Neither Abstract nor Ideal

The first time he encounters Nite Owl, they shake hands.

Six months into his new life, defined by the violence done around him and to him, it's the first time Rorschach is touched with anything approaching kindness, and it leaves a mark on him as deep as any bruise. The ache of it lingers into the dawn as Kovacs lies in his bed, sleepless with exhaustion and restless with an undefined sense of ill-being.

He does not consider the pressure of the other man's palm in his, or how it differs from the pressure of his own clenched fist. He does not clench his fist around himself.

The second time he meets Nite Owl, Rorschach does not shake his hand. This is because Rorschach is not interested in courtesies, and not because the man is busy subduing a group of wired katieheads, loud and rude and spoiling for trouble.

Nite Owl's form is a contrast to Rorschach's own low-slung brawling: he's crisp and fluid, movements that speak of martial arts training, though his efficiency is hobbled by what Rorschach assumes to be a personal code of ethics. While he can respect that, Nite Owl would do well to hit below the belt now and then.

Rorschach watches him, a shoulder against the brickwork, his hands in pockets.

"Hey," Nite Owl calls to him once he's done, slightly out of breath, his face below the mask flushed. If he's irritated by Rorschach's passive spectatorship, he doesn't show it. "Good to see you again."

Rorschach touches the brim of his hat by way of acknowledgement.

"I'm working my way east tonight," Nite Owl says, as he cuffs up his quarry.

Rorschach understands that it's an invitation, and in retrospect, this is where he should have turned and headed west across the city, halting that initial slide toward a partnership and all that it would entail. But he is young and soft, not yet fully-formed. So they patrol together that evening--and the next. Rorschach relents and lets Nite Owl mark the end of each well-fought night with a handshake.

It is good, for a time.

He allows Nite Owl's casual friendliness, his camaraderie and unselfconscious handshakes and back-pats and offers of coffee to nudge him steadily into what could be mistaken for friendship. Eventually, Nite Owl gives away his real name.

Rorschach gives him nothing.

He finds he is touching himself more and more often, a dirty habit he can't seem to break despite the residue of guilt it leaves behind. If he doesn't do it, his body does it for him, interrupting his already meager sleep with messy overtures that leave him panting with a formless lust.

If he makes the connection between Nite Owl's company and his increasingly frequent moral lapses, it is lost in the haze of despair and endorphins, or in the safety of routine violence.

Rorschach has never met anybody who is glad to see him before.

Three months later he finds himself bared to the waist in Nite Owl's--Daniel's--base of operations, a concrete and rebar bunker below a townhouse that he owns outright, all four floors, his name displayed ostentatiously on all of the buzzers.

(Rorschach has done his research: Daniel M. Dreiberg, born September 18th 1945, son of a wealthy banker. Studied zoology and aeronautics at Harvard; graduated top of his class; valedictorian. Visits Hollis Mason every Saturday, rain or shine. Eats too much foreign takeout; sleeps until four in the afternoon. To anyone else he would appear indolent and indulgent and lacking in responsibility.)

There's a mug of coffee cooling next to his elbow, a ringmark diffusing into a piece of drafting paper. Presumably not important, since there's also a crude caricature of Manhattan scrawled in the corner.

Daniel laughs, maybe embarrassed, and briefly lifts the mug to push the paper aside. "All right," he says, "let's see the damage." He puts his hand on the exposed skin of Rorschach's shoulder, and a prickling sweeps over his forearms and across the back of his neck, down his chest and down, down--

And as simply as that, it is no longer a sustainable deceit that Kovacs' affliction of a morning is the dregs of his human weakness, unrelated entirely to their partnership. He has allowed this because he has mistaken himself. He is suddenly finding it difficult to breathe evenly.

"Are you okay? Does it hurt?"

The concern in Daniel's voice makes Rorschach feel ill; his hand feels hot enough to leave a brand on his shoulder--unclean it might say, corrupt--and it demands his attention more than the knife-wound in his back does. But maybe he can weather this, present the tightness in his voice as pain and the tremor in his bones as anticipation of more. He would rather Nite Owl think him wary of a suture needle, than--

"Just fix it," he says.

"Sure thing, pal. Relax, okay. Ready? Here we go, here we... go."

The sting of the needle piercing his skin helps him focus, breath pulled in sharply and hissed out between his teeth. This partnership is untenable in its present state. Not with Nite Owl crooning words of reassurance in his ear, pulling his edges together as though he can be fixed. He is in a disgraceful state and he doesn't know how he can hide it, nor how he can get out of this situation with his integrity intact.

"That's the worst," Daniel says, low and conspiratorial, the warm bloom of humor in his voice. "Isn't it? Sometimes I wonder if I have a masochistic streak."

For a beat Rorschach doesn't register what he's saying, still reeling from the scale of his misjudgment, but then he does.

His fury is immediate. It's fueled by humiliation at being caught out, that Daniel knows what he is now, that this is the base level of his existence despite all that he has strived towards. Designed for perversion, like mother like--

"Whoa, easy," Daniel is saying because he's stood up without thinking, ripping the needle from his grip. The suture tongs clatter on the basement floor. Then he falters, because the flipside of this is that Daniel must have been looking, to have noticed. Of course, a man like him, soft in all the wrong ways, with his liberal sensibilities and enough money to get whatever he wants. Of course.

He has caused this. He has misshapen their partnership and encouraged this decline into degeneracy. It could never have been Rorschach's fault.

Rorschach faces him. He doesn't let himself feel relief at turning the razor edge of his anger outward because neither of them deserve for it to be dulled. Daniel stands bare-handed and bare-faced, goggles loose around his neck, and he makes an aborted attempt to tug his cowl back on. Shock and uncertainty pull at his expression; he has gone very pale.

"Sorry," he says. "I didn't think--"

"Be quiet," Rorschach says, flat. He already knows what Daniel looks like, of course, but Rorschach has no use for a face that is neither an abstract nor an ideal.

He's backed Daniel against a bench. He doesn't know what he expects, but his fists are clenched hard. It's not the kind of pressure he craves and he is furious about it. The needle, suspended from its length of suture, tickles his shoulder blade.

"Sorry," Daniel says again. He has his hands up, probably intended to be placating but it seems only patronizing. Rorschach thumps the edge of his palm against Daniel's collarbone and presses his knuckles against his throat. All Daniel does is take his fist away. "I didn't mean to," he says. "It's all right, let me just."

Daniel puts his hands on Rorschach's shoulders and turns him around. His palms are hot and clammy. There is a tug on the skin of his back and an attendant throb of not-quite pain, and Daniel says, "There." The suture needle pings on the floor and settles under a workbench somewhere.

Rorschach stands for a moment, head down. His skin shivers, and he senses that Daniel is about to touch him. He jerks away, slinging on his shirt and jacket and trench, fingertips catching in the buttonholes in his haste to cover himself.

Daniel watches him, stricken. "Listen--" he says.

"Thank you for the coffee, Nite Owl," Rorschach says. He can't bring himself to thank him for the rest. He does not offer to shake his hand. "Goodnight."

Starve a fever, feed a cold. Kovacs spends his time trying to decide which he is suffering from.

It's been five weeks, or a month and a half, maybe two months--the days are an interminable procession of work-eat-sleep, fight-sleep-work. His shoulders ache from hunching over his machine and from tensing against his mattress.

He keeps out of Manhattan mostly, because he knows Nite Owl likes to patrol close to home.

Some nights the Archimedes glides overhead, a dark orb against the haze of light pollution. Rorschach retreats into the narrowest spaces then, secreting himself where the shadows breed. It makes him feel hunted, and Rorschach does not care to consider himself prey.

He needs to halt this slow erosion of self. He is not a coward, so he cannot be afraid.

Time to formally end things.

Daniel is in the basement when he arrives, working under the bright cone of a solitary desk light. He's in civilian clothes: an oil-stained t-shirt and cargo shorts, glasses pushed up on his forehead as he squints at a circuit diagram. It makes it harder for Rorschach to approach. He would much rather deal with Nite Owl's mirrored eyes.

He pushes his shoulders back and brings his chin up. He clears his throat.

Daniel looks up, surprise and relief transitioning quickly into an unexpected blankness. He looks calm. Rorschach can tell that he is not calm.

"Where the hell have you been?" he says. His voice is soft, but when he pushes his stool back its legs shriek against the concrete floor.

Rorschach tries to find an answer that is not a lie, and finds he doesn't have one.

"I have been worried--" Daniel says, and encroaches into Rorschach's space, into the shadowy liminal fringe of the basement. "--worried sick. Where have you been? Don't you check your maildrop? I left so many messages, man. "

Daniel thinks that he is the one who is sick. Rorschach could laugh. He has a half-dozen folded pieces of paper in the inside pocket of his trench coat, and he has read none of them. He cannot bear to think about the pleas Daniel might have made to him, and what twisted thrill he may reap from them.

"Nite Owl," he says, before Daniel can gain traction. "I need to dissolve our partnership."

Daniel looks genuinely shocked. His mouth opens and color rises in his cheeks as though he's been slapped. "What? After I've spent weeks checking every goddamn column inch for signs you've been at work, that you're okay? Or the obits--though I wouldn't know yours if I read it."

For all his flaws, Rorschach had considered Daniel to be above attempting such heavy-handed manipulation. He grimaces reflexively, and senses the ink in his mask respond, spreading into a wide leer.

Daniel doesn't seem to notice, caught up in his own conniptions. He runs his fingers through his hair, dislodges his glasses and slides them onto his face, frowning. "What's going on, Rorschach?"

"Don't know what you mean."

"Oh, bullshit. You vanish into thin air then come back with this? Something's up, pal, and if you could do me a favor and drop the inscrutable act for a microsecond, I'd like to know why I'm being kicked to the curb."

The man is impossible. Rorschach grits his teeth in frustration and wishes he would just accept this as an inevitability and let them both move on. Picked a fine time to start being more assertive.

"I mean, if it's something I did wrong, then I want to know about it. God!" Daniel clasps his hands to the back of his neck. His t-shirt stretches across his broad chest, pulls tight over the thick muscle of his shoulders and Rorschach needs for this meeting to end, immediately.

"I'm sick," Rorschach says. He shapes the words bluntly to indicate the subject is not up for further discussion.

"Oh." The anger evaporates from Daniel as though it were never there, and he drags his hand over his mouth. "Oh, shit, I'm sorry. Buddy. Listen. Do you want to come up, talk it over--"

"No."

"I can help, I have good insurance. You--"

"No." Of course Daniel would probe, feeling out all the lurid details of his life like he does the bones and sinew beneath Rorschach's armor. "Good night."

Daniel catches his arm before he can turn and leave. Just a light touch but it renders him still, and it's both fascinating and disgusting that he can be gentled so easily. This rot runs deep, marbled through his flesh.

"Look, I," Daniel says. His expression is nothing but awful concern. "I worry about you. I don't know if you realize this, but--" he laughs; a clipped, self-deprecating noise, "I care about, uh. About what happens to you."

Rorschach pulls his arm free. In a childish impulse, he wants to cover his ears.

"I guess what I'm trying to say is, if this is what you need to do then okay, I'll respect that." Daniel folds his arms, then unfolds them. He fingers his watch strap. "I mean, I'm not happy about it, but you are who you are and god knows it's exactly what I'd expect from you, but…"

"Thank you for your concern," Rorschach says. He does not offer his hand.

"You know where I am," Daniel calls after him as he retreats down the service tunnel. "If you need me."

Kovacs is a deeply sick man. He takes it out on a conclave of gunrunners at the docks. By the end of the evening he's had his nose broken, bitten two men and incapacitated another with a tire iron, and dumped firearms and soldati alike into the Hudson.

He is caught a fortnight later, settled on a tar beach while he fills in his journal. The dawn sky turns garish overhead and casts his shadow stark against a chimney stack. He notices Nite Owl's silhouette appear from the corner of his eye.

"How are you holding up?" Nite Owl asks him, lowering himself to sit, his legs hanging over the edge of the building. There's something tight in his voice, a note of discontent.

"Fine," Rorschach tells him.

"Yeah, I noticed. Messy work on the Marconi case. You know, I could have helped you out on that one."

"Didn't need your help."

"Apparently." Nite Owl lifts his goggles to pinch the bridge of his nose. "And I'd have appreciated it if you'd just told me that instead of feeding me some bullshit line."

Rorschach glances over at him and cants his head.

"You know, I've spent a while thinking, but I can't come up with an illness serious enough to end our partnership--" Nite Owl gestures vaguely, hand dark against the cloud-shredded sky, "--that wouldn't pretty much retire you as well. And since you're apparently doing 'fine'..."

The accusation hangs loud and clear between them. Rorschach stands in some foolish bid to avoid it. Nite Owl follows suit, cape fluttering.

"I don't know. I enjoy working with you, despite, well. You. Being you. I guess I'm sore that you don't feel the same way."

"I do," Rorschach says, voice colored with surprise. He clears his throat with a low hrrm and modulates himself. He feels like he owes Daniel some explanation. Seems he is not entirely exempt from social contracts, despite his best efforts. "Daniel, I… struggle. Makes me unwell."

"Oh," Nite Owl says, but it's guarded, suspicious. "Kay. When you say that you're sick--"

"It's you," he says. "You make me sick." There. Like vomit on the sidewalk of a morning, the unadorned truth. Neither of them gain to have this stated outright, but he can see that Nite Owl isn't going to relent otherwise.

Rorschach expects Nite Owl to be angry, but he just laughs and shakes his head, in disbelief perhaps.

"Oh, boy. Is that it, then?"

"No," Rorschach says, because he needs to be very firm on this. "I'm not." Nothing should clarify it more than stating it outright. "I'm not like that."

"Oh, no, no. Not like that," Nite Owl says. The sarcasm layering his words is not what Rorschach had anticipated. He sounds almost amused. "God forbid."

"You knew." Surprise jolts him. It makes him take a step back. Of course. Stupid.

"Not exactly." Daniel pushes his goggles up and rucks his cowl back a few inches to rub at his hairline. He is smiling in a way that makes Rorschach incredibly cautious. "It was mostly just wishful thinking on my part, if I'm honest. At least, that's what I thought."

Wishful--Rorschach shakes his head, chest tight with something he can't pin down. It's not the stomach-churn of disgust, but it's equally unwelcome. "You knew," he repeats. It is deeply troubling. It makes him sound upset where he want to sound accusatory. "And you let me."

"Hey, it's okay. Calm down." Daniel raises his hands, that placating gesture again. "It's not a big deal."

"Not a big--"

Rorschach has no more patience for Daniel's permissiveness. He wants to reach for his grapnel gun--the one that Daniel made with him in mind, carefully, with his own two hands. Rorschach's insignia is engraved on the stock. Instead, he assesses his surroundings and plans his route down. Step off the edge of the building, tuck his legs, land in the dumpster below.

"It's the sixties now, Rorschach," Daniel is saying as he hops up onto the ledge. "It's not like it used to be! Hey, wait. Wait!"

Please, one of the notes says. Just let me know you're okay. Kovacs crumples it in his fist and tosses it at the wastebin. If I made a mistake we should talk it through. Please get back to me. That one bounces off the rim. I need you to have my back. Please.

He can hear every word in Daniel's voice, his particular inflection, the quiet consternation. Please.

Work-eat-sleep, fight-sleep-work. Rorschach lays claim to the majority of his resources, so Kovacs is always tired. This is why his mind wanders. This is why he slips, and finds himself thinking on the curve of Daniel's mouth, or his big hands, his strong thighs. It's disgusting how easy it is to lie face-down in his bed and imagine that mouth on him, those fingers penetrating him, those thighs pinning him in place. Disgusting how quickly it's over. Please. Please. Please.

Underboss cooking something. Need your help. Find me.

The basement is empty, door up to the kitchen locked tight. Daniel has left a map out on one of the workbenches, a bright red thumbtack pressed into a Midtown intersection.

Rorschach leaves it as long as his conscience allows, chasing delinquents through the warren of the city's streets like sport. Eventually he lets them scatter and hightail, then scales a tenement fire escape. He flips his journal open, intending to sketch out some observations on the night's activities. Instead he finds himself on a page of case notes for Underboss.

He pauses a moment, snaps his journal shut, then heads to Midtown at a brisk clip.

There's a manhole at the marked intersection, recently disturbed; a sharp delineation around the cover where it is usually clogged with an accumulation of city dirt. He slides it back and descends into the underworld.

The water tunnel is as dark as he remembers and stinks like his tenement stairwell. The skim of fetid water sloshes into his shoes. He is immediately faced with a decision: left, or right. Fifty-fifty, then adjust for bias with most people being right-handed. Easy.

Rorschach searches through his trench coat pocket for his flashlight, pops the case open to swap the batteries around. He will have to budget for new ones soon; there's only so many times this trick will work. Returns diminish rapidly. Its beam is weak and casts only a diffuse circle on the tunnel walls.

A hand grasps his shoulder. He spins, pushing the flashlight across his assailant's throat even as he knows it must be Nite Owl.

"Hey," Daniel says. "Nice of you to join me."

"Daniel," Rorschach says.

"Yeah." Daniel puts his hand to his goggles; Rorschach hears the tiny click as he flicks through the settings. They must already be near Underboss' rat's-nest of a lair. "Six goons and man of the hour, dead ahead."

"Seven versus two," Rorschach says. "How do you find those odds."

"Not great." Daniel's grin is a white slash in the darkness. "I'm all in."

Nite Owl tosses in a smoke bomb followed by a flashbang grenade and Rorschach takes out two of the soldati before it's done echoing off the walls. Somewhere in the opening salvo a storm lantern shatters, and the tunnel is plunged into roiling darkness.

His own hearing is impaired despite covering his ears, so gunfire is marked by bright bursts in the plumes of smoke rather than by sound. Dangerous in close quarters and with the curvature of the tunnel; even if they don't hit anyone, which is likely, the ricochet poses an unpredictable risk. An exciting novelty, compared to scuffling in an alley amid cigarette ends, beer bottles and teeth.

He dives into the blanketing smoke and kicks out a third man's knees. If Daniel is pulling his weight, this will be over relatively cleanly.

A body comes hurtling out of the smoke and clips Rorschach's shoulder. Taken unawares, he tumbles back, grappling it to keep his balance. The wall comes up behind him, a hard slam against his spine that knocks the breath out of him.

"Shit," the body says, just audible over the subsiding ringing in his ears. Daniel, panting close to his face. "Sorry."

"Three down," Rorschach says, righting him so they can stand back to back. The phantom heat of Daniel's breath condenses on his cheek. The nape of his neck sweats. The acrid taste of white phosphorus is thick on his tongue.

"I got two." Daniel wipes at his mouth and spits. "And some dental work done."

Daniel sounds confident that they've got this. Rorschach grins viciously beneath the mask, adrenaline rushing giddily through him. Two men left; he can hear them scurrying around like rodents. Underboss must also be confident, if he has not cut bait and run.

A shadow looms out of the dissipating smoke. Rorschach catches the butt of a gun on his shoulder, twisting so that it's robbed of its full impact. Still hurts; a sick throb of pain radiates from his collarbone. He swings a fist and doesn't connect, but its enough to get the man to back off a step.

Daniel has left his side. He hears a shout, and the smack of running feet in the shallow water--Underboss retreating after all.

The momentary distraction has allowed Rorschach's opponent to square himself up. He's taller than Rorschach is, heavier-set, but that's common. One of the first things he learned on the streets was how to use an enemy's size against him, their weight and momentum, but it's difficult to do if they're not moving. Rorschach cracks his knuckles, his neck, and considers a likely goad.

The man takes another step back. Not intimidated--in the fuzzy dark, Rorschach hears the click of his gun. A bluff, or he would have reloaded before instead of trying to pistol-whip him.

The man brings his weapon to bear. Rorschach lunges, grabs the front of his shirt and throws his weight into him; he stumbles, off-balance. Rorschach's other hand pushes the gun's trajectory upward. He trusts his instincts but he is not so stupid as to risk a gunshot wound. He's been shot once before, and he doesn't care to repeat the experience.

He's been stabbed a whole lot more. Too late--he realizes it was definitely a bluff. Just not the one he'd thought it was. Stupid. A stiletto blade slides through the canvas of his trench coat and snags on the wool of his suit jacket; its point presses into the soft flesh beneath his sternum.

Rorschach can feel the man's wrist bones flex as he shifts his grip on the gun. The knife inches into his skin, an exhilarating sensation, and Rorschach drops his fistful of shirt to wedge his hand into the crook of the man's elbow before he can drive it home.

Stalemate, but not for long. The man is leaning with his full weight and Rorschach's arms shake with effort; he will have to move unless he wants to be gutted like a fish as soon as his strength gives out. Could knock out the back of one knee. Not a sure thing, would have to strike from the side. Headbutt probably more effective, but he's at a height disadvantage; he needs--

A flicker of movement, and someone barrels into the man from behind. There's a hot tear of pain and the knife clatters to the ground; Rorschach releases his grip all at once, vaults to the side and lets Daniel topple the man face-down into the stinking water.

"I didn't let him get away," Daniel says. He slams at the Archimedes' controls with more force than they require. "He gave me the slip. Sorry for not knowing my way around New York's sewer system, but I don't spend as much time down there as some people."

"Excuses," Rorschach says. The argument has carried them from the tunnels and on board the airship thus far, but it's a short argument so they've had it twice already. "Should have ran him down without trouble."

"Yeah, well." Daniel says. "Lucky for you I had to double back before I got lost. One guy, Rorschach? Now who's making rookie mistakes?"

"Had it under control."

"Sure looked it," Daniel says mildly. "So Underboss goes to ground for a few weeks, no big deal. We'll keep tabs, snag him next time."

It's idiotic, circular bickering and it's tedious, but the alternative conversations are worse, so Rorschach will continue to provoke and deflect. His collar bone aches; his abdomen feels hot and damp, fabric sticking to him. It will be early hours once he gets home, nobody to hassle him over monopolizing the tenement's shared bathroom while he soaks the blood out of his shirt.

"Look up sewer maps in meantime. Learn them like you learn your circuit diagrams." He pauses for effect. "Or your takeout menus."

Misfire. The amusement on Daniel's face isn't remotely unfriendly. "I could go for some General Tso's right now," he says. "What do you think?"

Rorschach stands suddenly. He recognizes the pattern of the city below them. He has not been the only one deflecting; Daniel has distracted him in turn. "Drop me here," he demands.

"No can do, pal. You think I didn't notice that you're bleeding?"

"It's not serious."

"Well, I am." Daniel pushes his goggles and cowl back and stares him down. His hair is sweaty and mussed; there's a bruise purpling on his jaw. Rorschach can barely stand to look at him. "Listen, I know things are still weird but it's for my peace of mind. You can use my medkit. I won't touch you. I won't even peek. Just humor me, okay."

Because Daniel cares about what happens to him. The sentiment holds a curious power, as though he's obligated by it. Rorschach doesn't like it any more now than he did when Daniel first said these things--but it's true that his own medical supplies are suboptimal. A mostly-empty bottle of iodine, duct tape, straight needles and thread stolen from work, its tensile strength carefully selected.

Perhaps, then, as a test of character, to see if Daniel can keep his word. He can't be unaware that their partnership hangs in the balance.

Rorschach presses his mouth flat, and doesn't care if an echo of the expression explodes across his mask.

And so he finds himself here again, like a recurring dream that he can't escape, bared to the waist in Daniel's workshop.

This time Daniel keeps his distance, tinkering on his ship while Rorschach wallows in a sourceless despair. The wound is not serious; he has cleaned and dressed it with minimal fuss, and yet he is here still, sitting on one of Daniel's workbenches.

He should put his shirt back on and go home.

Instead, he does not.

Eventually Daniel will become impatient with him, he'll turn and look, and by doing so he'll have broken his word. And then it won't be Rorschach's fault when--

When nothing happens, because Daniel says, without turning around, "Everything okay back there?"

"Yes," Rorschach says before he can second-guess himself, or third. He has to immediately wrestle down a violent emotion in himself, one that urges him to run, as if there is danger here. To prove to himself that there is nothing wrong, he gets down from the bench and walks over to Daniel and he places his hand on the broad curve of his shoulder.

Daniel becomes quiescent under his touch, and still does not turn around. "... are you sure?" he asks.

"No," Rorschach says. "Get up."

Daniel sighs, like he has any right to be exasperated by this situation. But then he does stand and turn around. He looks warily at Rorschach--at the patterns on his mask, and not anywhere else.

"Do you want to borrow a shirt?" he asks.

"No," Rorschach says, shoves him back against the basement wall and kisses him.

Daniel makes a startled noise, and to Rorschach's chagrin, kisses him back. He presses his mouth against Rorschach’s mask, gliding across the slick material and settling over his lips. It’s nothing but warmth and pressure. All Rorschach can taste is his own sweat.

Rorschach opens his mouth to object or to breathe, or something else that he can’t put a name to, but instead he makes a noise he doesn’t recognize as coming from himself. He bites at Daniel’s mouth, teeth dulled by the material of his mask. Rather than have the presence of mind to be scared, Daniel groans and slowly slides down the wall, idiot cape clinging to the rough-cast concrete.

None of this is morally acceptable from any angle, but that doesn’t seem to be enough to deter Rorschach from kneeling over him. From here he could crack Daniel’s head against the wall, knock him out cold and be gone before he regains consciousness. He doubts he would be welcomed back, after doing such a thing. It is not relieving to think about, but it is reassuring.

But Daniel’s hands are on his body, one gripping the inside of his thigh, the other rude against his bare chest, tracing the line of an old scar and then brushing over his nipple. The sensation startles him and he grabs Daniel’s hand away so he can’t do it again. He takes his other hand, too, before he can get any smart ideas, and pins his wrists above his head one-handed.

With the other, he rucks up his mask and bares the lower half of his face so that Daniel can see the kind of mistake he’s been desperate to make: Kovacs’ severe mouth, his freckles and his pocked skin. Daniel just stares in undisguised fascination, then leans up and kisses him, softly.

Instead of feeling sick at touching another man’s mouth, Kovacs feels a pathetic gratitude for his affection. A long, rattling sigh shakes out of him.

"Okay." The bones of Daniel's wrists grind under Rorschach's grip. "That's enough, don't you think?"

Enough, as though Daniel doesn't want to bring this to its inevitable conclusion. Rorschach shudders from crown to toe. He is feeling some discomfort where he's pressed against Daniel's body.

"C'mon," Daniel says. "Shh."

He frees Daniel's hands. One comes to rest on Rorschach's thigh; it is intensely warm. Rorschach catches the other and puts it to the flat of his stomach, and then slides it lower, where he aches the worst.

"Oh my god," Daniel says. He sounds devastated, as though witnessing a tragedy. "Oh my god."

Rorschach doubles up over him, presses his forehead against his shoulder, and his body arrests. Every time he is afraid that he will never be unbound from this moment; the eternal, breathless seconds where he's given the opportunity to lament every poor choice that has brought him to this. Every time he is catastrophically wrong. His muscles spasm, jackknifing him with the force of his release. Daniel's palm encompasses him throughout.

"Oh my god," Daniel says again, only now he's distinctly unimpressed. "Okay, well."

Rorschach's teeth hurt as though he's bitten down on tin foil. He feels Daniel's fingers move against the rough wet fabric of his pants. He can feel Daniel's heart thundering in his chest. His whole body shivers.

"Uh." Daniel shifts under him. "If--I mean, if you're done, I gotta take care of--"

Movement in his periphery: Daniel's other hand, making an obscene gesture. Rorschach is glad he didn't see it clearly. He is waiting for the self-recrimination to creep into the calm, null void of his feelings, and that would only have sped things along.

It's always a bitter chaser, alone in his room, disgusted with what he has done to himself. He can only expect it to be twice as bad with Daniel here to spectate. And yet--it doesn't come. He leans on the memory of past indiscretion, and finds no power in it.

Daniel smiles at him, disheveled and beatific. "Feeling better?" he asks.

Rorschach pushes up to his feet, takes a deep breath, and offers Daniel his hand.