Title: Upstanding Citizens (or so we're told)
Disclaimer: I, in no way, shape, manner, or form, own the Watchmen or the characters said comic contains. All publicly recognizable characters are copyrighted to Alan Moore and I do believe DC. No infringement is intended.
Fandom: Watchmen
Characters: Byron Lewis (Mothman), Bill Brady (Dollar Bill), Nelson Gardner (Captain Metropolis), Rolf Müller (Hooded Justice)
Continuity: Comic
Warnings: Racism, violence
Summary: "Well, it's obvious, really," Nelson said, in that mildly condescending tone that suggested he was startled that everyone else hadn't already come to the same conclusion he had. He shrugged depreciatively, and smiled as he said, "It's the darkies."
Author's Note: This has been re-written so many times and it's starting to drive me nutty. Harsh, flesh-eating criticism encouraged. (Also: ridiculous ending is ridiculous and sort of mortifying.)

--

It had been a long patrol.

Hollis's feet dragged, soles scuffling along the pavement, and he weaved as he walked, but all in all, it had been a night well spent, and that was all that made the sullen aches and pains tolerable. His mask was starting to itch, tugging on his skin with every change of expression, and not for the first time (and certainly not the last) he considered something more along the lines of Hooded Justice's cowl, or even Nelson's half-mask – anything that didn't involve so much glue, at the very least.

"I didn't know I could hurt this much," Bill moaned from somewhere behind him, half-draped over Mothman's shoulders. He walked with a pronounced limp, favoring his left ankle with ginger, careful steps, back stooped low to accommodate the outrageous difference in size between himself and Byron. His mask was askew, hanging oddly due to a long cut made along the sewing line right above his ear and torn to the bottom of his left eyehole, and the skin that was exposed revealed a bruise that spilled all the way to his cheekbone.

"Oh, come on now, it's not so bad," Byron replied chidingly, legs quivering as he took the majority of Bill's weight. "I bet it's just a sprain."

"I got thrown off a roof," Bill said, striving for morose and landing somewhere just shy of pained cheer.

"It wasn't that high, and, besides," Mothman's lopsided smile has always been infectious, and even in the sorry state they had found themselves in, Bill grinned right along. "I would have caught you if it had been."

"Shucks, Byron," Dollar Bill clunked the side of his head against Mothman's, "That's awful sweet of you to say."

"Um. Um, Bill? I'm going to drop you in a second if you don't let up. You weigh a ton."

"Oh! Sorry, sorry," Dollar Bill lurched into a more upright position, wobbling in place for a moment before finding the right balance of carrying his own weight and letting Byron take the rest. "Gosh, sorry, I wasn't thinking."

Hollis let himself dawdle just a little bit more, slowing until he pulled even with the mismatched duo. He ached in ways he could never have imagined, his body tired and the bruises still tender all across his chest, but he still drew up Bill's arm to lay across his shoulders, buoying him up from his bowed posture. "It'll be morning by the time we get back if you boys keep this up," He exaggerated with an only the slightest hint of a chiding inflection, "And I've got an icepack with my name on it waiting, so…"

"What? We're just taking the scenic route," Bill said with a bubbly brightness that could set anyone's teeth on edge. "This is quality time."

"Sure it is," Hollis grunted, with maybe a little more irritation than he meant. "In the same way that Byron's Manifestos are recommended reading."

"What?" Byron swung his head around abruptly, shifting their precarious balance (after all, Dollar Bill towered over them both and it wasn't exactly the easiest thing to support his sheer bulk) and frowning. "It's an interesting and reasonable form of soci—"

"Again, Byron? Really?" Hollis tried to hide his wince – both at his own lack of tact and what he has inadvertently stirred up – and does his best to turn it into a half-smile, to take the sting out. "It's not like we all haven't heard this last week, and—"

"It's perfectly valid and, and Bill hasn't heard it," Mothman interrupted stiffly, all righteous indignation, before meekly tilting his gaze up to meet Bill's eyes. "Uh, have you?"

Bill grinned affably, glancing first at Nite Owl, then down at Mothman. "Heard what?"

Grimacing, Hollis squinted up ahead, watching the wonderful, bare door as it steadily grew before them, only a few yards away. The patriot in him cringed. His ears rang. "Oh, no."

Mothman's lips thinned in an oddly specific manner, and he said "Marxism?" with a baiting lilt, a fisherman tugging gently on the line.

And Bill's brow creased, shifting his mask as he asked, with a painful honesty, "What now?"

"Ah-ha, there we go. You see? Hasn't heard it." Byron's smirk had all the smug satisfaction of a particularly plump cat with a bird in its mouth, and he clapped Bill warmly on the arm with his free hand. "Billy-boy, you're in for a treat. Watch the curb."

Obligingly, Bill stepped high along with the others, clearly not wanting to add 'broken nose' to the night's laundry list of hurts. "Oh. Alright then. What exactly haven't I heard?"

"He's talking about Communism."

"Like—like Stalin?" Bill asked, voice dropping with an oddly endearing sense of horror as they sidled into the doorway crabwise, making a beeline for the meeting room.

"That's exactly what," Hollis said, knowing he was only riling Byron up at this point but just mean enough to enjoy it.

Mothman sputtered for a moment, levering Bill into a seat, hands twitching wildly as he tried to settle into a reasonable line of thought. "Hardly. No—Marxism is completely different. It was before Stalin. There's—that's completely—no." He tapped his fingers on the tabletop briefly, deft mind already dredging up the old argument, and he plopped down into his chair with a deeply felt air of authority. "Okay, here's a— have you heard of the bourgeoisie? Ah. No, it's not important. Marxism—"

"Communism," interjected Hollis, with purposeful obliviousness towards the flat look that was flicked toward him before being redirected to its newest bemused target.

"—is based on the idea of creating an ideal society. It's much more balanced and fair than a Capitalist-dominated…oh." Byron's voice abruptly died somewhere in the back of his throat, his normally excellent posture withering like grapes in the sun. His eyes dropped down to the table, and when he slid down into his seat the back of his costume rode up enough to flash a narrow strip of skin just above his belt. He didn't seem to particularly notice or care, going to great lengths to keep his gaze averted. "Oh. H-hello, Nelly. H.J."

"Hullo, boys," Nelson said cheerfully, dusting at his chest even though his costume is perfectly in order.

Hooded Justice loomed up in the doorway, framed by the kitchen light, dead-man stare locked on Mothman's hunched figure. "Good morning," he rumbled, voice muffled but his enunciation clear as anything. "Comrades."

Byron flinched, and huddled just a little lower, fingertips creeping along the lip of the table. It might have been a blush that colored his cheeks, but the mask and the angle of his head made it almost impossible to tell whether or not without being terribly obvious one was looking. It had been as such for the last few weeks; H..J. couldn't seem to let go of the antagonism born one awkward night when the man had decided to tell Byron exactly what he thought of Communist dogs and Liberals.

"Oh, for pity's sake, are you badmouthing Democracy again?" Captain Metropolis, perhaps in some misguided attempt to overlook Hooded Justice's extreme political leanings for one more night, chuckled, already heading over to the trio.

"I didn't say anything about Democracy," Byron mumbled, only half as piqued as he would have been, had it been anyone else. "It's a completely different subject."

"Hm, yes, of course. Rough night?" Nelson addressed them with the fraternal patronization they'd all come to know and understand, taking a seat opposite Byron. Hooded Justice, after brief pause, joined him, jerking his arm above the table when Nelson leaned toward in what might have been an abortive attempt to brush up against him (carefully overlooked, of course). "Quite a shiner you've got there, Bill."

"Oh, it's nothing," Bill, somewhat self-conscious, moved a palm up to cover the puffy blemish. "Just got thrown off a roof, 's'all. Didn't expect the guy to just come at me like that," His opposite hand, meanwhile, slipped out to touch Byron's elbow, gently, with the tips of his fingers, like one would a tender wound or a beaten dog. Hollis found his palms suddenly and intensely fascinating.

"Preparedness," Nelson nodded sagely, without looking at all disappointed when H.J. leaned as far away from him as possible. "That's what they teach you in the military. Always be prepared, for everything and anything."

"I was prepared, I was plenty prepared for a fight, but he just bull-rushed me," Bill said, trying hard to not sound plaintive as a reprimanded schoolboy.

"I don't know, it seems like the criminal element is getting bolder? I'm not sure what to think of it," Byron, eyes firmly glued to the very center of the table, came to his defense, or merely blurted the first thing to cross his mind. Either way, Hollis did a damned good job not noticing the way Bill's fingers stayed by his elbow, or toyed lightly with one of the straps – it's below the table anyways, and it wasn't as if he had to see.

"Well, it's obvious, really," Nelson said, in that mildly condescending tone that suggested he was startled that everyone else hadn't already come to the same conclusion he had. He shrugged depreciatively, and smiled as he said, "It's the darkies."

Without due cause or warning, Byron went very still. His chest rose once, slowly, like he was counting out oxygen molecules, and then he exhaled all at once in the manner that most people curse in. "Pardon?" he asked, and his politeness seemed only slightly strained. "I don't think I quite caught that."

"The coloreds. Population has been on the rise, you know." He gestured loosely with one hand. "Hollis, surely you've run into it. Colored areas are always the hotspots, aren't they?"

Hollis opened his mouth to reply, then closed it, and after a moment of indecision let it fall a little slack. "Er," he managed after a long moment, brows furrowing. He felt distinctly and inexplicably aware of his present company; Mothman had been taking those slow, measured breaths for a while now, wings twitching just enough to stir the air around him, the edges brushing against Hollis's arm, and Bill right on the other side, and Nelson's genial smirk and Hooded Justice's flat stare boring into him. His chest still hurt. He was still sore. He hated being on the spot.

"Well, I…"

Mothman had always expressed such bizarrely strong opinions whenever color came up, even over conventional things like doorways or fountains or buses, Hollis had learned long ago to simply say nothing at all on the subject. He could feel Mothman's attention on him like a weight, and so he coughed politely into his hand, stalling. "I, uh. I don't know if I'd…"

"Sure you have. We've all seen it in the papers – why, just last week I had a run in with a pack of buffie boys. Honestly, I'm surprised more hasn't been done about it in those parts. If they can't control themselves, someone has to. I suppose I can't in good faith expect much, really, being nig—"

"Excuse me," Byron blurted, his fingers locked together like he was afraid they might run off if he dared to loosen his grip. His eyes narrowed, crinkling around the edges; his mouth twitched, first up then down then into a sort of flat line that might have started out as a scowl but just sort of got stuck partway; he leaned forward intently. "I—could you run that by me again? Are you saying color plays directly into inclination for crime?"

"Well, yes," Nelson blustered slightly, still striving for upbeat conversation. "That's the long and short of it."

"Oh. Okay, then," Byron said, and before anyone could move, he had lunged half across the table to wrap both hands around Captain Metropolis's throat.

"Byron!" Dollar Bill yowled, horror and shock and bewilderment warbling his voice horribly, the sound distinctly similar to a whining dog left on the porch one too many nights.

"What in blue blazes are you doing?" Hollis was shouting as he leapt to his feet, trying to grapple Byron off Nelson and getting a boot to the chest for his troubles.

"Ha!" Offered Hooded Justice, slamming both massive fists against the table as he jerked out of the way, letting the brawling pair tumble past him and onto the floor. Byron landed on top, half-straddling Nelson as he lifted the gagging man by the throat and smashed him back into the linoleum. He seemed to enjoy it immensely, and repeated the motion a second time, ignoring the frantic fingernails that clawed into his wrists. In this time, Bill had already hobble-charged around the table, barreling straight for the two with every intention of putting an end to the nonsense, but lost his footing with a gasp of pain and went sprawling a good four feet of them.

Byron jerked his head around in surprise at the thud Bill made when he hit the floor, and in the momentary lapse, his grip loosened.

Nelson lurched to free of Byron's clutches with a wheeze, and elbowed the smaller man in the face in a clumsy side strike. Not nearly as much force as he could have put behind it, but it was enough; Mothman reeled back, and the good Captain took such opportunity to roll them both over, putting one palm flat against Byron's chest and walloping the side of Mothman's head.

At this, Hooded Justice gave a great hearty chuckle, slapping his hand down to the tabletop again encouragingly. "Ja! Das ist gut!"

Hollis, meanwhile, remembered how to breathe again, and sat up woozily, clutching his sternum like he'd just had a heart attack and still wasn't sure that it wouldn't just come tumbling out if he let go. "What is going on?" He asked no one in particular, and heaved himself up as best he can to peer over the expanse of the table.

Still seated firmly on Mothman's chest, a flushed Nelson clobbered Byron again, and again, and again, keeping him dazed and therefore complacent, and rasped hoarsely, "Good gravy, man, what's gotten into you?" and gave him a hearty open-palmed slap for good measure.

Byron snarled between his teeth, and arched his back, levering a very surprised Nelson off and rolling onto his belly, eyes swearing murder. Captain Metropolis, scrambling to get away from the madman in their midst, made it a grand total of three steps before Byron crouched low and sprang forward, tackling Nelson's knees and once more bringing him to ground. Nelson hollered for help, Hooded Justice still laughing merrily in the background, and at long last, Bill had managed to stand without tipping over, and gawped for only a scant few seconds before storming forward.

"Byron, for Crissakes," he grabbed the scruff of Mothman's costume, and bodily hauled him off of Captain Metropolis, bellowing like he never had before, face red with what could only be described as embarrassment. He wrapped one arm around Byron's torso, pinning his arms against his sides, and ground out, "What is wrong with you?"

Mothman snarled incoherently, thrashing, and Nelson had already stumbled to the door, seemingly intent on leaving while he still had opportunity to do so. "I'm not done with you yet, you sonuvabitch!" Byron screamed after him, and in a move no one in his weight index should have been able to pull, pulled Bill over his shoulder.

He was moving before the greatly surprised Kansas athlete has even hit linoleum, charging straight for a howling Nelly.

His shoulder took Nelson right in the belly, momentum carrying them forward and into the door and—

—crashing straight through it and into the street.

"Oh, hell," mumbles Hollis, ignoring the affronted look Bill shot him for his language as he hauled the younger man upright. "Just what we needed."

Hooded Justice loomed up behind them, shoulders shaking as he unsuccessfully tries to quell the heavy, panting sounds of mirth. "Let's go see who wins, shall we?" He said in what is probably the most amicable voice he had ever used, and pushed through them to trot for the door.

Hollis frowned after him, and grabbed Bill's shoulder. "Come on, then."

--

"Oh, hell," Hollis grunted. And, just in case the point hadn't sunk in yet, "Hell."

Captain Metropolis had Byron by one wing, attempting to use it as a barrier and a leash, dancing about in what would have been a comedic display had his nose not been freely running with blood and mucus. "You stop this right now! I won't fight someone of my own unit—"

"Yes, you will, you stupid ass!"

"Dang it, Mothman!" Nelson gave a good hard tug, spinning the smaller man around to face him head on, cocked a fist, and laid him flat out on his back.

Byron had always relied heavily on his own maneuverability and the element of surprise in a fight; he didn't have the staying power, the sheer ferocity, to duke it out long term with a knowledgeable opponent. Unfortunately for him, the latter situation was Nelson's specialty, which he made a point of reiterating by dropping his knee onto Byron's chest and swinging one fist after the other in a methodical, precise rhythm. Byron kicked wildly but lacked the energy to supplement his lack of muscle mass to effectively buck him off a second time, raising a mighty fuss but accomplishing nothing significant.

"Alright! Alright, enough, he's had enough," Bill limped forward, throwing out a hand like he might push Nelson off even if he was much too far to actually do so.

Nelson, thankfully, ceased his assault, his chest heaving with gasped breaths. "You know I hated to do that," he said, either to the quiescent Mothman or the assembled Masks or maybe the crowd that had, predictably, formed. "I really did."

"J-just get offa me," Byron spat with a sullen brand of menace, lips split and bloody but functioning enough to make the words venomous.

After a moment, Nelson nodded, and rose up, dusting off his thoroughly ruined costume though it was too out of order to really make a difference. He reached down a hand to help his fellow Minuteman up, perhaps as an apology or some manner of forgiveness, but Byron seemed less than interested in his aid, sitting up straight and staring rigidly at the gravel between his feet.

"Ah. Well—ahem—I do hope we can put this nasty business behind us, then?" Nelson asked, maybe a little plaintively, if one listened with the right kind of ear, and took his proffered hand back, rubbing the wrist absently.

Byron's expression didn't change.

With a final, stern look, Nelson turned about, heading back inside. Hooded Justice loitered outside for a time longer, just watching, before guffawing and following after the other man, muttering something harsh and distinctly German under his breath.

From behind the door came muffled words. "Oh, for pity's sake!"

"What is it?"

"I got a hard-on."

And Hollis decided then to call it a night.