Behind and Before
Dan finds out the whole truth about the mask, the being-truth, in 1985, hunched in an empty motel room with coffee-stained papers held delicately against his thighs.
But in 1967, Rorschach grips his hand, firm and steady though the temperature's in the 20's, the shallow curve of his thumb running up Dan's palm. "March 13th, 1964," he offers. He waits a beat as the gears turn in Dan's head.
"Kitty Genovese," Dan remembers, and nods, allowing his fingers to curl around Rorschach's hold. He's not sure why Rorschach's touching him, because the obvious reason can't be why. "That was your first case; I saw it in the paper. 'New avenger,' something like that. Ozymandias was working that case." Dan hopes his voice still sounds normal to Rorschach, or that any deviation is assumed the fault of the stake-out's conditions and not the warmth clinging behind Dan's neck.
"Hm. Yes." Rorschach lifts their hands, changes his mind and lowers them again. "It was then I understood. I couldn't be that. Had to take a stand." With a jerk he relinquishes his hold on Dan's hand and focuses on the alleyway down below, where the wind looks kinder, if the loose trash swaying against the alleyway is any indication. He smoothes his hands over his legs, tightening them against his knees. "For a long time I had considered it. Doing right. Working alongside - uncorrupted men who didn't require…" Rorschach trails off when a blast of wind roars across the building; he clamps his hand against his head, holding his fedora still.
Dan fills in the rest before Rorschach can convene and return to his tangent. "Money, right," he calls over the wind; the gust dies on the last word so right reverberates across the rooftops. Dan glances at the back alley door and sighs in relief to see no one was witness to the shout. He drops his voice again. "But about the mask - ?" Rorschach turns and looks at him, the motion enough to pin Dan.
Rorschach takes his hand again, with the slow certainty of someone who knows exactly what path he's taking. "It's only black and white," Rorschach explains, lifting Dan's hand to his face, "only ever one or the other. It's clarity in a city of muck." He presses the tips of Dan's fingers to his cheek and drops his hand away.
The blots swirl to accommodate Dan, black dots shifting under his fingers; the rest fan out in wide shapes over Rorschach's eyes and forehead. "Oh," Dan breathes. He wonders how much permission he's just been given. "I always guessed it was, uh, something like that." He fidgets, touch static against Rorschach's cheek. The warmth of Rorschach's breath pools at Dan's wrist, through the glove, and he wants to peel it off, cold be damned. It'd break the contact, though, and he's not sure that he'll ever get this opportunity again, so he ignores the urge and flattens his palm against Rorschach's face, testing it there.
Just over the wind, Dan can hear Rorschach let out a sharp breath. Neither of them move.
Dan swallows back the urge to say something (anything) and rubs his thumb against the high cheekbone he can feel just under the mask. Black shapes oscillate against his touch, forcing symmetry a second later than it ordinarily does. He lowers the heel of his palm in the hollow dip of Rorschach's cheek. Rorschach's hands are loose fists between his knees, wary but not aggressive, letting him do this. Asking him to.
Slowly, Dan lifts his palm up so that only the pads of his fingers linger. He traces up the side of Rorschach's head, a black line following his movements. He takes as much time as he dares, tracing Rorschach's forehead, brushing over his eyebrows, and Dan tries to imagine Rorschach's expression from feel alone. He can't. Rorschach's teeth are clenched, jaw taut, but when Dan cups his face with both hands he leans his head back, obliging Daniel.
"It's fascinating," Dan mutters. He's not looking at Rorschach.
Rorschach nods.
Dan slides two fingers down Rorschach's nose, careful not to stray, certain that Rorschach blinks at the contact anyway. He can feel an old break in the cartilage and lingers there, stroking at the fault line of Rorschach's nose - he wonders when it happened, and how. No one's ever landed a solid enough blow to break Rorschach's nose during patrol.
With his other hand he circles the bone around Rorschach's eye, using his thumb; his other fingers rest against the soft texture of Rorschach's hair, an anchor to keep the touch true. He doesn't feel Rorschach flinch, and when he slides his thumb up, just over his eye, hardly any pressure at all, he's amazed at how still Rorschach remains, the skin underneath like stone. Rorschach's inherent trust is dizzying.
"Daniel." The word vibrates through Dan's gloves, down to the bone. Heat pulses low in Dan's gut. He hasn't touched Rorschach's mouth yet, the ball of his thumb hovering over, catching each crystallized breath.
Dan pulls back, swallows hard. He can feel a bead of sweat run down his neck. "Sorry. It, uh. It's cool. Really cool."
Rorschach lowers his head, shoulders hunched. He swipes at his face, rough, unforgiving. Dan wonders what heat lingers there. "It's fine," the words strangled by something other than the wind, and Dan struggles to divine any meaning from it. "Fine," he repeats, very softly, so that Dan almost doesn't hear. Rorschach straightens, then, against the cold and the two hours they've waited at the lip of the building, and whatever just passed between them hardens again into professionalism. "Hooper should be out soon," he says, pushing his sleeve back to reveal his watch but not glancing at the time. "Keep attentive, Nite Owl."
"Of course." Dan's smile cracks for the cold, and just like that vulnerability is behind them again, leaving only traces of heat on Dan's hands.