Disclaimer: Watchmen belongs to Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons. "No Surprises" (which I listened to as I wrote this and from which I yoinked a line to use as this fic's title) belongs to Radiohead. Please don't take what little college money I have.
Author's Note: It wasn't necessary for this to be Rule 63'd at all. It just kind of... happened. Whoops. My apologies if fem!Daniel offends anyone's delicate sensibilities.
No Alarms and No Surprises
by Looly
It happens every now and then. He won't stop—can't stop—and there's so much blood and the thought, My God, is this what we've become? runs through her head before, finally, she intervenes. And every time her fingers tentatively tap his shoulder, her hands furiously grab his arms, her body crashes desperately into his… she never really knows what to expect in the aftermath.
More often than not it ends with her nursing her mouth, hoping that she hasn't lost any (more) teeth. Sometimes (when she's lucky) he twists with only a snarl that sounds more like a demonic dog than her partner. Once it was a kick to the chest (she can still feel the weight of unsaid I'm sorrys in the air as he hoisted her breathless form into his arms and carried her back to Archie).
Laurie fumes whenever Danielle makes the mistake of truthfully explaining her bruised chins or sprained wrists. Laurie asks why Danielle doesn't fight back like—(her) like any sane person would. Why she sits back and takes it. Why she doesn't kick and scratch like a crime fighter should.
It's not like that, Danielle thinks to herself as she runs a hand over her tired face and shrugs in response. Some days she feels so tired from the kicking and scratching. Kicking and scratching is all she does, nowadays. It's not easy, fighting a battle for a life that was lost long ago.
It starts with a sudden sting and a burst of lights before her eyes. Then the dull ache comes and she tastes metal. Anger bubbles up and she feels angry, like a child about to throw a temper tantrum, sort of. She wants to punch back because it's only fair.
Then: "...D-Danielle."
A gloved hand reaches out, unsure. It never does touch her. It's always shaking, like it's fighting against its owner—like it wants to reach out but just can't.
She doesn't tell Laurie this because, well, Laurie wouldn't get it.
These moments where he hurts her, where he seems so far away—Danielle thinks these are the moments that she sees the man beneath the mask most clearly. His hands are shaking and the ink turns into a giant blot all over his face like he's blushing from shame under the mask. Like a dog realizing the hand it's bitten is the same hand that caresses it. The impulse is strange and never carried out, but she always yearns to hug him.
He never touches her.
"It's okay," is all she can bring herself to say. She licks the blood from her lips and blinks the tears from her eyes.
He shakes his head. No, it's really not.
"We're okay," she says softly, standing up and clasping his shoulder. It's a desperate plea. "No harm done. No bad feelings." She smiles and feels the corners of her lips shake from the effort.
She kicks and scratches but it's gotten too big for either of them. They can feel change in the air and soon, she thinks, soon everything will crash and burn around them. It's too late to stop it; her actions only serve to slow down the inevitable.
"Let's go back to Archie," she says. She doesn't need it, but she holds his arm for support anyway and, for once, he doesn't shrug away. She closes her eyes and pretends that he allows it for reasons other than guilt.
The bruises are beautifully dark. She doesn't mind them because they comfort her and help her forget that, instead of the bruises, it is the one who gives them that is slowly fading away.
Danielle lulls herself to sleep with the gentle pressure of fingers on black and blue skin.
You know, I didn't even think of shipping Dan/Rorschach until I saw the movie. I blame Jackie Earle Haley's pretty abyss-gazing ~eyes~.