Title: Where We Meet
Disclaimer: I, in no way, shape, manner, or form, own the Watchmen or the characters said comic/ film adaption contains. All publicly recognizable characters are copyrighted to Alan Moore and I do believe DC. No copyright infringement is intended.
Fandom: Watchmen
Characters: Nelson Gardner/Captain Metropolis, Rolf Müller/Hooded Justice
Continuity: Comic
Warnings: Slash, minor violence
Summary: Because that's what you do, for the people you love. You give to them. Give in to them.
Author's Note: Why, yes, I do subscribe to the crack theory that Captain Metropolis moolights as Captain Axis. Why do you ask? Harsh criticism encouraged. Be rough.

--

Nelson must always tread carefully in such places; it simply would never do for his teammates to see him in such a state, so obvious with his skulking slump and furtive glances. The warehouse is empty, far out on the outskirts of any patrol circuit, beyond the prying eyes of both New York's populace and her ever watchful vigilantes. Despite this, his stomach turns, the metallic taste of fear rising in the back of his throat with each mincing step, every crunch of grit and broken glass beneath his boots. The symbol on his chest is burning right through to the skin, bared for all to see, scarring him deeper than flesh, and the idea sends a thrill down his spine.

There is a muted sound, just on the edges of his perception, the softest footfall, subtle but as telling as a scream. Nelson drops down to crouch, scuttling crabwise into the shadow of some ancient piece of obsolete factory equipment, hiding in its ample shadow. His breath is loud – incredibly loud – in his own ears, trapped inside the mask, fogging the black disks of glass that compose his world in shades of grey. He wants, badly, to remove the cloying leather from his head, free his ears and his senses, but all he is allowed is an irritated rub, straining for the least hint to just exactly where—

Something clanks, the sound hollow as an empty coke bottle against a trashcan, and he turns his head against the stiff material at his throat, reaching up absently to tug it away. It's on the opposite side of the footfall, by the great doors, long since unhinged, hanging awkwardly from their rusted bolts. A distraction? Or had the acoustics played tricks on his hearing?

Nelson slowly rose, trying to quell his own breath, mouth going dry. Quiet as a cat, he shuffles towards the far wall, opposite the door and its treacherous openness, the shrouded sky that looms over the city. He uses the secondhand light from the windows – broken teeth and black eyes, chattering old men whispering amongst themselves in the breeze – and works his way along, pausing every other step to listen.

The knee hits him like a ton of bricks.

He goes down hard, wind knocked out of him in a rush, and his torso is already twisting, elbow flying back to strike his assailant in the chest. It's like hitting stone, so impossibly solid to be living.

There is a chuckle, deep and menacing as distant thunder, and a wide hand grabs the back of Nelson's head. He has enough time to brace back before his forehead is slammed into the ground, nose crunching awkwardly against the mouthpiece. He bares a bloody snarl – lips cut on between the metal and his own teeth – and bucks back, hard. He knows he doesn't have the raw power to remove the man so completely, and is just being allowed his freedom, but it still excites him, gets his blood flowing in all the right ways.

He rolls aside a half a second before the foot descends where he would have been; they know each other's reaction times well, there are no mistakes, the play having long been choreographed to a 't'. He swings out with a leg, and catches the back of a knee. Above him, there is a grunt, and a slight give; a stumble, not a fall, and he might as well try to move mountains with just words for all the good it does him.

Still, it's enough time for him to spring to his feet, falling into a fighter's stance, knees bent and hands before him, squared with his shoulders. He cocks his head, 'come on, then', and bounces on his toes.

The first fist is deflected with ease, just a test, still packing force but much less than he is used to. The second is faster, aiming for his gut and he curves with it, lessening the impact and using his momentum to spin around, kicking with considerable strength into the exposed ribcage. A hand – more akin to a bear's paw than any human limb – wraps around his ankle, dragging him forward and off his balance. Nelson flings out his arms to catch himself on air, and that is when the third strike connects, cracking against his jaw and sending him boneless to the floor.

He rolls onto his belly, shoving his hands beneath him to lever himself up, and the toe of a boot slams into his flank, sending him rolling. Nelson has a fast recovery, a way to shove all kinds of pain away, but he can't fight physics, and when that weight drops down on him, he stills, knowing its over now.

Blunt fingers hook under the mask, the first real sensation on sweaty skin and it electrifies him, terrifies him, and suddenly his thin shield is lifted away and he is Nelly again, panting and broken on the floor. He gasps at the rush of air, coldness seeping down his collar and right to his bones, the sharp throb of a chipped tooth flaring up.

Rolf grabs him by his uniform, and he flushes with shame as he watches what he can see of the man's eyes take in the symbol, the horrible image, like it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. Even beneath the heavy mask, Nelly can hear Rolf's breathing become labored, and he offers no resistance as he is towed upward, crushing his mouth to cloth and the teeth beneath. Rolf is hard, so obviously hard against his bruised thigh, and it's only this that lets him kiss back, let Rolf's fingers trace the edges of the swastika, more gently than he ever has been to Nelly's flesh.

Because that's what you do, for the people you love. You give to them. Give in to them.

"H.J.," Nelly says, muffled but intelligible, and is surprised by the gradual release of pressure, the hold on him becoming tender, fingers relaxing from their death grip. The slits – all the windows to Rolf that Nelly will ever know – are sympathetic, and the brush of a thumb to his darkening cheek is a kindness that has no place here.

"Are you hurt?" Rolf rumbles, deep in his chest.

"No," Nelly says, reaching up to cling in a way he can't when they're not alone, when the others are near, and the truth of it pains him in every possible way. It is wrong, it is shameful, and it makes him harder than anything he's ever known. His face contorts, and he rasps, "Why are you stopping?" tugging H.J.'s forearms anxiously. This is not the game he has instigated; this interlude is not allowed.

Rolf grunts rather than speaks, fingers squeezing hard. "Tell me when to stop," He warns, and in his voice is an inexpressible concern, a sadness at the corners of arousal.

Because Nelly never will, and this is why Rolf gives in. Every time.