Hi, glad you stopped by! I'm a huge fan of Watchmen and of the Dan/Adrian pairing from the movie, and this fic is my biggest contribution to those wonderful characters. The story is completed, but it's in my mother language, so I still have to translate it to English. I'll try to update at least once a week. Also, it's unbetaed, so I apologize in advance for the mistakes that there will surely be there. That said, any comments or feedbacks is very welcome and appreciated. I hope you'll like this story of mine. Enjoy your reading!
Warnings: Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, also there's Adrian, so you know what to expect from him.
Chapter 1: Never compromise
An agile movement of his arm to throw the man over his own shoulders, his hips giving the necessary strength, the thud of a body falling deadweight on the road, where it remained without moving. Everything had happened in a few seconds and now Dan was standing straight again, ready to face another assailant.
He was breathing faster than usual, more because of the adrenalin than because of the effort, while his opponents, or at least the ones still conscious and capable of moving, were panting in fear and seemed like they had lost the arrogance they had showed towards him at the beginning.
They were some cheap criminals: pushers, pimps, the invisible scum that infested the streets at night. Nothing too dangerous.
A knife appeared at the edge of his sight. He crouched down and stretched his right leg, making the armed man trip. A hard kick at his face, strong enough to break his nose, made him scream hoarsely, but another kick at his solar plexus silenced him.
Without a moment of hesitation, Dan turned around, looking for the next opponent, but no one seemed keen on attacking him. His eyes caught two men still standing, while three of them were already unconscious or too hurt to fight again. The ease with which he had disposed of over half of them had made the others cautious, since now they seemed more prone to stay away from him than to go into offensive.
"So, are you gonna fight me or run away?" he provoked them.
The reaction was instantaneous: the biggest one attacked him faster than he expected, while the other one pulled out a switchblade and then sprang to his left, in the attempt to attack him from behind his back. He didn't give him the opportunity, since he kicked the unarmed one, sending him against his companion in one single move. While the man with the knife rolled on the ground, dizzy from the hit, he waited for the other to regain his feet.
"You fucking son of a bitch. I'm gonna kill you!" the criminal growled, accompanying his threat with a frontal attack.
Too slow.
He used his forearm to divert the fist and then he hit him fully in the face, once, twice, a third time, feeling his knuckles hurting even through the protective gauntlets. His aggressor had lost a good numbers of his teeth when he fell down, too stunned to even react.
The man with the knife was on his feet again and launched himself in an attack, but Dan was waiting for him: he avoided the blade without any actual efforts, then he slammed him against the wall of the closest building. Without giving him any time to recover, he grabbed his hand, forcing him to let the knife go, then he twisted his arm until he heard it snap. Before the man could scream, he punched him on his side, aiming at his kidneys at full force. A moment later, the criminal was on the ground, unconscious.
Taking deep breaths, Dan looked around. There were five bloodied bodies on the ground, while he was the only one standing.
For the last few days, his patrols had been more violent than usual. He didn't kill criminals, he still hadn't come this far and he hoped he never would, but the snap of the bones breaking under his hits had been a familiar sound that accompanied most of his nights.
His lips curved into a smile.
Rorschach would have been proud of him.
He didn't bother tying up the men on the ground: knowing how much hurt they were, he doubted they would be able to stand in a short time. He made an anonymous call to the police, instead, and then he started walking towards the place he had left Archie.
He hadn't covered half a mile when a group of people caught his attention.
They seemed more prepared than the criminals he had just defeated: iron bars, knives, brass knuckles... Not that it would make a difference, against him. With Rorschach he had destroyed much more dangerous gangs and even since he had been patrolling alone he had found himself in worse situations.
He attacked without any plans, letting his experience guide him in a whirl of kicks, punches and parries. His reflexes allowed him to avoid most of the hits and the few that reached him were softened by his costume. In a few minutes he had already knocked out two men and was taking care of the third, not caring about the pain due to the few hits he hadn't been able to avoid. He didn't have Rorschach's stoicism, but a high pain tolerance was an unavoidable consequence of the years spent as a vigilante.
He disarmed the closest man elbowing him in the face, then he avoided a punch, hit another man and dodged again, without stopping.
He liked fighting, he liked the adrenalin flowing in his veins, making him a being who belonged to the night, lethal and elusive. He liked his body moving out of instinct, in a reality made of thuds, screams, sweat and blood, where there wasn't room for thoughts.
"Why don't you let yourself go, Dan?"
He gritted his teeth, looking for another opponent. He had been trying to silence that voice for two weeks, now, fighting against the memories of that night he still hadn't been able to accept.
Gentle fingers on his face, the same fingers that had caused death for fifteen millions of people.
He punched the last man standing with more strength than it was necessary and he didn't pull back even when he heard the snap of a rib.
Warmth, kindness, acceptance, a reassuring hug that had made him feel like he wasn't alone in a world where he didn't belong.
It was his instinct that made him let the criminal go to turn around abruptly, but when he realized that one of the men had just pretended to be unconscious it was already too late. With an incredulous gaze, he recognized the handle of the knife sticking out of his own stomach. He wasn't feeling any pain, he wasn't feeling anything at all.
"Die, you fucking bastard!"
The man turned the knife in the wound and the blade pierced deeper into his flesh, accompanied by those words, while the criminal was looking at him with a triumphant grin.
Dan managed to punch him in the temple, a hit strong enough to knock him out. Then the pain arrived, a piercing, red hot agony that had him bend over with a pant, while his stomach seemed like it was trying to escape from his mouth.
He gaped, looking for air even though his lungs weren't functioning anymore, and everything was burning, everything was pain.
He had been stupid, too focused on an unharmed enemy to care about the other criminals. A newbie mistake, unforgivable.
Trying to ignore what was about to do, he grabbed the knife. Then, he pulled it out from his stomach.
Pain flared with a new intensity, blinding him. He felt his blood oozing from the wound, there was a black veil in front of his eyes and for a moment his mind faltered.
Breathe. Come on! Just breathe.
He blinked, and his sight was so blurred it seemed he didn't have his night goggles on, but he couldn't faint. Even if the police found him before some criminals did, he couldn't expect any leniency: the Keen Act was still effective, even after the destruction of New York, and the chaos of the first few months had lessened, by now, allowing the police forces to reorganize themselves.
He gagged, but he couldn't puke, not with that wound. He struggled to suppress the nausea, then he tried to straighten his back.
The pain was unbearable, but it was nothing foreign. If he managed to arrive home, everything would be okay again. The problem was arriving there.
His costume was already drenched in his blood. He tried to stop the bleeding by pressing his hand on the wound, limping towards the safety of his home. Only his will was keeping him going, an obsessive need to find a safe place. Once in his bathroom, he would try to take care of the wound and in the worst case scenario he would call an hospital pretending to have been assaulted. He knew he could play the role of the shy and unharmed Sam Hollis in a convincing way: an ornithologist who lived in a respectable neighborhood, who could never ever be associated to Night Owl. It would be easy to pretend that, maybe because it wasn't really a pretending but half of his life.
He muffled a whimper when another wave of pain assaulted all of his nerves.
If Rorschach had been there, none of that would have happened.
Rorschach would have watched his back.
That was why a partner was essential.
He repressed the nostalgia for the past with a grimace, focusing only on the task of keep walking until he finally saw his home.
Almost there.
He didn't have the lucidity to adopt the usual safety measures, but what was left of his senses gave him the impression of being alone. He could only hope he hadn't been followed.
He entered his house from the back door, he was too hurt and exhausted to use the underground entrance. He had just opened the cabinet in the bathroom to take the medikit, when he heard a rumor at his back.
"Freeze!" an unfamiliar voice ordered, too soon and too close.
He tensed, looking for a moment at the scalpel that was among the first aid supplies, just a few inches away from his fingers.
"Turn around slowly and keep your hands in the air."
He obeyed only partially, turning to face the stranger but keeping his hands against the wound. He was curios to see the faces of who had been so lucky to find him when he was in a bad shape. There were two of them, both armed, with the guns aiming to his chest. A dangerous situation even if he hadn't been wounded. As hurt as he was, trying to fight would be a suicide.
Never compromise, a hissing voice echoed inside his mind, so low and familiar he almost smiled.
And then he attacked.