Summary: Notes: Rorschach claims to have no weakness. Someone proves him wrong by finding one of them.
Rating/Warnings: PG-13 for language.
Characters/Pairings: Rorschach, Dan, OC thug.
Disclaimer: I don't know how many times I have to say it.
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"Not so fuckin' tough now, are ya?" the thug asks, last man standing but it doesn't matter, because his sudden advantage is undeniable. Ten feet away, Rorschach is a statue, frozen to the spot amongst the downed bodies, run through with a kind of violent vibration. The knife at Nite Owl's throat is very sharp and very real, and Nite Owl thinks Oh, shit, because this can only end one of two ways.
One, Rorschach will ignore the threat, and Nite Owl will find himself sliced ear to ear and maybe, maybe, have just enough time to see his captor beaten down before he dies. Two…
Well. Two involves Rorschach backing down, letting the man get away, and while it's certainly a possibility, Nite Owl knows exactly what the odds of that are. He braces himself for the slice.
It doesn't come. Nite Owl opens his eyes (when did he close them?) and Rorschach is still ten feet away, fists clenching and unclenching. An odd, strangled noise that Nite Owl has never heard before is twining around the three of them, and Rorschach's mask is swimming like murder and fury and vengeance denied.
"I'm always tellin' these guys," the man says, elbow still in Nite Owl's back, keeping him off balance against the knife, "'These masks ain't so scary', I say, 'you just gotta find the right leverage'. Idiots never listen, but look who's standin' next to the holy terror Rorschach and not getting' beat into the asphalt, shit." When the man laughs, the knife bites in through the cowl, and Nite Owl grits his teeth.
Rorschach takes a step forward. His voice is ragged and acidic, could eat through hardened steel. "You're making a mistake. Let him go. Now."
"What, and miss the look on your face when I drop him? Cause man, I gotta say, you may think you're wearin' a mask but that shit is not exactly hidden right now." Another laugh, vicious. "Can't wait to see what shapes you make when this fucker's bleedin' out at your feet."
Shit. Shit shit shit, because no, this is only going to end one way. Nite Owl isn't a hostage; he is a weapon, and suddenly just as furious as Rorschach must be because he will not be used to hurt his partner.
And hurting is definitely what's happening; Rorschach flinches as if physically struck, and that's apparently the funniest thing in the world, to listen to his captor. He's laughing, more than a little distracted, and Nite Owl feels the opening in the way the pressure on his back lessens for just a second.
A second is all he needs.
Something happens with the knife when he spins out from under the thug's grip, something dangerous, but it doesn't matter. All that matters is that they are face to face now, and nothing is stopping Nite Owl from cold-cocking him right in the face, dropping him to the pavement and Rorschach is moving toward them both like he wants to throw in his own boot to the head, for good measure.
But when he gets there, he doesn't. He just reaches up to take Nite Owl's jawline in his hands, turn his head roughly from side to side, and the sound he makes is pure terror.
Hey, he tries to say. I'm okay, he tries, but every time his voice starts to engage it catches on something, tears up his throat in a white-hot blossom of pain. He presses his hand there, and the leather of the gauntlet burns against the gaping gash in his cowl, makes the skin underneath catch fire.
It comes away bloody, and not just a little. He remembers the way the knife had slid away, too close, and the adrenaline that's flooded his brain for the last five minutes suddenly crests, overloads him, forces him into a graceless and undignified shutdown.
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When he comes around, it is in a subway tunnel only about a block from the fight, the hazy streetlight-orange rectangle of the stairwell access visible over Rorschach's shoulder. His goggles are gone, cowl pushed back and pillowed under his head, and his eyes struggle to adapt, to utilize that small bit of light.
Doesn't matter, because Rorschach is framed in silhouette against it, will never resolve into anything but a shadow. Dan wonders, for a second, where they are. It takes him a moment to sort out gravity, much less causality, and when he tries to ask, a lizard-brain understanding of pain that doesn't need causality or gravity forces him to stop.
Rorschach's fingers are on his throat, ungloved, stroking. He doesn't understand that, either.
"Not serious," Rorschach's shadow grumbles. "Just a superficial wound. Thought it was more…"
The floor is vibrating, humming. Electricity, somewhere, and the steady drip of a leaky water line. The fingers on his throat trace a line, over and over, and it stings but Dan cannot speak to tell him to stop.
"Should not have been so boastful," Rorschach says, stilling his hand, "About not having any weaknesses. Expected someone would challenge it, eventually. Didn't anticipate—"
Didn't expect that this is what they'd find, and until tonight Dan wouldn't have bet money on it either. Through all the pain and disorientation, he's touched.
"Liability." The fingers lift away, then settle back down on Dan's face, thumb rubbing over his cheekbone, almost a caress if it weren't so rough and fumbling. It feels like there's something else behind it, some strange magnetism drawing skin to skin, but it's enough that Rorschach's voice doesn't have that determined edge that means he's already made his decision. The obvious choice here—to dispose of the liability by breaking up the partnership—is clearly not acceptable.
Dan just closes his eyes, takes a long, careful breath. Lifts his own hand to press over Rorschach's, and when the pain recedes enough to allow him voice again, they will have a lot to talk about.
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(c) ricebol 2011