He wouldn't visit unless he wanted something.
"Believe you still have case files on the Campisi family," he says. "Would like to look at them again."
Danielle sets a coffee mug down in front of him, then sits opposite. She does still have the case files, although it's a wonder that she hasn't thrown them out by now. They're probably somewhere in the basement, going rotten. "Campisi family, huh?"
"Antonio Campisi was released from prison a few weeks ago. Believe that he's preparing to reclaim old turf. Want to deal with him before one of the Five Families does," says Rorschach. "Could use information."
The almighty Rorschach wants me to help. I'm so flattered, Danielle thinks, because hey, sometimes she's allowed to be petty and bitter. They didn't split on good terms. Still, she wants to do what she can for him. Because she's an idiot, and she knows it.
Sure, she's been retired for a year, but quitting is an ongoing process. She should tell Rorschach she's not interested, but she can't find the words.
"How did you get in here?" she asks, changing the subject.
"Basement tunnel. Cheap padlock on the door," he says. He cants his head to one side, studying her, and purses his lips. "...Unsafe for an unmarried woman to be living alone."
Danielle just peers at him over her glasses. She's not sure when she went from being 'Nite Owl' to 'an unmarried woman'.
"You keeping okay?" she says.
"Fine." He drops the spoon into the empty soup can, and goes to stand up.
"Wait." She leans over to wipe a fleck of soup off his chin.
He lets her.
"Wait here. I'll go find the case files," she says, with bland resignation.
---
While she's gone, he does an inventory of the kitchen. He notes the stacks of dirty dishes, and the empty take-out carton on one of the counters. The calendar on the wall is a month behind. Despite her retirement, the dish towel next to the sink has fresh oil stains on it.
Her abandoned coffee mug bears a picture of a twee cartoon owl. Infantile, he thinks. Perhaps that's what happens to women who don't have children: they behave like children. No sense of responsibility at all. She's letting herself go. No makeup. Getting fat. Longer hair, worn in a messy bun, held in place with a screwdriver. Lazy and indulgent.
Also, she needs to buy new clothes. Her shirt is too tight.
...Then he feels slightly traitorous, so he puts the empty soup can in the trash and places the spoon with the dirty dishes.
---
Danielle digs the case files out of storage, trudges back up the stairs to the kitchen, and dumps the files on the table next to her ex-partner.
He hmphs at her.
You're welcome, asshole, she thinks, but keeps her lips pursed.
She dislikes the idea of leaving him alone, so she finds things to do that'll keep her in the kitchen. She makes a big show of cleaning up, then sits across from Rorschach and reads a book that she's been meaning to finish. Occasionally, she glances over at him.
As always, she tries to think of a tactful way to ask about the Roche case. As always, she fails.
He ignores her, as he's focused on reading, lost in thought. The mask has been pulled down over his face again, but she can read the languorous way the ink moves; the effect is hypnotic, like a lava lamp.
After two hours, she catches him yawn.
"As you're here, you might as well take a shower and sleep in the guest bedroom," she says.
He squares his shoulders, seems to consider it... then nods. Sometimes, if she uses the right tone of voice, he does what she says. He's not yet so far gone that he's willing to turn down the offer of a hot shower and a comfortable bed, and he looks as if he hasn't washed or slept properly for a while. She's relieved by his acquiescence.
Without a word, he stands up, and heads upstairs to the bathroom.
Danielle notices that he's favoring his left leg. She wonders if he's trying to disguise his limp for her benefit. Then she smiles thinly, and reminds herself that his pride isn't endearing.
She rises from her own chair, and sits down in his empty seat, which is still warm. Out of idle curiosity, she starts to read through the Campisi family's case files.
The files are infused with the faint smell of aviation fuel - it's the sort of odor that gets everywhere, no matter how careful she is - and Danielle catches herself guiltily sniffing one of the pages. When she realizes what she's doing, she pushes the files away until they're out of arm's reach, and feels very silly.
She drums her fingers against the tabletop, and fidgets.
---
Rorschach also does an inventory of the bathroom. He avoids touching anything unless he has to. The room is reasonably clean, so there's nothing to justify his disapproval.
The shower feels better than it ought to, although washing is still a minor annoyance. There are rows of fresh stitches on his body, and he tries to keep them dry, but his efforts are futile. It wasn't as if he really needed the shower, but that's twenty-twenty hindsight. Afterwards, his clothes itch against his skin, so he feels worse than he did originally.
He returns to the kitchen, but Danielle isn't there. The door to the basement is open, so he descends the steps.
He finds her at the computer in the basement's corner, with one of the Campisi files open on her lap. Her glasses reflect the phosphor green of the monitor.
She hears him approach, and looks up. "Hey. My databases are out of date by a year or so, but I found some old stuff that I'd pulled from NCIC a while back. I don't know how relevant it'll be, but I figured it might help." She pauses, looking thoughtful, and removes her glasses so that she can clean them on her cardigan. "...When did we go after the Campisi family, anyway? Must've been during the late sixties."
"1968," Rorschach says.
"I thought that Antonio Campisi was meant to be locked up for another two years?"
"He's out on parole. Made a deal."
Danielle offers an unladylike grunt, and absently straightens out a dog-eared corner on the cover of the case file.
Rorschach crosses his arms, and takes stock of her. "Miss it," he accuses.
She blinks. "I miss what?"
"You know." He nods to the computer, then casts a brief glance to the owlship.
Danielle gets the message. "I still don't regret my retirement, if that's what you mean," she says, and puts her back glasses on. She hammers a few commands into the keyboard, and the printer springs to life, spewing out a ream of paper. The paper is then torn off the spool and offered to him.
He tries to take the paper from her, but she doesn't let go.
"I miss you, sometimes," she admits. "...And fighting. I, uh, miss fighting. God, I don't know. I'm talking bullshit."
He doesn't say anything.
She stands up, and looks slightly defensive. "I'm allowed to miss you, right?"
He tries to think of an answer that won't reveal how completely perplexed he is.
She smiles, and lets him take the piece of paper. Then she marches back up to the kitchen.
Rorschach has the sinking feeling that something is expected of him. Like an idiot, he follows.
On the stairs, she's a few steps above him, so he notices how her hips have broadened. She remains unaware of his gaze, which makes it worse.
He opts to stare at his feet.
---
Danielle feels extremely stupid, but she should be used to that by now.
It's funny: back when she and Rorschach worked together, people had always assumed that there was something going on between them. It used to make her angry. Hell, it'd been bad enough when people had speculated about her relationship with Hollis. Looking back, she finds it all a bit silly. (And with hindsight, perhaps she should have just been glad that everyone assumed she was heterosexual.)
But... 'I miss you, sometimes'? What the hell was that?
Maybe she's just bored. Maybe she's just horny.
She realizes that she hasn't been horny in ages. She wonders why that is.
Anyway, she's probably giving it too much thought. Sure, she'd always considered that she might be attracted to Rorschach, but he's always been... Well, unavailable. Verboten. Off-limits. Hell, for the longest time, she'd suspected he was gay. And if she had tried to instigate any sort of romantic relationship, then it could have ruined their partnership.
But they no longer have a partnership, so...
She makes more coffee, just to keep her hands busy.
He stands a few paces behind her, and flicks through his journal, re-reading his notes. She watches him in the reflection of a window. He almost seems relaxed and, as much as she hates to admit it, there's something reassuringly familiar about his presence. Most of his gritty mystique has faded over the years, so he just looks like a bedraggled, wiry little guy with a very creepy sock on his head.
"I didn't weird you out when we were in the basement just then, did I?" she asks.
He grunts at her.
She goes to push a stray strand of hair back behind her ear, and notices that there's still the faint smell of aviation fuel on her fingers, probably from handling the case files. Somehow, it galvanizes her, and she says, "I care about you."
His body language suggests confusion. "Oh."
"Do you have a problem with that?"
"No."
"Good."
"Don't require your concern, however," he says. "Your care is misplaced."
"Misplaced?"
"Would be better invested elsewhere."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Danielle says. "Better invested where?"
"Most women your age have families."
Danielle gives him a withering look. "You think I should settle down and find a husband?"
"You've already settled down," Rorschach says, with obvious resentment.
She smirks. "Who's going to marry me? You?"
He bristles.
"I'm joking," she says quickly.
"You can't spend the rest of your life idling," he replies, while sounding suspiciously like her mother.
Danielle's life is none of his business. She decides to yank his chain. "You think I'm a good catch?"
"You're not a bad woman."
"Oh. Thanks, buddy." She's feeling slightly cruel tonight. "You don't think I'm attractive, then?"
She's expecting him to say no, because he's always been blunt to a fault. Instead, he primly replies, "It doesn't matter what I think."
"That never stopped you from sharing your opinion before."
"This conversation is inane."
Danielle resists the urge to reply with, 'you started it.' She crosses her arms, and stares at him.
"You're a good woman," he admits, grudgingly. "Most of the time." He has that quiet, respectful tone that he usually reserves for talking about the Comedian.
She studies him very carefully. He absently removes his fedora, and hold it in both hands.
"Um. Hey," says Danielle. "Come closer."
"Why?"
Danielle's nerve falters. "Actually, never mind."
The ink blots make a rough estimation of a frown, and he approaches her anyway.
When he's a step or so away from her, she says, "You can kiss me."
He seems to give this a lot of thought, then makes a quiet heh noise, similar to a laugh. "Joking, of course."
Danielle isn't. She proves it by placing her hands on the lapels on his coat, and waits for him to push her away. He doesn't move. She leans in and presses her mouth against his, enjoying the resistance of the fabric. It tastes bland and earthy and a little metallic, and she ought to find it disgusting.
She feels him stop breathing.
"Sorry," she says.
Everything - her voice, the way she moves, her thoughts - seems stilted. She'd always assumed that, if they were to do this sort of thing, then they'd end up doing it in the heat of the moment, fumbling mindlessly in some stinking alley. The reality of it feels wrong. It's as if she's transgressed against something.
And shit, she feels like such an idiot. A misogynistic asshole has just admitted that he respects you, she thinks to herself, so what do you do? You come on to him.
Rorschach just stands there, perfectly still.
She's reminded of an incident that happened a few years ago: he'd made a nasty comment about her weight and appearance (he really had no idea how creepy and invasive he could be) and she'd slapped him. His arms had hung uselessly by his sides and he'd stared at her as if to say, you hit me. Now he has the same posture, the same air of disconnection.
She steps away from him, to give him some space.
He grabs her arms.
He does it so suddenly that her training kicks in, and her lizard brain almost interprets it as an attack. She has to fight the reflex to shove him away. She's never entirely trusted him, but.... no, he's a sexist asshole (and god, so creepy) but he's always been so careful around women, he wouldn't...
He pushes his mask back up over his nose, and kisses her. The kiss is so clumsy and hurried that, if she was a nastier person, she'd laugh.
Well, she thinks, now you've done it.
It's a small comfort, but he's such a bad kisser that he makes her feel relatively experienced and confident. Adrenaline courses through her, and she feels more like her old self, although there's an insinuating little voice at the back of her mind that's saying, is it really fair to do this to him, just because you're bored and horny?
Why does everything have to be my responsibility? she argues back. He's an adult. I'm not forcing him into anything.
But, says the voice of reason, you're meant to know better. He's a sexist asshole, and you're probably the only woman he's ever liked. If he thinks you're seducing him, then it's going to confirm every prejudice he's ever had.
It's such bullshit. Her behavior shouldn't be taken as representative of her entire gender, and she's always hated the way that she's felt obligated to accommodate some of Rorschach's nastier... issues. Still, just as she's considering pushing him away, one of his hands tentatively wanders to her left breast.
She's so surprised, she can't even decide if she minds it or not.
His hand remains there for a moment, and then he pulls away.
"Sorry," he murmurs, and then his tone becomes more accusatory: "You're meant to be better than this." There's a slight tremor in his voice. She notices the way he adjusts his coat to hide his erection.
"Sorry," she echoes, and then she grows a spine: "You just grabbed my tit."
"I didn't..." Rorschach begins. "I thought..." It's the first time she's ever seen him at a loss for words. It might be cute if it wasn't so horrible. "I wasn't..."
Despite everything, she finds herself reassuring him. "It's okay," she says. "I'm not angry at you. I mean, you didn't even grab it, really, I just wasn't expecting you to get so hands-on so quickly. It's okay."
She knows that she's coddling him, but he seems so upset. His breathing is ragged as if he's just been in a fight, and his mouth betrays a dejected expression. Christ, she doesn't want to feel as if she's molesting the guy, but he looks so hopeless, and it stirs a very twisted sort of savior complex in her... Which is awful, because being attracted to someone's psychological vulnerability is extremely fucked up. And cruel. She is meant to be a better than that.
She's probably as confused as he is.
As she's trying to summon the willpower to stop things, he tentatively approaches her again. He's always had a morbid sense of curiosity about everything - god knows it's got him into trouble before - although he doesn't seem to know where to put his hands.
She wants to hug him. Instead, she takes his wrist and makes him follow her to her bedroom.
---
He feels disgusted. He wishes that he felt disgusted enough to walk away.
Danielle's hand is warm, and she seems nervous. He suspects that she doesn't trust him. He doesn't trust himself either.
He wonders what she stands to gain by doing this.
---
Danielle searches the nightstand for a condom packet that still has a decent date on it. Actually, it's a small miracle that she still has any condoms in the house - she must be an eternal optimist. When she finds one, she resists the urge to give an undignified whoop of glee.
She removes her glasses, setting them down somewhere safe, then sits on the edge of the bed. She makes Rorschach stand in front of her, so that she can unfasten his coat, then his fly, until she can finally free his cock from the constraints of his underwear. His cock is uncut and faintly curved. It's also slightly larger than average, which is proof that god has a cruel sense of humor. Or maybe it just looks larger, because the rest of him is so compact.
(People used to treat their height difference as an unfunny joke. Once, she stood next to him for a photo - back when he used to allow photos, anyway - and she felt simultaneously gangly and fat.)
When she rolls the condom onto him, he flinches.
She searches for something reassuring to say, but what comes out is, "I like redheads."
His posture bristles again, as if she's not giving sex the seriousness it deserves. He still looks unhappy. Hell, he's probably the sorriest looking guy with a hard-on she's ever seen. She wonders how he manages to stay erect while looking so miserable, especially as she's hardly even touched him.
His expression makes her own desire wane, so she strokes his bare thigh. This isn't what she expected at all.
(When she was younger, she used to catch herself thinking that she'd like him to ravish her. 'Ravish?' Really, Danielle, really?)
"It's okay," she says, without thinking. "I love you." She's not sure if it's true. She hopes it's true, because if it isn't, then she ought to hate herself.
The ink blots shift, but Danielle can't read them.
She busies herself with unbuttoning her shirt, because she feels as if she ought to take her clothes off. She wishes that she'd worn nicer underwear, although its not as if the rest of her outfit is particularly conductive to amor; her cardigan alone should have been enough to send a lesser man running. (Granted, it's a nice cardigan. And it's warm. But it's still a cardigan.) Rorschach doesn't seem to be particularly fussy, though. Perhaps he's more interested in what she looks like without clothes on. She has a nasty moment when she remembers that she hasn't shaved her legs in a while, but it's too late to do anything about that now.
Rorschach grows impatient, and tries to help. She quite likes that, so she doesn't swat his hands away, even when he breaks the zipper on her skirt. (Which is odd, because he's normally quite dexterous.)
She wiggles out of her pantyhose and underwear. He takes great interest as she does this; he's probably unaware that he's staring.
Something instinctive makes her spread her legs.
He hesitates. His face is rendered unreadable - his mouth is just a thin, almost bloodless line. He's always been gaunt, but now the muscles of his jaw seem to stand out in sharp relief.
His expression almost makes Danielle want to stop, for his sake, but he pulls off his gloves and curiously runs a hand along the inside of her thigh.
Very carefully, she takes his right hand and guides it between her legs, so that his fingers can explore. He's tentative, as if he's touching something that's either sacred or disgusting. She remembers how sex used to seem when she was a kid: messy and alien.
She grins at him, then leans back on the bed, wrapping her legs around his waist to make him press closer. As his hips draw level with hers, she sits up and guides his cock into her.
She can only pray that she won't get an attack of performance anxiety. She thinks she feels confident, but there's still a sense of risk. The risk doesn't feel sexy, like it did with the Twilight Lady - instead, it feels... sad, somehow. She and Rorschach have watched each other's backs over the years, but there are so many unknown variables in Rorschach's past, so many warning signs, that Danielle still isn't sure if this is a good idea.
Then he starts to thrust, and she loses her train of thought. Her body obliges and relaxes itself.
---
His body operates out of idiot animal instinct. She engulfs him; she seems to take up too much space. He just grips her hips and ruts into her. There's no joy in what he does, but there's a satisfaction in it, like scratching a scab. He doesn't care about re-opening old wounds.
The smell of sex makes his stomach twist, but it doesn't deter him.
Danielle is strangely radiant. She keeps her eyes open, and her gaze is full of gratitude - he has no idea why - but there's an edge to her expression. It's like the expression she has while fighting: a mix of awe and self-satisfaction, turned inwards, as if she's just broken a taboo and feels somehow proud about it. It's irritating. He wants her to focus on him, look at him... and at the same time, he doesn't.
He pushes her legs up to her chest, then feels angry at her for letting him do it. She moans, but he isn't so naive that he mistakes it for a noise of protest.
If he was hurting her, how would he know? Would she say something? Of course she'd say something, then she'd tell you to leave. Or she wouldn't say anything at all, but would just let him do it. He isn't sure which would be worse. What if he hurt her and she liked it? No, women don't work that way; that's probably just something people tell themselves to justify their weakness. And if women did like it, then they shouldn't.
It gets difficult to think, though.
He forgets who he is, but finds that he prefers it that way. Danielle writhes under him, pinned. He wants to keep her there, because he's temporarily stupid enough to believe that if he does that, she can't abandon him.
---
She knows he's getting close, although it's too soon. She tugs on his coat to pull him nearer, and he leans in. Unthinkingly, she puts her arms around him, and slips a hand under the back of his mask so she can feel his damp hair. In return, his fingers claw into the flesh on her hips.
His thrusts lose their rhythm. He bows his head and bites her left breast - she's too surprised to cry out - then spills himself into her.
She still has the presence of mind to study the face he makes: the way he bares his teeth, the inkblot pattern that translates as anger. He makes no sound.
When he's finished, he just sags against her, which makes her want to laugh again - not unkindly, though.
"Hold on to the condom when you pull out," she says.
He grunts at her as if to say, 'I'm not stupid, woman.'
As his cock pulls free of her body, she's mildly annoyed. There's still a slippery warmth between her legs. She sits up, and a small bead of sweat and arousal runs from her sex and trickles between her buttocks, making her fidget.
There's a very unsexy moment where he fumbles with removing the condom; she pushes his hands away, and neatly removes it for him. He hasn't yet pulled the mask back down, so she can see some of his expression: his face is a picture of digust. She's seen him covered in blood and god knows what else before, but oh no, he's squeamish about semen.
She knows what he's like. She has a nasty suspicion that, once he's collected his wits again, he's just going to walk out.
"Stay there," she tells him.
---
He still isn't thinking clearly, but he has just enough self-awareness left to hate how easily he obeys.
She remains on the bed, a soft female form that looks oppressively vulnerable, threatening to bring out the worst in him. Her left breast bears a circle of reddened skin. He tries to make sense of it.
She gives him a wry look, but her smile is genuine.
He remembers that he's still exposed, so he starts to tuck his cock away and cover up, but she gently takes his hand. There's a hardness to her eyes - again, it's like the expression she has while fighting - and he's transfixed.
"Do you want me to stop?" she asks.
He hears himself say, "No."
Danielle nods. Her legs are still parted quite shamelessly, as she's propped her heels on the edge of the bed, and he's very grateful that she's unable to see where his gaze is focused. There's barely any lust left in him, but he's still full of perverse curiosity and a horrible need for contact.
She makes him put two fingers inside her. They fit easily. She contains a wet heat, as slippery as blood. As the worst of his arousal has subsided, he has a better capacity for revulsion, and he can't shake the belief that it's like putting his fingers inside an open wound.
A small sigh escapes her.
She positions his thumb so that it's pressed between the soft folds at the front of her sex. Then, with little warning, she begins to thrusts against his hand. There isn't a shred of restraint or dignity in her body, and he wonders how she can do such things without feeling humiliated. Sweat gives her skin a feverish sheen; her breasts sway as she moves.
He unthinkingly leans in closer, and she braces herself against his shoulder. Her sex greedily tightens around his fingers, and she makes soft, lost sounds.
Rorschach ought to be surprised by her behavior, but he isn't. So much for Virgin Athena. He curls his fingers in a moment of childish spite, making her gasp.
She looks at him unfocused, pleading eyes; he instinctively moves his hand, clumsily rocking it against her thrusts. If that's what she wants, then fine. She lets out a small sob that grants him a nasty insight into how much he'd enjoy hurting her, and the weight of the guilt and need makes him hide his face against her neck.
There's another sobbing breath, and she clenches and unclenches around his hand, writhing like a person who can no longer bear her own body. She looks as if she's going to cry - but, when it subsides, she smiles at him again.
He gently pulls his hand away, and wipes it on his coat. She laughs at him, making him feel like an idiot, and he hates her a little bit.
Then she flops back on the bed.
---
Wow, she thinks when her mind clears. That was weird. A bit like fucking your brother.
The bed is soft under her back, and she wants to relax, but Rorschach looms over her like a gargoyle. He looks fairly ominous, until he realizes that he still has his pants halfway down his thighs. He frantically covers himself up.
Danielle studies him carefully. She suspects that she's going to get the blame for what they've just done.
She summons her courage. "Do you think I'm some sort of slut now?"
The question makes him freeze. In retrospect, he probably thought that she was a slut already, ever since her involvement with the Twilight Lady... But, even though he's unlikely to have forgiven her for that, he's always managed to hide the depth of his resentment.
"Don't talk to me like that," he says, and actually sounds offended.
Danielle fights the urge to apologize again; instead, she fixes him with a hard stare.
Rorschach just stands there and looks at the floor. "I shouldn't have done that to you, but you kept..." She waits, but he doesn't finish the sentence.
"Oh c'mon, Rorschach, it's not as if you've ruined me forever. I liked it."
Now it's his turn to stare back at her. His mouth hangs open, as if he wants to speak, but his brain is lagging a few seconds behind.
"I liked it," Danielle repeats, forcing herself to speak above a murmur. She reminds herself that she's still Nite Owl, but she just has to be Nite Owl without the benefit of the costume. "I enjoyed it. Didn't you?"
The ink blots shift, and the set of his mouth changes - she doesn't need to see his eyes to know that he's frowning. He takes a few steps back from her. He's apparently incapable of giving an answer that's as straightforward as 'yes' or 'no'.
It's hopeless. It wouldn't work out. He'd be terrible boyfriend material: jealous and clingy and old-fashioned at best, cruel and invasive at worst. He's an asshole. He's a piece of work. He's a wanted criminal. And he's always had unreasonable expectations of her, although she's sometimes surprised by how much he tolerates.
She's not entirely sure what she means to him.
"So, you're going to just walk out now, or what?" she asks.
Rorschach doesn't answer, doesn't walk away, but quickly pulls the mask back down over his face.
Danielle sighs. "Come here."
He obeys.
When he's within arm's reach, she sits upright, grabs his coat, and pulls him down on top of her. He doesn't protest. His dirty clothes are rough against her skin, and he still has his shoes on, but she doesn't care.
"I'll try to crack into the NCIC database tomorrow, so we can access information that's up to date. Just this once, though. I won't do it again," she murmurs. "And I'll cook you breakfast."
He grunts at her, as his face is muffled between her breasts. It's undignified as all hell. She quite likes it.
She wraps her limbs around him and holds on until she's sure he's asleep.
She tells herself that she doesn't intend to make a habit of having sex with strange men who break into her house.
She wonders what she's got herself into.