Fic: The Deadly Light 7/? (Watchmen)

[anactoria]

Title: The Deadly Light
Author: anactoria
Fandom: Watchmen
Characters/Pairing: Various, mostly Adrian/Dan
Rating: PG for this part, probably R-ish overall.
Summary: Lovecraft-inspired 1920s supernatural horror AU.
Notes: Here’s another part! I’m whittling the posting gaps down, slowly…
As always, kindly beta-read by flyingrat42. Thank you! :)
Previous chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6




Adrian has been expecting at least one incapacitated guest tonight, having previous experience of Martins' punch and its effects upon the uninitiated. He hadn't actually expected Dan to be the casualty -- young Miss Juspeczyk seemed a more likely candidate, given the rate at which she was knocking them back -- but perhaps Dan's constitution is a little more vulnerable than he'd realized.

Or perhaps Dan has been drinking more than he'd noticed. After all, he's been busy playing host most of the evening, and even he misses things, from time to time.

Adrian wonders idly why that might be. He is careful to keep his wondering idle.

Dan's head lolls against his shoulder as they make their way down the corridor. Dan stumbles, corrects himself, and mumbles something half-formed that is probably meant to be an apology, embarrassment in his vague smile. His eyelids flicker, slow and irregular as a fading bulb, heavy with drink. But the look beneath them is a wide-open look, unguarded and expectant. Questioning, perhaps.

With an effort, Adrian meets the look, summoning a cheery smile to put off its questions. He pats Dan's shoulder.

"Here's your room," he says. "My staff will see out the rest of the guests. Let me give you a hand."

A shy duck of Dan's head as they slip into the guest room, but he frowns and sets to work on his bowtie, apparently determined to prove that he's not all that impaired. And to his credit, he does manage to get it off without fumbling, the delicate concentration with which he works on his mechanical constructs transferred into the ritual of undressing. He copes with his jacket and shoes, too, but then he's sinking back onto the bed, and asleep almost as soon as his head lands on the pillow, the embarrassed look not quite gone from his face.

Nor are his glasses. Adrian leans in to pluck them off and set them down on the nightstand, and tries not to notice the way Dan's lashes tremble at the brush of his fingers, the way his nose wrinkles up and then his whole face relaxes, reassured. Like all of his expressions, it's guileless, that of a man without secrets or uncertainties.

They've been working together for some time, now, and he wouldn’t hesitate to call Dan a friend, but sometimes Adrian still feels that they inhabit entirely different worlds, looking at one another across a narrow but impassable gulf, communicating in different languages, with just the occasional flash of perfect understanding.

Of course, it is often better not to be perfectly understood. Adrian knows this. He pushes his hands deep into his pockets.

It's been a busy evening, what with Martins' fondness for lengthy conversation, and the inevitable dozens of other attendees scrambling for a minute of Adrian's attention. But he's kept a cautious eye on Dan, when he's been able, as he would keep an eye on any more-than-passing acquaintance. So it isn't as though he hasn't noticed the frequency with which Dan has been looking at him (and then, always, down into his glass, abashed). He suspects that another little scrap of understanding may be coming into being in Dan's mind. He isn't sure whether he ought to welcome it.

Finding out would be easy enough. He could just wait for Dan to wake up, and coax out the answer with gentle hints and patience, a careless touch at the right moment and a watchful eye for blushes.

He closes the door carefully behind him as he leaves.

The corridor is quiet, the spiralling-up of muffled noises from the ground floor -- the chatter of departing guests, the scrape and shudder of the heavy front door, the footsteps of his staff on the wooden floor as they begin the cleanup effort -- lending a dreamlike quality to the night. Scraps of reality, drifting up like curls of smoke, just as ephemeral and no more substantial. There are shadows in every corner. Adrian could sleep -- he's tired, dead tired, and after this evening sleep holds the appearance of a welcome respite -- but he knows instinctively that if he closes his eyes tonight he will hear the voices.

Instead, he lights the lamp in his study, pulling down Unaussprechlichen Kulten and The Witch-Cult in Western Europe from the middle shelf. They should furnish enough material for him to make a decent start, even with alcohol and exhaustion tugging at the edges of his waking mind. Tugging hard enough that he casts a foolish little glance up at the figurine in the left-hand corner before settling down to his books.

Perfectly still, of course. If he were to allow his mind to wander, he might fancy that it's too still, a thing caught and frozen in the middle of an illicit act. As though it's waiting for him to look away.

Goodness. The directions in which his mind is wandering are certainly testament to the lateness of the hour. That, or the power of Martins' stories (or perhaps his punch) upon the imagination.

Adrian smiles tightly, and fixes the figurine with a glare of mock-severity. It gleams blankly back in the lamplight, betraying nothing.

*

When he next looks up, the morning is well settled in, a bright strip of day between the curtains turning the lamplight treacly and unpleasant. Adrian has half a notebook's worth of scribblings on the desk in front of him, and a solidly-forming idea of what his next course of action needs to be. Not that anybody (except Dan, and maybe Kovacs) would be able to work that out from looking at his notes -- but he'll have time to organize them later. Coffee first.

Adrian stands, stretches, and pulls open the curtains on cold sunshine, an autumn morning so bright and clear its surface seems about to crack. He's about to turn around and call down for breakfast when there's a pained groan from behind him, and Dan's voice says, "Now, that was cruel and unusual."

Dan is standing in the doorway, barefoot and squinting in the light. His spectacles are crooked.

A corner of his mouth twitching, Adrian motions him towards the spare chair, and resists the impulse to reach over and set Dan’s glasses straight. "So glad you could join me, Mr. Dreiberg. And how does it feel to be back in the land of the living?" He closes the notebook.

The squint turns into a rueful smile. "I'll let you know when I get there."

"Be sure that you do. Breakfast?" Dan makes a face. "Perhaps not. Tea, then? I have some green varieties that can be quite soothing, taken in moderation."

"Thanks." Dan takes off his glasses, and rubs at his eyes with the back of his hand. "And could you do me a favor? Don't let me drink that much ever again. I feel as though my brain's trying to escape through my eye-sockets."

"I'll do my utmost," Adrian reassures him. "What else are friends for?"

At that, Dan's smile vanishes. He bites his lip. "Uh, yeah," he says. "About last night. If I-- I hope I didn't give the impression that-- well, if I said anything inappropriate, I'm sorry. That's all."

Adrian doesn't blink. He raises an eyebrow, and ignores the fact that he can suddenly feel the thud of his pulse, hard and rapid behind his eyes. It's the result of a late night and too many hours spent poring over cramped blackletter, nothing more. "Inappropriate? No, I don't think so. Honestly, Dan, I can't imagine you being inappropriate if you tried."

Dan's face is so relieved that Adrian decides (with something akin to disappointment -- though it's better that his suspicions stay unconfirmed, easier for both of them) that it's probably safe to make light of the situation.

"You did say that you were glad you knew me. I hope you don't intend to retract the statement?"

"Of course not! I just, I-- well." Dan flushes and looks down, fiddling with his glasses, more discomposed than Adrian expected. "I heard-- I thought maybe you-- maybe I-- oh, damn." He shoves his glasses back on, and stands up. "Look, I should go home. You've done enough for me already."

"If that's what you prefer."

Maintaining a neutral, unsurprised expression is an underrated skill, but at this moment, it's one Adrian is very glad he has. He keeps it up as the study door closes, as Dan's footsteps head towards the landing, then back to the guest room to retrieve his shoes, and finally downstairs and outside.

When the front door has closed, he calls down to the kitchen.

"Coffee please. No, just the one."

*

"I'm scared."

Adrian blinks, and looks up from the grimoire on his desk. He's been absorbed in it since around lunchtime, having sat down with the intention of forcing himself to read, to take his mind off this... situation with Dan, whatever it might be. The work, as always, took over before long, the voices whispering softly in the back of his mind as he read. Today, their constant presence has been, if not exactly a comforting diversion, at least less unwelcome than usual.

But now Dan is standing in the entrance to his study again, steadying himself with one hand against the doorframe. He has at least changed his clothes since this morning, Adrian notes, though he hasn't taken off his overcoat, and his glasses are askew once more and his cheeks reddened by the cold. It's getting dark outside. Adrian turns up the lamp.

"Have you been drinking?" he asks.

"Yeah. And I'm still scared."

Well. Not as awkward as he's been expecting. He has misread the situation, perhaps; the nature of their work is what has been preying upon Dan’s mind all along. At least this particular worry should be easy enough to allay.

"Dan," he says, sighing deeply. "I know that we're... in somewhat uncharted waters, with regards to our research. We can't know its consequences, and that's enough to make any rational man uneasy. But think. We could be about to discover something momentous -- something that could alter the human conception of life, of the universe. Could you really bear not to know? Surely it's worth getting past a little trepidation?"

"That's not what I'm talking about."

"Oh?" Adrian frowns, and something turns over in the pit of his stomach, giving him a second’s pause before he speaks again. "Then what are you afraid of?"

Dan doesn't say anything for a moment. He takes off his glasses, puts them back on again (mercifully straight, this time). Then he crosses the room, moving behind the desk and leaning against it, so that he's looking down at Adrian. Adrian hears him swallow.

"I'm afraid of what I'm about to do," he says.

Adrian doesn't move, but there is something racing in his ears, a sound that is not the voices. "I believe… my advice would remain the same," he says, softly.

His voice doesn't falter. That's something. But he waits for Dan to kiss him first.

*

Honestly, Dan hadn't gone to the Miskatonic Club intending to start drinking again. His head had been throbbing since he woke up, his thoughts in a whirl, and he hardly even knew what he was thinking anymore. He'd walked home with shoulders hunched, hands shoved deep into his pockets and eyes half-closed against the cold morning air, and tried to get some more sleep, too dazed to even contemplate looking at his workshop at that moment in time. But he couldn't rest, either, the discomfort like an itch deep in his bones and the back of his skull. He couldn't think straight, and he couldn't not think. He tried tinkering, but couldn't concentrate, tried sitting down to read, but couldn't keep still, stood up and paced around his rooms, but that only made the space seem tiny and Dan feel trapped, like something in a cage, unable quite to stretch out its wings.

By mid-afternoon, he thought he might shake out of his skin with restlessness, his brain endlessly re-running the fuzzy end of the previous night, and this morning's conversation, turning them over in dissatisfaction again and again. He couldn't even quite figure out why he felt so bad about it; he knew the answer was there, but found himself circling away from it every time. And it wasn't as though he could ask anybody else. He wouldn't even know how to broach the subject with Kovacs or Laurel, his oldest friends, and Adrian -- usually the easiest to talk to -- was out of the question. Everything just felt wrong.

But throughout his life, there had been one person Dan had always known to be right, whatever happened.

He looked at the clock. Yeah, now should be about the right time.

Sure enough, he found Mason in the upstairs room of the Miskatonic Club, half-slumped in an armchair with an untouched cup of coffee cooling in front of him. He didn't look much more alert than Dan felt, and Dan couldn't help smiling inwardly; while Mason didn't show his face at Adrian's soiree last night (not exactly the place for an officer of the law to be seen), he's always been as partial as the next man to a tumbler of good whisky in private. But he mustered a smile and a hearty greeting, like always, when Dan settled down in the armchair opposite him.

Mason obviously wasn't in one of his reminiscing moods today, and they'd never needed to chat about nothing for the sake of politeness, so for a while they just sat there in companionable near-silence. It wasn't awkward, it never was, but today Dan knew that his anxiety must be visible. His eyes kept darting around the room, words dying half-formed before they reached his throat. Finally, Mason's gaze narrowed across the table, sharp but not unkind.

"Let's hear it, then, Danny boy," he said. "What's bothering you?"

He blinked, startled, even though this was obviously coming. But Mason's bluntness forced it out of him; easier to edge around to the truth, inch by painful inch, than to deny and demur and see the disappointment in Mason's eyes. Dan took a deep breath, then inclined his head fractionally in the direction of the bar. Gardner's heavyset companion was there, balanced atop his usual corner stool and glowering at something intangible in the air before him, or maybe just at the world in general. They weren't talking.

"You and Gardner," Dan began, slowly. "You don't get along."

Mason shrugged and nodded.

"Why is that, really? I mean..."

"Look." Mason cut him off, sighing. "I don't hate the guy. He's served his country, and he's shown more bravery--or more stupidity, depending on who you ask--in the line of duty than most. I'd be glad to have him on my side in a fight."

"But?"

"But he's a goddamn hypocrite. He'd gladly see every black, Jew and Catholic in the country shipped out of here tomorrow, men, women and children. Thinks they got no right to be here.” Dan thought he’d managed to suppress his flinch at that, but the furrow between Mason’s eyebrows deepened, telling him otherwise. “But there's a German fascist drinking in his club right now."

"The guy with the moustache?"

"Müller. That's his name." Mason's mouth twisted in distaste. "And he sure as hell isn't a Miskatonic man. I've seen him a couple of times, when we've raided speakeasies downtown, working as what they call security. Never thrown a punch at a guy who wasn't causing trouble, but when they do-- well, I've seen him put a man's head through a table and laugh while he did it. Only time I ever have seen him look happy, as a matter of fact. Gardner's got no claim to the moral high-ground."

"I get it." Dan paused, drew breath slowly before continuing, one eye still on Gardner and the scowling giant in the corner. "What you said to him before. Well, it was a while ago now. About not being perfect himself."

Mason looked at him sideways. "This about your new friend? Veidt?"

Dan blinked back, unable to hide his startlement. "How did you guess?"

"I think I know where you're going with this. And listen. I have to uphold the law as best I can. But frankly, I tend to think that what a man does in private is his own damn business, and given any choice in the matter, I'd rather not know about it. I wouldn't trust the guy myself, but that isn't why."

"Then why?" Dan asked, frowning.

Mason gulped down the last of his coffee, and set down his cup. "These... occult ideas that you two have been researching. Of course, you'd know more about it than I do, but in my experience? When a poor man takes an interest in that sort of thing, it's because he thinks it's going to bring him money. When a rich man takes an interest, it's because he thinks it's going to bring him power. And a power-hungry man's a danger to everybody, no matter what he believes in."

This time, it was Dan's turn to sigh, the familiar disappointment making its way up from his gut. "I'm not a poor man," he pointed out. "Do you think I'm power-hungry?" Of course not; he already knew the answer. A gullible kid in a fantasy world, just waiting to be taken advantage of by anybody with half a brain. That's what everybody thought he was.

"Of course not," Mason said. "How long have I known you, huh? Anyway, why'd you want the opinion of an old man like me? You're the up-and-coming young scientist around here."

Dan tried to smile. Mason was looking at him intently, but his eyes were kind. "Besides," he went on, after a second, "I guess you know your friends better than I do, too."

"Yeah," Dan said, nodding, allowing a hint of friendly amusement to creep into his tone. This could've gone worse, after all, he knew. "Yeah, I guess I do."

"Good man." Mason settled back into his armchair, apparently satisfied with the outcome of the conversation. After a moment, Dan did the same.

*

Even now that he’s here, half-dressed beneath Adrian’s bedcovers, with Adrian’s hand soft on his side, Dan doesn’t quite know what he thinks he’s doing. Can’t quite believe how he got here, either. There’s an ache throbbing low in his right temple, and he knows it won’t fade until he actually sleeps, but he can ignore it for now, busy wondering at himself, and at this.

Adrian’s hand stills, and he cracks an eyelid. The half-amused, questioning look on Adrian’s face is exactly the one he would’ve expected, and that’s reassuring, somehow; some things don’t change.

“Something on your mind?”

Dan shakes his head. That’s met with a sceptically-raised eyebrow (of course), and so he blinks his eyes wider and props himself up on his elbow, groaning.

“Well,” he says. “Lots. Nothing in particular. My head’s a little…” He trails off, wiggling his fingers helplessly.

Adrian smiles. “I think I understand. I must admit, you did take me by surprise a little. Not that I’m complaining, you understand.”

Dan smiles, weakly, and wonders how he’s supposed to answer. He doesn’t regret what’s happening—not at the moment, anyway—and right now he wouldn’t move for the world, but there is still a hot fizz of excitement-nearing-panic in his chest when he thinks about his earlier boldness, and he isn’t ready to joke about it, not yet. Adrian, he’s pretty sure, has done this kind of thing before, so it’s different for him. He knows how you’re supposed to act.

But Adrian’s expression turns sympathetic, sparing Dan any more agonizing. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I forget that this is all new to you.” He blinks, slowly. His voice is very quiet. “But I wasn’t born a dissolute, you know. I found it hard to get used to the idea of loving men, at first, too.”

Loving, he says, and the word slung past so casually makes Dan shudder a little without being entirely sure why. But Adrian’s voice is steady and gentle, like his touch; something to hold onto, something to trust. And even if he can’t really understand how it feels for Dan—what it’s like for anyone to walk through the world without his shiny outer coating of self-confidence—he’s trying, which means he cares, which means that at least Dan isn’t a total fool. So he nods, and tries to look suitably comforted.

Adrian looks at him seriously. “It isn’t always easy,” he goes on, after a moment. “You’re a very honest person, Dan. Hiding the truth, every day, about who you are, what you’re doing—it might be hard on you, I think.”

Now, it’s Dan’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “You think that didn’t occur to me?”

Maybe it’s his imagination, but in the half-light, he thinks that he sees a faint flush appear high on Adrian’s cheeks. “Of course not,” he says. “I—simply wouldn’t want you to feel any obligation. To—this.” He gestures briefly, at the two of them, lying close together, at his left arm still draped around Dan’s waist, and is that half a breath’s hesitation in his voice? Surely not. Dan’s never known him to be anything other than perfectly sure of getting what he wants. If this is what he wants.

Adrian’s gaze drops, and Dan feels a surge of guilt, unprompted, for that shadow of a doubt, as though Adrian could read his mind. But he isn’t even looking at Dan. “I wouldn’t want you to suffer on my account. That’s all,” he murmurs, and Dan can’t help but sigh and inch closer to him.

“This wasn’t just a drunken whim, you know,” he says. “I’ve known for a while, really, I think. Known that I wanted…” He swallows. “You. And it’s—it’s worth it, you know?” The question falters lamely towards its end, and Dan curses his shyness and his self-doubt, and all the things that make articulate speech desert him when he needs it most. You make me feel I can be more than people expect, he wants to say, you make me see the possibility in everything, but instead he just bites his lip and looks away, feeling stupid.

A cool hand brushes his cheek, turning his face back to Adrian. He’s smiling again.

“Yes, it is,” is all that he says, and then he leans forward and kisses Dan on the lips, very softly.

*

Dan wakes up once that night, sometime deep in the small hours. They’re still lying close together. Adrian is still wearing all of his clothes, and his arm is still around Dan. His breathing is deep and even. The smile has dropped off his face.

Dan reaches down for Adrian’s free hand, and holds it between both of his own.

Comments

[findmyantidrug.livejournal.com]

What, why has nobody commented? This is AWESOME. I especially love Dan and Hollis's conversation, and Dan asking if he said anything inappropriate, and Adrian's dialogue is so spot-on, and this is just. Wonderful. Your prose is so clean and together, I love it.

[anactoria.livejournal.com]

I figure it's probably karma for my taking so long to update. ;) So glad you liked it. And heh, Dan totally needs to realise he is not the inappropriate one in this relationship.

[fireez.livejournal.com]

Awwww *reduced to ball of fluff*

They're both so adorkable.

[anactoria.livejournal.com]

Aww, thank you! I'm glad you're still liking it. :)

[trampadoo.livejournal.com]

Pleeeeease don't abandon this wonderful fic! :( I think already wrote a comment on fanfiction.net (if I didn't I need a kick in the ass but I really hope I did actually write and not only imagined it XD)
This is pretty much perfection and it would be a shame not to continue it. Besides, it would be cruel not to let us know what will happen. ^_^

[anactoria.livejournal.com]

It's not abandoned! You've probably noticed that there were quite long gaps between the last few chapters, though; I'm very busy with both work and personal things IRL and don't have the time to write fanfic as often as I used to. It will get finished, but I can't promise to post with anything resembling regularity. ;)