[fic] Anchor; Watchmen; Dan/Ror
Title: Anchor
Fandom: Watchmen
Pairing: Dan/Ror
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Summary: It is professional when they touch, it is for the sake of their partnership.
Originally written 7/30/09 on the KM for this prompt: I want to see Rorschach really, really affected by platonic!touch Dan.
Throughout the city they swung their rhythm; merciful when deserved, vicious when not, a torrent unleashed to cleanse grime from the earth. He believed it could be done. Nite Owl believed it too. So they descended upon the unworthy night after night, muscles burning, breath sometimes coming claustrophobic beneath his mask-but it was worth it. It was worth it despite the accumulated bruises and fatigue and no time for any hobby. It was worth it for those nights when they became something even better than mere men in the heat of battle, faceless beings fighting for good under the revealing yellow eye of streetlamps. No matter what memories from bad dreams writhed up in his mind, no matter what indignities of low-wage work he had to suffer, he could shut his eyes and think: tonight.
Sometimes they were only men, just human. It had made him queasy and uncomfortable the first time Daniel pulled back his cowl; it looked like something pulling off its own skin. But gradually, he grew accustomed. Gradually, he saw the logic and usefulness of it. Developing mutual loyalty would allow them to present a united front. Developing trust and a second sense for each other's whereabouts would give them an advantage in coordination. Inside the Owl's Nest (where it smelled of dampness and dust and motor oil), it was okay to eat in front of Daniel and reveal he had a mouth just like anyone else, okay to peel back his glove to massage aching fingers like anyone would, okay to voice all the philosophical thoughts which came from a heart and mind beneath the costume.
Okay to touch.
He thought of it as appreciation. He thought of it as professional. Businessmen shook hands during day on the sidewalk. Policemen patted each other on the back when they solved a case. (His mother had drawn nervous men down the hallway with deft sweeps of her hand: throat, ear, waist.)
He always made sure to shake hands with Daniel, never forgot. Every time they had a successful patrol (they all were successful, even the ones which left them bloody), he clasped hands to keep the bond strong because they were partners.
And they were friends. He would always be grateful to Daniel for that. Not many people tried. Daniel had.
Sometimes he thought the friendship meant more to him than the partnership.
Sometimes he didn't think that was a bad thing.
They were allowed to touch. They shook hands like businessmen, they patted each other on the back like policemen, (throat, ear, waist). Neither of them begrudged it, both of them welcomed it. He couldn't even remember when it had started, only that neither of them had ever thought it strange. When they shook hands, it was like a conduit of energy. It was a reminder of the men under the masks, the secrets they knew of each other, the friendship that was theirs alone. It was an anchor to the world where there were good things and good people.
It felt right when he hauled an injured and barely-conscious Nite Owl back to the owlship, the mingled musk of his sweat and sharp adrenaline washing over him like something not entirely unpleasant (like dampness and dust and motor oil). Only he should be allowed to do this.
Back in the basement they shared (for convenience's sake) he peeled back the cowl (so he could check for head injuries) with bare hands (he had to take off his gloves to keep them from getting soiled). A darker slash cut across Daniel's stomach, and after a short breath, he exposed the skin. The flat of his palm pressed up against strong abdominals, pulling the injury taut so he could disinfect, then stitch, useless ability finally meaning something beyond getting him enough money to make rent.
Late at night in his own bed, he thought of skin under his hands, unfamiliar and soft. He rolled his face into the pillow and wondered why it was so vivid, wondered if surgeons dreamed of their patients.
The next day, Daniel squeezed his shoulder in gratitude. Walter could feel the pressure in his bones long afterward.
Fandom: Watchmen
Pairing: Dan/Ror
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Summary: It is professional when they touch, it is for the sake of their partnership.
Originally written 7/30/09 on the KM for this prompt: I want to see Rorschach really, really affected by platonic!touch Dan.
Throughout the city they swung their rhythm; merciful when deserved, vicious when not, a torrent unleashed to cleanse grime from the earth. He believed it could be done. Nite Owl believed it too. So they descended upon the unworthy night after night, muscles burning, breath sometimes coming claustrophobic beneath his mask-but it was worth it. It was worth it despite the accumulated bruises and fatigue and no time for any hobby. It was worth it for those nights when they became something even better than mere men in the heat of battle, faceless beings fighting for good under the revealing yellow eye of streetlamps. No matter what memories from bad dreams writhed up in his mind, no matter what indignities of low-wage work he had to suffer, he could shut his eyes and think: tonight.
Sometimes they were only men, just human. It had made him queasy and uncomfortable the first time Daniel pulled back his cowl; it looked like something pulling off its own skin. But gradually, he grew accustomed. Gradually, he saw the logic and usefulness of it. Developing mutual loyalty would allow them to present a united front. Developing trust and a second sense for each other's whereabouts would give them an advantage in coordination. Inside the Owl's Nest (where it smelled of dampness and dust and motor oil), it was okay to eat in front of Daniel and reveal he had a mouth just like anyone else, okay to peel back his glove to massage aching fingers like anyone would, okay to voice all the philosophical thoughts which came from a heart and mind beneath the costume.
Okay to touch.
He thought of it as appreciation. He thought of it as professional. Businessmen shook hands during day on the sidewalk. Policemen patted each other on the back when they solved a case. (His mother had drawn nervous men down the hallway with deft sweeps of her hand: throat, ear, waist.)
He always made sure to shake hands with Daniel, never forgot. Every time they had a successful patrol (they all were successful, even the ones which left them bloody), he clasped hands to keep the bond strong because they were partners.
And they were friends. He would always be grateful to Daniel for that. Not many people tried. Daniel had.
Sometimes he thought the friendship meant more to him than the partnership.
Sometimes he didn't think that was a bad thing.
They were allowed to touch. They shook hands like businessmen, they patted each other on the back like policemen, (throat, ear, waist). Neither of them begrudged it, both of them welcomed it. He couldn't even remember when it had started, only that neither of them had ever thought it strange. When they shook hands, it was like a conduit of energy. It was a reminder of the men under the masks, the secrets they knew of each other, the friendship that was theirs alone. It was an anchor to the world where there were good things and good people.
It felt right when he hauled an injured and barely-conscious Nite Owl back to the owlship, the mingled musk of his sweat and sharp adrenaline washing over him like something not entirely unpleasant (like dampness and dust and motor oil). Only he should be allowed to do this.
Back in the basement they shared (for convenience's sake) he peeled back the cowl (so he could check for head injuries) with bare hands (he had to take off his gloves to keep them from getting soiled). A darker slash cut across Daniel's stomach, and after a short breath, he exposed the skin. The flat of his palm pressed up against strong abdominals, pulling the injury taut so he could disinfect, then stitch, useless ability finally meaning something beyond getting him enough money to make rent.
Late at night in his own bed, he thought of skin under his hands, unfamiliar and soft. He rolled his face into the pillow and wondered why it was so vivid, wondered if surgeons dreamed of their patients.
The next day, Daniel squeezed his shoulder in gratitude. Walter could feel the pressure in his bones long afterward.