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It's the height of summer, and the city clings to the heat of the daytime sun long into the neon-painted evenings. It's the first time in the few months since they partnered up that Rorschach has left his trench coat behind, and Dan can't help but watch the blaze of pinstripe and dress-shirt as he drops another punk to the asphalt.
Even having made a concession to the weather, it makes Dan sweat to look at him. He's still has to be wearing a number of layers; suit, shirt, vest, undershirt—Dan has an inventory of his partner's uniform from hasty application of first aid—plus the fedora and the leather gloves and that goddamn latex mask.
"Aren't you hot?" he says, panting lightly as he cuffs a couple of ko'd gang members to a lamp post. He feels kind of light-headed himself, and he's only wearing a single layer of Kevlar. His uniform doesn't breathe all that well, but it's got to be better than all that cotton and gabardine.
A grunt from Rorschach, and a tilt of his head that Dan has learned to interpret. You're right, it means, but I'll never admit it. Rorschach adjusts the cuffs of his suit jacket, conscious of Dan's scrutiny.
The horizon is brightening, silver seeping up into the deep sky, and Rorschach seems to decide that this heralds the end of their night's work. "Tomorrow, then," he says, touching the brim of his hat in farewell. He turns and takes a few paces before Dan speaks up.
"Hey," he says. "Come back to mine."
Rorschach turns abruptly, and the patterns on his mask judder and swirl. Dan realizes with burning embarrassment that it sounds like he is propositioning him. He's never really invited Rorschach back before; the guy usually just follows him home like a stray cat, eats Dan's leftover takeout while complaining about foreign food, then slinks off to wherever he came from.
"Um," he says, because actually it was a proposition, whether he wants to admit it or not. "I mean, it's been crazy weather and I have a couple beers on ice and..."
Rorschach interrupts him. "I don't drink, Daniel."
"Well, yeah, I know that." Dan rubs the back of his neck and laughs. "Okay, forget I said anything. See you tomorrow night, man."
"Ehn," Rorschach says, and in a couple of strides he's abreast with Dan again. "Not interested in the beer, but..." He clears his throat. "Would appreciate use of your shower, if it wouldn't be an imposition."
"Not at all," Dan says, and manages to stop his grin getting too stupid.
[#]
Dan watches the dawn break from the comfortable vantage of his living room couch, soft pink-gold light spilling through the windows and brushing the floor with pastel shadows. His second beer is perspiring steadily and dripping onto his t-shirt, the cool bottle idly pressed against his face and skewing his glasses.
He heard the shower shut off not long ago, and he's entertaining himself by imagining Rorschach dressing fastidiously, one item of clothing at a time. It started as an innocent game, constructing his myriad layers like a paper doll, but now he's pleasantly buzzed and there's a certain warmth stirring between his thighs.
It's not exactly a good idea to think of his partner like this; not with the puritanical rants and espousing of right-wing ideals and the classically repressed dozens-of-layers thing he's got going on, and hell, not with him in the house. He always moves like a wild thing, though, and the efficient brutality with which he defends his streets is intoxicating. Tonight was no different.
Except tonight was different; tonight Rorschach was stripped back, just a tiny amount. It's a snagged thread, and Dan can't help but feel if he tugs hard enough, the whole persona will unravel and he will get to see what hides beneath.
Sometimes when it's been a chaotic, busy night, Rorschach forgets himself and grabs the back of Dan's neck to bring their heads close. He sometimes says, "Good job, Nite Owl," in that rusted voice, and Dan always thrills at his touch, at the hard-earned praise. It makes him want to slide his hands under the scarf and finger the seam of his mask where it lies against his neck.
He gives a low groan, and slides a hand against his groin. Goddammit, it makes him hard, especially when he catches the light just so, and the ink swirls like parting water and Dan thinks he can see him either grimacing or smiling, it doesn't matter which, just that he can see the faint impression of his mouth.
Dan licks his lips and cups himself through his pants. He's seen his partner's mouth a few times before, when he rolls the mask up over his nose to eat or drink or spit out blood. It's not pretty. Nothing about him is pretty, it's all dour and blunt and raw, and usually bruised or sutured, too. He shouldn't find him so magnetic.
He lets his eyes slip closed and rubs himself, fingernails rasping against the zipper. He imagines pressing his fingers against the mask, sliding them into Rorschach's mouth. He'd bite. Dan's breath hitches.
"Daniel?"
Oh, Christ.
Dan crosses his legs and takes a slug of his beer before he dares to look over at his partner. He almost chokes on his mouthful.
Rorschach is barefoot, wearing only his pinstriped pants and half-buttoned shirt, dampened by his freshly-showered skin. His scarf is looped around his neck, suspenders hanging at his thighs. He's tense, hands fisted. "Thought I heard you..."
This is bad. Dan didn't even realize he'd been vocal, never mind loud enough to get Rorschach's attention - and then to catch Rorschach short of words, that's never good. The unfinished sentence hangs accusingly.
"Uh," Dan says, and straightens his glasses. "No, I was just, um."
"Are you injured? Foolish to leave a wound untreated." Rorschach moves closer, inkblots shifting into a series of patterns: wings; a cascade of leaves. Dan feels himself flush. There are curls of red hair on Rorschach's chest, and freckles, he's a redhead, oh god. He squeezes his eyes shut.
He opens them again when he feels his beer lifted away and placed on the coffee table.
"I'm not hurt," he says, words falling over themselves as Rorschach leans in to run his hands down Dan's arms, lifting them to check for wounds. Bare hands on bare arms. Dan can barely hear anything over the rush of blood in his ears.
"Feverish, skin is flushed."
"I'm not hurt," Dan repeats, more carefully this time. He sees the shift of latex; Rorschach running his tongue over his lips, contemplative. "Oh man," he says, mouth working faster than his brain. "Rorschach, put some more clothes on before I do something stupid."
A long, appalled pause.
"What," Rorschach says, and straightens up.
Dan kind of wants to laugh at his consternation, but that would be awful of him. He throws him a rope and changes the subject instead. "Are you sure you don't want that beer?"
"Alcohol impairs your judgment," Rorschach says pointedly, though the barb doesn't disguise his apparent relief at the new turn to the conversation.
"It also helps you unwind," Dan retorts, equally pointed. He leans forward to catch his bottle up.
Rorschach folds his arms across his chest, roped muscle shifting under the thin fabric of his shirt. "Insinuating something, perhaps?"
"Nothing gets by you," Dan says, and thinks, oh god shut up shut up you idiot, but carries right on anyway. "You don't have a particularly good relationship with pleasure, do you, buddy?"
[#]
Rorschach is an intelligent man, Dan thinks, but like anyone else, he has his foibles. The calculated violence and ugly bigoted streak aside, he's uptight and stubborn to a fault, and he hates being wrong—especially when it means Dan is right.
And Dan has very recently discovered that he's also extremely loud when on the receiving end of a blowjob, and won't stay the hell still. Dan's barely breathed on him and he's already squirming, bare ass squeaking on the leather upholstery. Threatening to tie him down with his scarf and suspenders earned Dan a sharp knee in the gut, but one step at a time, hey.
"You trust me, right?" Dan murmurs, nosing at his cock. The soft glide of skin was a surprise at first, but of course he wouldn't necessarily be cut. It fascinates him. He runs a firm hand up Rorschach's shaft and makes the skin bunch up, then pulls it back again to reveal the plump head.
"Any reason why I shouldn't," Rorschach says, hooking his mask over his nose to catch his breath. Dan doesn't think he's ever sounded so alarmed, not even facing off against ridiculous, armed-to-the-teeth odds.
"No, just...god, just relax, man. Let yourself go." He runs his tongue over the head of Rorschach's cock, then catches his foreskin between his lips, works it gently. That earns him a noise that usually means one of them has been stabbed. Absently, he thinks that patrols might get kind of physically awkward from now on, and that's more than a little messed up.
Dan presses his lips around Rorschach's cock, and Rorschach breathes in sharp little gasps, grabbing at Dan's hair as hips surge upward. Dan's not sure exactly what he was expecting, but for whatever reason, it wasn't that; he gags and pulls back before he chokes.
Dan wipes his watering eyes and tries to stop coughing. "Okay, maybe a little restraint."
Rorschach looks aghast. Dan fails to keep a straight face. He is a terrible person. Without thinking, he leans up to kiss Rorschach, some idiotic attempt to reassure him or something, but Rorschach turns his face aside.
Okay then. Maybe it's not gay if they don't kiss.
Dan goes back to sucking his cock.
He digs his fingertips into the inside of Rorschach's thighs, pressing against hard muscle that is already tensing and relaxing in waves. No wonder the bastard is always so ready to punch someone; he's got one hell of a hair-trigger. It's as if Rorschach—or whoever he is when he's not being Rorschach—never takes care of himself.
Perhaps Dan was that little bit too close to the mark earlier. It would explain the rapid and kind of frantic escalation of events, anyway.
It doesn't take much more: the press of his tongue on the underside of Rorschach's cock as Dan slides him from his mouth, and a firm stroke of his hand, thumb spreading saliva and precome and teasing the spot just under the head. He falls silent, pained groans given way to deep breaths. Dan's warning is a sudden mournful noise, and then Rorschach's muscles lock and tremble as he spurts against Dan's lips and runs hot over his fingers.
For a moment Dan has the perverted urge to lick his lips and grin lasciviously at his partner, but he quite likes his face the way it is, so he just wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and glances up. Rorschach is sprawled over the couch, slack-mouthed. The ink of his mask drifts in nebulous wisps as his breathing steadily slows and quietens.
Dan shoves his knee. He doesn't react.
"You're an ass," Dan says. "At least a token compliment, Jesus." Because he's such a goddamn authority on blowjob etiquette. He reaches into his pants to adjust his erection, climbs to his feet as he grumbles amiably to himself. "And what am I supposed to do with this, huh? Seriously man, that's just not cool."
He finds Rorschach's gloves on the hallway bureau, pockets them while he climbs the stairs. Later, when he sits on his bed and runs ratty, soft leather down his stomach and over his hips, he decides that maybe Rorschach was quite complimentary after all; he just has to work on his delivery.