"- and it had been so nice this morning, which just goes to show you can't even trust the damn weather anymore these days -"
In response he merely gave a mollifying smile and pressed a few coins into the waiting palm of the ever-chattering newspaper vendor. Normally, he might stay for a moment and make small talk, but he wasn't in the mood for it then. Tucking his rustling purchase under his arm he stepped out into the busy street again. Old fool. Since when could you ever trust the weather? He smirked, and shook his head. Tomorrow he would be insisting that Heather the Weather Girl was in league with the Reds or some bullshit.
Daniel had the bad habit of watching his feet instead of where he was going, which wasn't a good idea at any time of the day in NYC but was down right thoughtless during rush hour. He brushed past countless shoulders, his gaze lowered to a foot infront of his worn brown loafers as suits grew impatient behind him. Comfortable brown shoes to go with his comfortable brown jacket because he was just comfortable brown Daniel Dreiberg. He would rather watch legs than faces, rather run the risk of a casual bump than accidental eye-contact. The first few pregnant drops of warm rain fell like wet little bombs and the homeward bound crowds seemed to speed up all at once which only succeeded in slowing them down as a whole. He couldn't have been more than a few blocks away from his apartment, so he didn't care much though he did wish people had more patience. It was just then as felt an urgent shove from behind as someone with a briefcase squeezed his way through the trudging masses like a snake, and Dan struggled to keep his balance. He over compensated with a step or two to the left and ended up walking straight into a stationary man. He reeled back with mumbling apologies as he lifted his gazed to see his victim - and froze.
The man was not a stranger. Daniel had seen him a hundred times before, stoically prowling the streets from the diner to his apartment. His eyes worked from the shock of dirty red curls to the stoney colourless gaze down the dirty brown suit, and his mouth went dry. He was a couple of inches shy of perfect, but the strong jaw, the wiry frame hidden beneath filthy layers, the downturned mouth and thin lips made up for that. Christ, he could even smell him from there. Dan had never spoken to him, never even come with fifteen feet of him but he had watched him before - every day he would stand like a sentry in his chosen spot, his sign proclaiming the approaching apocalypse slung over his shoulder like a gun. Eyecatching yet instantly forgettable. Repulsive yet attractive, an enigma in dirty rags. Dan wet his lips with a nervous tongue as they stared at each other for what seemed to be a century.
"It's raining," he said dumbly after a moment. The man adjusted his possessive grip on the sign but said nothing, his face as forcefully passive as ever, "Your placard will be ruined."
Still no response. Daniel could feel himself shriveling up under that cold blank stare. He squirmed slightly, kidding himself he didn't know where he was really going with this. Kidding himself that he hadn't played over this situation a hundred times in his head with a hundred different people.
"Do you...have somewhere to go?...To - y'know, stay?"
The filthy man stayed barely long enough to hear Dan's innocent question. He side stepped him and continued on his glum purposeful march to nowhere in particular. The bespectacled Samaritan was left floundering for someway to stop him. This was just too good an opportunity to pass up.
"I-I'd pay you," he spluttered, pretending not to notice the funny looks he got from passers-by. The tramp stopped midstep as though he had been stricken, and turned with a snarl that sent shivers through Dan. Yellowing teeth bared, eyes flashing, body tense for just a moment - it was perfect, absolutely perfect, "A hundred dollars, in cash."
The sudden flare of anger was gone, and gingery brows creased in a cross between disgust and distrust. Dan knew what he was thinking - scum. He was scum, and by god he was so right but if he didn't do something about it - about Rorschach, about this crazy wonderful man - he would surely explode. He was just human after all, he had needs just like anyone else and they surely weren't worse than most of New York's. Struggling to maintain eye contact, Dan swallowed hard. /Hit me,/ he urged silently as the seconds carried more weight than all the raindrops in the world as they fell away. /Do something. Yell, walk away, sock me right in the jaw, but just do something don't just look at me like that/. His nerves wouldn't - couldn't - hold out any longer, and he turned to go with a muttered apology. Evidently the redhead wasn't quite as desperate as he looked. "Forget it," he said though he was too far and too quiet to be heard. Shame and frustration rolled in his belly like two hot stones and he sighed, "Thought you were someone else. My mistake."
Daniel decided to take the long way home, crossing the street as quickly as possible and slipping unnoticed down a reeking alleyway. His flat was only a couple of blocks away from the forecaster of doom and his stupid sign, but he didn't want to go straight there incase the man found out where he lived. Not that there was really any threat of that. He was clearly as interested in him as he was in something you would scrape off the bottom of your shoe, and right then Dan felt like that was exactly what he was. He couldn't believe he had just prepositioned a stranger - a man - for sex. A hundred dollars? A hundred fucking dollars? His breath escaped him in a hiss, and his shoulders dropped slightly. He was quite thoroughly disgusted in himself. It had just sort of...slipped out, he hadn't meant to say it. There wouldn't have been anytime for nonsense like that anyway, it would be dark in a few hours and then Rorschach would come for him. Lord, if he had caught him like that he would have gutted him like a pig - or worse, disappeared and never spoke to him again. Emerging back out into the street, he straightened his rain speckled glasses and half-jogged to his apartment building. There was plenty of time to check Archie was ship-shape for tonight's action. Of course, it would be in perfect working order but Dan couldn't think of a better way to kill time.
He knew something wasn't right before he even got to his end of the hallway, and his suspicions were confirmed upon discovering that his door was slightly ajar. The space beyond was dark, and completely silent. Already his heart was racing as adrenalin surged through Dan's body, his muscles tense and every sense wired to maximum. Had he been robbed? Were they still there? Was it some petty dime-a-dozen crook, a cliched pseudo-villain mask? It didn't really matter in the end. It would only finish the same way - an exchange of barked words, chased closely by a brief and perhaps violent scuffle in which he would overpower the intruder. Unless they were armed, of course. Or Rorschach. Dan might have been fit for a man of his age and girth - and more than capable - but with no tech, no back-up and no prep-time...well, he could do a lot of things, but he couldn't catch a bullet. "Rorschach?" he asked the darkness hoarsely, "Buddy, is that you?" There was no reply. He nudged the door open ever so gently, and slipped inside. He crossed the short hallway in a couple of steps, and without another moments hesitation shoved open the kitchen door. Without his goggles his eyes were slow to adapt to the gloom, so he palmed the switch on the wall closest plunging the small room into watery yellow light.
Daniel had prepared himself for the worst, but the worst couldn't be as bad as this. Sitting there at his table, calm and stoney as ever with his hands flat on he table, was the man with placard. The actual sign itself was propped up against the fridge dripping watery ink onto his clean kitchen floor. His stomach sank like a stone and his heart had leapt into his mouth. Sitting there uninvited in his kitchen - silent and purposeful like a goddamn sphinx or something - was this person. /His/ person, the man of his dreams so to speak but by no means ideal - a pale imitation but an imitation none the less. He swallowed hard, the whole scene feeling uncomfortably familiar. "Wh-what are you doing here?" was the best Dan could choke out. The red-haired man said nothing, his gaze never wavering. He didn't know what to do, but after their earlier encounter he knew that this was going to be nothing but bad news. Taking a step into the room, he placed his hands on the back of the chair opposite his unwanted guest, and smiled tensely.
"Look, if this is about what I said earlier, I'm -"
"Yes," came a gruff interruption. The red-haired man had dropped his gaze to the table top, and his hands were now tight fists.
"Yes...what?" Dan asked, his voice suddenly a little softer. The intruder's jaw twitched, and he knew he was being cruel. He couldn't leave this to chance. He couldn't afford another mistake.
"Hundred dollars, cash," and Dan didn't know if it was a statement, a question or a demand but he could hardly believe that he was hearing it. He couldn't help but notice that the man was breathing a little heavier than before. He let go of the chair, not realizing that he had been gripping it hard enough to whiten his knuckles, and passed a hand briefly over his eyes. It was a moment before he collected himself again, a hundred different circumstances and outcomes running through his head. Not many of them were pretty.
"What's your name?" he asked shortly.
"...Walter."
Daniel nodded, and straightened up. Clearing his throat, he shrugged off his wet jacket and looked his guest straight in the eye with a half-smile.
"Go sit in the living room, Walter. Take off your clothes. Don't touch anything."
-------------------
Walter done as he was told. He stood before the couch in Daniel's small but cosy flat, and slowly began to undress himself. First he peeled off his grubby fingerless gloves and tucked them into the pocket of his threadbare brown woolen suit jacket which came off next, followed by his dull black shoes and tatty pants. He folded his clothes carefully, gently setting them in a small stack on the arm of the couch. By the time he was down to his greying underwear and vest-top, he became aware that he wasn't alone anymore. Dan stood in the doorway, intensely watching the man undress with such control and such purpose that it seemed like some sort of ritual. He was a little ahead of the game, already nude from the waist up; around his neck hung a pair of neat little yellow goggles and in his hand he clutched what appeared to be a dirty white rag. He dragged his gaze down Walter, drinking in every drop of him from his greasy orange curls to his uneven sock garters before he thrust the white piece of cloth at him.
"Put it on," was the only instruction.
Walter pawed softly at the rag - it was made of a thin white stretchy material he assumed was once a pair of women's tights or perhaps underwear. Parts of it was stiff with seemingly random blotches of black ink but as he smoothed it out it became quite apparent that they infact formed a nearly perfectly symmetrical design. His breath caught in his throat but he desperately clung to his composure, and instead looked blankly at Dan who sighed. He felt ill.
"Put it on," he said again, a little more urgently. He wanted it to be over and done with as quickly as possible. The less time they took, the less chance he had of being caught-out by his partner. He would have to clean the flat, hide the mask, shower again - no trace of what was about to happen could ever remain, "I'll pay extra. /Please./"
Walter fisted the material in his dirty hands before he dragged it on reluctantly. It was difficult to see with it on, but it wasn't too hard to breathe through. Immediately Dan was on him, pulling at the make-shift mask, adjusting it so it was just perfect. Walter resisted the urge to push him off. It was wrong - it was all sick and wrong - but what disgusted him the most was the small comfort it afforded him. It wasn't his face. It wasn't his face, clean and true, it was the gut-twisting fantasy of the man he fought exactly this sort of immoral degradation with on the cold wet streets of New York. It wasn't his partner that he could feel roughly pulling him from his vest like he was undressing a child. It wasn't his Nite Owl that dug his fleshy fingers into Walter's shoulders and his teeth into his neck as he was pushed onto the sagging couch - but it was the closest he was ever going to get. The other man came down with him, forcing the breath from him as he was pinned to the cushions. Through the fabric, he could see Dan adjusting his goggles before hurriedly sliding his pants off and into a heap on the floor where Walter's neat pile was now strewn. They clashed together in an ungainly tangle of bony knees and sharp elbows, with Dan straddling the masked man's narrow hips. He snatched his wrists with one strong hand and held them down above their heads before leaning forward to murmur in his covered ear.
"Struggle," he hissed - his free hand on Walter's neck, his thumb stroking his adam's apple lightly before pressing firmly - and he did, suddenly feeling a little panicked. He hadn't expected it to go like this. He didn't know what he had been expecting, perhaps for Dan to be slow and gentle like he always was, but nothing like this. His hips bucked as he fought to gain some sort of wiggle room beneath his partner, as he could hardly breath beneath him. Ink-stiff cloth chaffed the bridge of his nose as his head was forced back suddenly, and teeth scraped against his vulnerable jugular with the intent to leave their mark eliciting a reluctant moan from the smaller man. Now Dan was struggling to free both himself and his guest of their underwear as quickly as possible, which was made infinitely more difficult by the fact he was unwilling to break contact with him. Waistbands snapped and slid, and finally they were uncovered - this time it was Daniel's turn to moan as Walter ground up against him urgently. He leaned forward causing the smaller man to twist his covered head sharply to the side, but he wasn't going to attempt to kiss him - that would have implied familiarity, affection, perhaps something other than pure lust and frustration. With the hand he had gently choked him with, he slid up the bottom of the mask and roughly jammed his thick fingers into Walter's hot wet mouth.
"Suck," came yet another grunted instruction. The digits tasted faintly of sweat and motor oil even though they were clean, and Walter resisted them, pushing and fighting with his clumsy tongue. If he knew what Dan was planning to do with those fingers and what little saliva coated them, he might have been more compliant. He shifted, moving down the pale freckle speckled body beneath him. He had to let go of his wrists, but Walter didn't move - he was stiff, tense, shaking, craning his neck trying to see what Dan was doing as he moved into an inky blindspot. His legs were pushed apart with a growl as he tried to keep his knees together, feeling over-exposed and vulnerable as hands grabbed at his ankles, shoving them up and out. There was a mutter of something that could have been 'relax', and suddenly there was two fingers jabbed harshly inside him. Walter bit off his ragged moan, twisting and squirming at the itching burning sensation of being stretched without warning. He gritted his teeth as those slick thick fingers were scissored and he clenched as they hooked inside him, trying to arch away.
Now that Walter was keeping his legs spread of his own accord, Daniel was free to leisurely stroke his own cock as he hungrily ate up every little detail of the scene before him. How would it happen, he though to himself. How did they get here, he and his partner? A tough night, a little close, humid - raining, perhaps. A gang of youths - of thugs - six or seven of them...yeah, seven, with weapons. Knives, chains, the works. They'd rough them up a little, it would come scarily close. Adrenaline pumping, hearts thumping they would stagger back to the owlcave delirious and victorious. Rorschach...Rorschach would be wounded, ferocious, snarling like a bobcat, a wild animal...wild animals were /dangerous/, wild animals had to be /tamed/. Dan would tame him, make him squirm and moan just right before he lost too much blood, before he hurt himself. He'd tame him for his own sake, break him in, calm him down. He slapped away Walter's hands that had drifted down to tug at his neglected cock, pinning his shoulders down. He'd tame him alright, he thought as he thrust forward cruelly making the masked man cry out hoarsely. He'd show him who's boss for once. Without giving him time to adjust, Dan pulled out and slammed back in again all the way to the hilt, loving the noises it forced from his partner; gasps, sobs, grunts, strangled screams. It hurt, he knew that. He wanted it to. Through his goggles, he watched sharp features barely concealed by the pseudo-mask contort and scrunch with pain and perhaps even pleasure in fantastical colours and almost unreal detail. Convinced he could /see/ the bruised blush on those razor sharp cheekbones, the damp spot on the mask where his mouth would be, Dan's pace was starting to become jerky, erratic. He knew he couldn't last much longer, not with rough hands twisting in his hair, untrimmed dirty nails clawing welts down his back.
With a last forceful shallow thrust and a throaty moan, he came so hard he swore he could see stars and his hands clenched around Walter's throat hard enough to leave marks. He couldn't remember grabbing it, but he didn't care. The man was still breathing as he rolled off him to perch unsteadily on the edge of the couch. He dragged his hand across his sweat beaded forehead and stood up shakily. Behind him, Walter lay eaglespread gasping and half-hard. As Daniel stood up uncertainly to gather his clothes, he tore off the damp mask and threw it on the floor. He felt like he was going to be sick and his body was feverish and aching as he stared at the badly scratched back that ambled towards the door without so much as a second glance.
"Put your clothes on and get out," he said, sounding far away or preoccupied, entirely uninterested in Walter, "Your money's on the kitchen table."