They're disgusting, all frothy lace and sleek black satin that is difficult to stitch, slips the needle and snarls around the workings of his machine no matter how he holds it. These frilled things are designed for men, not the women who wear them—furtive, sweaty men who pay to see the shining fabric filled out with fat curves, elastic biting into fleshy skin. It's galling that he has to construct them, knowing all that, but even more so because he has to admit to himself: he prefers them to the brassieres. At least the satin is—
Walter pulls the fabric taut and drives it through his sewing machine, deliberately passing over the same spot again and again until the thread bulges in ugly ridges and the satin buckles and snags, begins to shear. Until it doesn't feel quite as smooth against his rough fingertips, doesn't feel quite so like—
"Kovacs!" his boss barks, far too close to his ear, and Walter jerks the panties away in alarm. Long trails of thread reel out in their wake and lie in spidery tangles against his arm. He apologizes, subservience gritted out from between clenched teeth; he never reduces himself to the groveling that would save him from compulsory overtime.
Later, in his rathole apartment, he relaxes his bunched fist and the underwear unfurls over his hand. No ribbon or lace on this pair he has made, no trim to distract from the warmed luster of the dark satin. He sits, drapes them over one bony knee and rubs them with the heel of his hand, drags idle circles with his fingers.
It's fine like this; hard planes beneath the sleekness, not the give of doughy, feminine flesh. Pulled over muscle and sinew, it becomes something else, nothing more deviant than the inside of his jacket or the soft lining of his gloves. It is reclaimed as something honest, baptized in the pursuit of justice. This makes it more bearable to touch them all day.
The sun is setting. It will be time soon.
-
"No," Rorschach says, and bats Nite Owl's hand away, hauls himself up from the asphalt. He digs his fingers into the alley brickwork and tries not to give away how much pain he is in.
"Don't be an idiot," Nite Owl says, his mouth bowed unhappily, pulling down and pressing worry-lines into his face. His hand is straying again, gripping the hem of Rorschach's trench, lifting. "He got you, I can see the blood. Come on, man. Let me take a look."
Stupid mistake, stepping over the kid without being certain he was out cold, without kicking the knife away first. Stupid, rookie mistake and he's glad he'll have a scar to remind him of his foolishness. "No," he says again, pushing away emphatically.
There is a lot of blood, warm and damp against his inner thigh, sticky against leather when he presses his gloved hand to the wound. He's starting to feel dizzy, nauseous, and that's the only reason he lets Nite Owl pulls his arm over his shoulders and guide him to the Owlship.
He's pushed in the co-pilot seat before he knows where he is, and Nite Owl is pulling his trench coat aside, clumsily fumbling open the buttons of his suit jacket, still with his gauntlets on. He is still frowning, but there's an edge to his expression now. Rorschach doesn't like it.
Rorschach freezes up when Nite Owl starts on the fly of his pinstripes, tugging frustratedly, and there's a reason he shouldn't let him do this, something about standards of appropriateness mixed up with ideas of his self-image and the boundaries that their partnership should observe, but it's nebulous, drifting out of his grasp like so much smoke.
His vision is graying, sharpening and dulling in turn. Sensation is narrowed to the dull throb of his leg in time with his breathing and Nite Owl's breathing, and the small agitated noise Nite Owl makes when he finds the suspenders, thumbs them free.
A sharp intake of air, and it's hard to focus but he thinks it was Nite Owl who made the noise, and not himself. Nite Owl is hovering, hand poised over Rorschach, suddenly apprehensive. Beneath the unreadable dark glass of his goggles, his mouth opens wordlessly.
Rorschach thinks, disconnectedly, that he must be hurt pretty badly.
Nite Owl's tongue darts over his lower lip. It's arresting and obscene, and it's the last thing he remembers.
Dan/Rorschach; Crossdressing, H/C; PG-13; 1/2
Walter pulls the fabric taut and drives it through his sewing machine, deliberately passing over the same spot again and again until the thread bulges in ugly ridges and the satin buckles and snags, begins to shear. Until it doesn't feel quite as smooth against his rough fingertips, doesn't feel quite so like—
"Kovacs!" his boss barks, far too close to his ear, and Walter jerks the panties away in alarm. Long trails of thread reel out in their wake and lie in spidery tangles against his arm. He apologizes, subservience gritted out from between clenched teeth; he never reduces himself to the groveling that would save him from compulsory overtime.
Later, in his rathole apartment, he relaxes his bunched fist and the underwear unfurls over his hand. No ribbon or lace on this pair he has made, no trim to distract from the warmed luster of the dark satin. He sits, drapes them over one bony knee and rubs them with the heel of his hand, drags idle circles with his fingers.
It's fine like this; hard planes beneath the sleekness, not the give of doughy, feminine flesh. Pulled over muscle and sinew, it becomes something else, nothing more deviant than the inside of his jacket or the soft lining of his gloves. It is reclaimed as something honest, baptized in the pursuit of justice. This makes it more bearable to touch them all day.
The sun is setting. It will be time soon.
-
"No," Rorschach says, and bats Nite Owl's hand away, hauls himself up from the asphalt. He digs his fingers into the alley brickwork and tries not to give away how much pain he is in.
"Don't be an idiot," Nite Owl says, his mouth bowed unhappily, pulling down and pressing worry-lines into his face. His hand is straying again, gripping the hem of Rorschach's trench, lifting. "He got you, I can see the blood. Come on, man. Let me take a look."
Stupid mistake, stepping over the kid without being certain he was out cold, without kicking the knife away first. Stupid, rookie mistake and he's glad he'll have a scar to remind him of his foolishness. "No," he says again, pushing away emphatically.
There is a lot of blood, warm and damp against his inner thigh, sticky against leather when he presses his gloved hand to the wound. He's starting to feel dizzy, nauseous, and that's the only reason he lets Nite Owl pulls his arm over his shoulders and guide him to the Owlship.
He's pushed in the co-pilot seat before he knows where he is, and Nite Owl is pulling his trench coat aside, clumsily fumbling open the buttons of his suit jacket, still with his gauntlets on. He is still frowning, but there's an edge to his expression now. Rorschach doesn't like it.
Rorschach freezes up when Nite Owl starts on the fly of his pinstripes, tugging frustratedly, and there's a reason he shouldn't let him do this, something about standards of appropriateness mixed up with ideas of his self-image and the boundaries that their partnership should observe, but it's nebulous, drifting out of his grasp like so much smoke.
His vision is graying, sharpening and dulling in turn. Sensation is narrowed to the dull throb of his leg in time with his breathing and Nite Owl's breathing, and the small agitated noise Nite Owl makes when he finds the suspenders, thumbs them free.
A sharp intake of air, and it's hard to focus but he thinks it was Nite Owl who made the noise, and not himself. Nite Owl is hovering, hand poised over Rorschach, suddenly apprehensive. Beneath the unreadable dark glass of his goggles, his mouth opens wordlessly.
Rorschach thinks, disconnectedly, that he must be hurt pretty badly.
Nite Owl's tongue darts over his lower lip. It's arresting and obscene, and it's the last thing he remembers.
-