New York City in October could hardly be considered warm. The thick polluted sludge that passed as snow in the city had yet to hit, but the sweltering days of early September were long since gone and forgotten. It was hardly surprising, then, that the chilled breeze which swirled into her bedroom was more than enough to wake the half naked women from her sound sleep. The cold air tickled the back of her neck, waving a few strands of shocking red hair that had escaped her nighttime braid lazily through the air as she groaned into awareness. The neon green lines of the clock dutifully displayed the hour as half past three in the morning. She glanced around groggily, trying to find the source of her sudden departure from dreamland and the two panes of her picture window waved to her slightly. Another small whisper of autumn breeze flowed into the room as she watched, waving the curtains and causing her bare arms and chest to goose bump under the covers.

Her mind cleared instantly as her heart froze mid-beat at the implication of those swaying windows. She double bolted them at night. New York was no place to sleep with open windows. The shattered glass in the lower panel of the left pane confirmed her fear: someone had broken in. She threw herself forward, rolling off the bed in a tight summersault to land next to her nightstand, using the bed as cover against whoever may be in the room as one hand darted forward to pull open the drawer and retrieve the hand gun within it. Or at least she attempted to. A leather gloved hand shot forward, gripping her wrist and flipping it behind her, another glove flying to cover her mouth before the groan of protest at her twisted arm could take form. A muffled grunt was all that managed to make it out, answered almost instantaneously by a detached hurm from the person restraining her.

"Quiet. Boy still sleeping."

Her free hand balled into a fist at the casual mention of her son in the bedroom down the hall, but she managed to swallow her pride enough to produce an affirmative grunt from behind his dirty glove. The hand over her mouth fell away, and she greedily gasped air in through her mouth, attempting to breath in as little of new, terrible stench the man brought into her room through her nose as possible. Her stomach churned slightly as she was only partly successful in ignoring the rotting stink and cheap cologne.

"What the fuck do you want?" She ground out between clenched teeth, the pain in her arm spiking once more as he forced it into an even sharper angle for a moment. It was clear who would be asking the questions tonight.

"Nicole Parker, AKA Nicole Paige, AKA the Twilight Lady. Born 1945. Vice Queen, arrested in summer 1968 for aggravated pimping, living off immoral earnings. Sentenced 5 years. Released 1971 for good behavior. Possibly used body to secure release. Unsure. Probably true."

"Thanks for the history lessen. Got a point in there somewhere, Rorschach?" She bit her lip as the grip on her wrist tightened; the delicate carpel's threatening to snap under his vice-like grip. "Ungh…"

"Being delicate. Do not wish complication of upset child. Further interruption may cause sleeping boy to slip mind." The grip relaxed back to its previous state and she glowered in silence. He didn't want to make her scream, she could work with that. Assuming, of course, that didn't simply mean he would slice her throat quietly instead of bludgeoning her to death like his usual victims.

"Found check stub in Daniel's apartment. Made out to you. Suspicious. Mask paying criminal. Perverse. Blackmail? Came to investigate." Rorschach growled out, and she was mildly surprised he answered her question so thoroughly. There was a time he'd simply demand what the relationship between them was, no explanation of what he had found as a preface. The fractured sentence structure worried her somewhat, however. When the hell had he started talking like that? It was not a sign of a stable mind.

She mulled his statement over for a bit, and then blinked into the shadows of her room as the implications of him asking about her and the Owl dawned on her. He didn't know how Owl and she were connected. For all his good qualities, Nite Owl couldn't keep his mouth shut to his friends to save his life. Which would mean…

"Christ, the Owl wasn't lying." She whispered. A confused grunt originated from behind her shoulder. This was going to take a while.

"Let me go. I'm not going anywhere; I'll tell you what I know." Silence met her request and she rolled her eyes. "At least let me put a robe on."

She shivered to accent the point, something half acted and half real as the October breeze continued to swirl around her room. Clad only in her black panties, she felt both literally and figuratively naked against the dangerous man behind her. A second more of silence and her wrist was released. She stumbled away from him as rapidly as possible, rubbing the sore joint as she chanced her first glance at the masked figure in nearly twenty years. She felt an odd moment of jealousy as she admitted he hadn't changed much. She'd gotten older since they'd met, or since they'd battled was probably the more appropriate term. Her hair lacked its youthful shine, her skin no longer as bright and clear as it was then. She didn't like to think about her figure. But he looked the same. A little tenser, even more wild and feral looking than he had in their youth, if that were possible. Maybe his cloths were a little more dirty than during the years he'd run with Nite Owl. Otherwise he may as well have stepped out of the photograph the newspapers had run front page the day he and Nite Owl arrested her. What had she expected though? It wasn't as if a mask could lose its youthful glow.

She moved slowly, making sure the man could see her hands at all times, and walked to the side of the bed to pick up her bathrobe from its perch on the bedpost. Once she would have delighted in flaunting her nudity to the mask. Back in the old days she always had the feeling he was distinctly uncomfortable with any state of undress. She didn't know why she got the feeling; it certainly wasn't in his expression after all. But certain body language: a shifting away from her or one of her girls, the briefest hesitation to approach any feminine garment strewn across the room, flinching when even Nite Owl laid a hand on him, it had always signaled to her the seemingly invisible Watchman had some revulsion to contact and bare flesh, or any items related to it. When he worked with Nite Owl she had taken a real pleasure in making him as visibly uncomfortable as possible in her presence. But that had been then. Tonight he showed no hesitation in grabbing her near naked form, and now she knew what Owl had said was true: Rorschach really hadn't been in contact with anyone in nearly a decade. In the days he worked with Nite Owl, Rorschach had been dangerous. Now he was downright terrifying. Eight years of social isolation for an already unstable mind. If she wasn't careful, she may very well end up in a pool of her own blood before dawn broke.

She slipped the robe over her shoulders, her hands disappearing and reappearing rapidly to assure the man she hadn't retrieved some hidden weapon from the sleeve of the garment. Taking a seat on the edge of the bed, as far from her gun concealing nightstand as possible, she folded her hands neatly into her lap. It gnawed at her, acting like some trained pup in the face of an old enemy, but what could she do? Rorschach was lethal, had been since he was only a teen. She'd been a masked villain in years gone by, but not that kind. She didn't practice martial arts or back flip through buildings. She inherited an old friends business, pedaled human flesh to the highest bidder, pimping out over 400 women and men to some of the richest and most powerful people in New York during her peak at the tender age of 23. She worked out, obviously, but her brains had always served her far better than her brawn. If Rorschach decided he wanted her dead, there was very little she would be able to do in the way of stopping him.

He hurmed at her in the old, annoying way, leaning against the bedroom door a few feet away as he observed her, his gloved hands now buried deep in the pockets of his filthy trench coat. The black liquid of his mask flowed steadily as he watched her, one pattern twisting into another before she even had time to decide what it looked like.

"Daniel didn't lie. Explain."

"He said he hadn't seen you since the Keene Act passed. I thought he was lying. He knew I didn't like you. You know how nice he is; I figured he thought telling me you weren't around would make me feel more comfortable when I visited."

His head tilted slightly in a way she always assumed meant his eyes had narrowed. He didn't believe her. Not good.

"Why would mask associate with filth."

"I am not…" she bit her tongue, choking back her protest at his easy dismissal of her humanity. Now was not the time for philosophical discussion.

"Filth," she spat after a moment, "was the only one around to associate with him, apparently. All you other masks just had better things to do, I guess. And people who dress up in custom tend not to relate to normal people too well for some reason." She glanced away from the vigilante, studying the full length mirror along her closet door as she continued. "I checked up on him a little after they passed the Act. You know, one outlaw catching up with another. Good thing I did since no one else seemed to think of it. We got to talking and, well," she shrugged, "we're both night owls put to roost, he and I. We understand each other a bit, decided to keep in touch."

She looked back at Rorschach and had to fight the urge to scramble over the bed and away from the masked man. His shoulders had tensed exponentially since she started talking. She had the strange feeling his hidden hands were curled into fists in his pocket.

"Daniel doesn't hire whores." It came out in the usual monotone, but Nicole detected the accusation behind it. The ridiculousness of the conclusion he had just drawn about her and the check nearly made her laugh. Were it any Watchman but the psychotic before her, she would have. Nite Owl hiring prostitutes. Her being hired as a prostitute. By Nite Owl. Oh, come on. The man couldn't ask women out to coffee.

"No," she stated as calmly as she could, praying the man's incompetence with social interaction would prevent him from detecting the note of amusement in her voice, "the Owl doesn't hire whores. The check is for Nathan's, my son's, birthday. He made it out to me since Nathan doesn't have a bank account." She hesitated for a moment, wondering if she should finish the rest of the explanation. No grunt or words followed the end of her sentence, making her sure he had noticed her pause. If he decided she was holding back something important, things could get ugly again very quickly.

"Nite Owl is Nathan's godfather."

He moved across the several feet between them faster than she could react, a gloved hand wrapping firmly around her throat to cut off any noise of surprise. She struggled to breathe as he held her, her voice utterly cut off by his firm grip. Even as the stench and pain forced her eyes to water, her hands remained planted firmly at her sides. She offered no struggle. The woman had played this game before with him, years ago when Nite Owl had hover worriedly in the corner behind them and a flurry of young escorts in her employment gasped around them at the man's aggression. There had been witnesses and the king Boy Scout himself crooning words of caution to restrain Rorschach back then. Tonight it was only them. She wouldn't be making any movements he could interpret as an attack unless there was absolutely no other choice available.

"What." He growled. Like everything else during his little interrogation of his, it wasn't a question: it was a demand.

She opened and closed her mouth several times, attempting to rasp out a reply past the vice on her throat. He grunted a moment later, loosening his hold enough to allow her to whisper out a response.

"He's…he's the only man I know. Only one I trust at least. I don't…I don't know anyone who isn't a criminal or a mask." It was the truth. When her son had been born she'd put a lot of thought into whom she could ask to be his guardian upon her, considering her background, quite likely death. An escort once in her service, her right hand girl for her short reign as a Vice Queen, had been chosen as the godmother more for old time's sake than any trust in the woman's ability to take care of the child. As for the godfather…Nite Owl had really been the only choice. Beyond the fact that he was rich, stable, and painfully polite, what she had told Rorschach was true. Her only friends were crime lords or masked heroes, and mobsters didn't tend to have the best parenting techniques. It had taken her a week to talk him into it, but the fact was he had been the only name on her list.

He released her throat with a slight shove, sending her falling back to rest half reclined on one elbow on the bed. She'd have a ring of bruises around her neck to match her wrist come morning. It was lucky one of the first talents she'd picked up in her previous career had been applying make up well enough to hide any amount of damage.

"Daniel guardian of whore's son. Ridiculous. And true. Always too soft. Let scum fog his mind. Especially you."

She scowled at him from her reclined position, bruised hand rubbing battered throat. Empowered now that she knew he believed her and the chance of her death upsetting Nite Owl now granting her some measure of protection from the killer, she managed to rasp a reply.

"It's not my fault your partner's human."

"Not partner."

He paused from his pacing, turning to regard her. The pattern of his mask froze in one pattern for a moment and she feared she had crossed the line. Rorschach and Owl had been close once, nearly a decade ago. Just because he had dropped by the Owl's nest recently didn't necessarily mean the Owl had any sway over him these days. She bit her lip softly. She was unable to suppress the sigh of relief once he turned from her and resumed his pacing, the mask once more flowing from shape to shape as he moved.

"Not partner." He repeated, and the red head had the feeling this wasn't the first time tonight he had been talking to himself. Nearly an entire decade spent without even his lone, saint-like friend to tolerate him. She imagined he held conversation with himself quite often these days.

"Hurm." He uttered at length, turning from her to head towards her broken window. "More nothing. Starting to get depressed. Will speak with Daniel regarding filth association." He shoved one of the panes to the side, perching on the edge of the window frame for a second. He glanced back at her, "Gun in drawer unregistered. Checked. Very bad." He leapt then, disappearing back into the night the same way he had come.

"Yeah," she muttered bitterly, "I steal cable too, what of it." She rubbed her aching throat for a minute more before shaking her head and standing. Fucking masks. Thought they had the right to everything. She grabbed the phone off its hook on the nightstand, looming angrily over the bed as she dialed the number with well manicured nails. The phone rang four times before a sleep fogged voice on the other end picked up.

"He..hullo?"

"Keep your fucking psycho on his leash. If he comes near me or my kid again, I'm not going to be held responsible for what happens to him."

She slammed the phone down with a satisfying bang before the befuddled Nite Owl had a chance to reply. She rubbed her eyes wearily as she glanced around the room, gaze settling on the pieces of broken glass scattered along the floor by the window. The clock at her side proudly showed the time to be four am. The sun would be up in an hour or so, no point in trying to go back to sleep now.

She walked over to the window, stepping carefully around the broken glass, and pulled the two panes back together, closing the window the best she could. Starring at the hole in one pane for a second she turned, grabbing a throw pillow off the ground and shoving it into the hole. She ignored the sounds of tearing fabric as the broken glass dug through the outer cover, the fluff puffing out enough to effectively block the chilling breeze. She lingered by the window, scanning the busy street several stories below as if she could spot the crazed vigilante. It was impossible, of course. Even when she'd had a dozen guards around her quarters that one could slip in and out like a ghost. Or a demon.

She reached to the self next to the window, pulling out her hidden box of cigarettes and match pad lurking there. Still staring at the crowded streets below her, she lit up one of the sticks and took a long drag, grimacing slightly as the smoke irritated her tender vocal chords. The phone starting ringing angrily behind her. The Owl calling her back no doubt. She ignored it. Nathan's angry shout at the disruption to his sleep followed and she could only roll her eyes at the child's antics. He could stand to wake up a few hours early to work on his project for school. She took another pull on her cigarette, sighing at the pre-dawn sky.

"Hell of a way to start the week."

AN: Ever had a story that no matter how many times you said 'No' it kept insisting you meant a 'No' spelled 'y-e-s'? That would be this story. The shocking lack of female characters, especially well written female characters, in Watchmen drove me to wondering about this one woman. She's probably a lot saner than she should be, but it's been twenty years since her crime days, and it's better to stretch the limits of one line in the comic than to run off and create a whole new OC, in my opinion. So here I am. I have no planned couples in it outside of what exists in cannon.

I'm very uncertain on my Rorschach, please feel free to leave constructive criticism on him (or on anything else for that matter) along with any other thoughts. As a note, this is mostly comic book inspired, but I will be using some of the alterations they made in the movie here and there, Rorschach's movie age being one of them (because thinking of a teenage crime fighter Rorschach is adorable). Thank you for reading.