Rating: MA
Warnings: explicit language and implied violence
Summary: Biker!Dan/schach on the OwlBike
Beta: silvergrin
Disclaimer: Do not own.

For a kinkmeme prompt.

It's the half hour when the drunken refugees from the bars have stumbled their way home or passed out completely, just before the delivery vehicles and cleaners, the bakers and morning shift workers start coming in; that little held breath before the city resumes again. It is far too late to get into a bar now, but this cabbie doesn't mind. She's got her Hustler to take to bed; all she needs is a quiet smoke before she turns in. She turns off the sign on top and is getting out when there's a brief whirr sound.

She'd not be working the New York night shift if she didn't have fast reflexes--her quick dive back saves her from being mowed down. Appearing from around the corner, a large dark shape, twice her height, sweeps by where she would have been standing. As what appears to be a motorbike passes, she catches sight of a giant rider with far too many limbs. She squints: the figure resolves into two vaguely-human shapes, one standing on the shoulders of the other, and she hears voices raised in argument before the shape shrinks into a tiny dot in the distance.

"Fucking lunatics! Watch where ya fucking going!" she shouts; it's useless, they're too far away, but she feels better anyway. Adjusting her beret and tucking red curls back behind her ears, she decides, what with mad bikers and car-thieving crims, it's probably best to just head home. Bloody useless police and vigilantes when a cabbie can't take a well-deserved smoke after a hard night's work without being disturbed.

"Okay, what's the story you got?" Officer Bourquin's not in a good mood. Sure, it's great that Motohead is off the streets, heading to hospital with a severe concussion last thing he heard, but there's no glory in it for them or the NYPD, and tons of paperwork to boot. When they arrived on the scene after a phone tip off at the station, they were met by chaos around them, offset by the tidiness with which their prisoners, all twelve of them, were tied up and packaged for them. "What?" he asks, irritated by the bemused expression on his partner's face.

"Lissen to this." Fine recites from his notebook, cigarette burning out of the corner of his mouth. "'We was just working on some cars when this great big smoke covers everything around us, right, couldn't see a thing and it was making our eyes water and shit, and then all of us was knocked down by this huge machine that spun round and round. I think I hit my head and, the next thing I know, I see your ugly mug staring down at me.' That's my first one. Claims he knows nothing about the cars being stolen, just a simple mechanic getting some extra cash outside his regular job."

Bourquin scratches his head, tipping his cap back. "Beats me what happened here. Old guy over there tells me it was three, maybe four men, all on top of an enormous motorbike. Says it flew in the air when it went after Motohead's car. Says one of them was a black horned giant. Name's Doug McKenna, three previous for motor vehicle theft." They both smile and wave to the prisoner. They won't be seeing him for a while on the outside.

"My second man's a fan: 'It was a-mazing, officer, they were both standing on the seat of the bike, and what that black and white dwarf was doing, man... he did a back flip off that goddamn bike ...' And on and on, sounds more like a circus act than a criminal apprehension. Oh, and, surprise surprise, twenties, first offence." Hearing Fine's summary, Bourquin frowns and peers from under his eyebrows at the young man in question.

"Let's have a look at that car again." The two police officers get back into the squad car and drive up to Motohead's badly-damaged convertible.

"Look at these wheels here," says Fine, pointing to the two shredded right tires. "This happened while it was still moving, must have caused it to weave and hit the building."

"Not just that. The blood on the dash and steering wheel. All over both front seats. Hair here. Glass from the goggles--would you b'lieve that? Goggles. Anyway... that was some fight."

"Did you see the state of the guy? It'll be a fortnight before they get to talk to him."

"Whoever they are, let's hope these guys don't make a habit of breaking the cases we work on. I'd like to be able to make detective some day."

As much as he'd a sneaking admiration for the costumed biker crime fighters, Fine had to agree with his partner. The auto crime unit wasn't exactly the best route to detective investigator, and they were both angling for a transfer to, say, narcotics or homicide. Getting scooped by vigilantes riding motorbikes wasn't going to help. "Not to mention what the newspapers will say." He stubbed out his cigarette on the ground and reached in his shirt pocket for another.

"You know, you really should give up those things."

"Yeah, yeah, they'll be the death of me. C'mon, let's blow this place and get some food."

They alternate with the police, busting each arm of Motohead's crumbling empire. When it's all over, they still occasionally take the bike on patrols. It gives a different perspective than surveying from the sky in Archie. Most of the time, the bike feels like an extension of their partnership, part of them, part of him.

Most of the time.

Daniel must sense the disquiet that sometimes builds up under the mask, before one of their rides; now and then, he looks at him with lightly-veiled concern. He ignores Daniel; he can hardly explain when he can't understand it himself.

The lights of shops and neon advertisements sweep past, drawing long streaks of color on both sides. His field of vision ahead is restricted, so he has to rely on Daniel to sail them through, negotiating the twists and turns, and all he can do is to move with him, to sway to the left or right, to lean backwards. The thin shadows of the lamp posts slice them up again and again; the street lights flash ahead, above, and behind.

He still experiences a brief spike in his heart rate on take-off and quick decelerations. One threatens to have him sliding off the back seat; the other throws him against Daniel. Their effect is to send him into a trance-like state as the adrenaline takes hold and he's living in that heightened state of alertness senses firing off, body and limbs spring-loaded.

The vehicle is large, forgiving, but it needs to be precisely-balanced, and so he needs to anticipate and move along with Daniel. Walter's arms tighten around Daniel's waist and he closes his eyes, feeling weight shifting, intentions signaled by contracting and expanding muscles, momentum pulling at them, letting himself be guided by the rest of his senses.

If he lets go, he will tumble back, left behind, a dark shadow in his wake.

He holds on.

This time, he already knows what Daniel is working on. Yet, when he comes by, he's sometimes caught Daniel, with apparent casualness, throwing a large sheet over it. This, of course, makes him even more curious, and he contrives to come by at other times of the day. The first time, Daniel was already rubbing his eyes and opening his basement door. After that, the object in question is moved. One night, in an attempt to satisfy his curiosity, he breaks into Daniel's room. The next day, at the Gunga Diner, the memory of that particular encounter leaves him blushing so red that he has to go to the restroom.

The day finally comes for the unveiling...

"No."

"What? What's wrong with it? It blends right in with the rest of it," which is, admittedly, correct, down to the fine brushwork, "and I put plenty of thought into the interior." The sidecar does indeed look comfortable. It has a plush leather interior and a few interesting buttons and levers that no doubt have some use for crime fighting.

But. No. He doesn't care how finely and tastefully Daniel has painted the thing, with its light cream-colored downy feathers, little beak and large round eyes. Nor does he like its rounded contours. It is all highly inappropriate.

"Not a baby owl, Daniel."

When Daniel doesn't argue and simply puts an arm around his shoulder, smiling in reassurance, he knows he has a battle ahead of him.

THE END.

destroys urls, but much viewing fun may be had if you search youtube for motorbike stunts.