. . .
"…Okay, so I know you don't exactly approve of that sort of thing, but really. It was just the one time. And it was during college. So, you know."
Daniel waits a beat, coughs nervously.
Behind his mask, Rorschach narrows his eyes.
Dawn will be here soon. Rorschach mistrusts this time of day more than any other. One can never be sure of anything here, and Rorschach likes to be sure. Likes to know where the lines are, where everything and everyone stand. He takes a certain amount of comfort in the knowledge that there are two worlds with which to contend; the nighttime world of the human cockroaches and lowlifes of the criminal world, and the day-time world of productive society. There is a clear delineation marking out night and day, good and evil, mask and man. Twilight blurs this, corrupts it, changes it. Makes the world so much more gray. Rorschach hates this time of day.
Daniel takes advantage of this space most nights to expound on something or other, usually some tale stemming from his personal life. Despite all his protests and resistance, all his insistence that the wall separating their lives remain firmly in place, Daniel has an infuriatingly uncanny way of chipping away at the barriers in just the right way. It must be an effective tactic, because lately Rorschach finds he is that much more tolerant of the behavior. Tonight, however, Rorschach has mostly tuned Daniel out. The man had been talking for a full four city blocks now. Rorschach had spent most of that time inward—mentally reviewing information learned, crossing off leads that went nowhere, connecting lines and dots to see whatever patterns he could discern— and just pushed Daniel's jabbering aside as mere white noise. He'd been more consciously aware of the motion of Daniel's hands, talking with them in that way he does. It's distracting. It's not as though Rorschach doesn't appreciate whatever his partner has to say, —Rorschach values his partner's sharp mind immensely—it's simply a matter of not really wanting to hear another one of the man's college era anecdotes. These stories always make him feel… uncomfortable. Sometimes walls and borders don't divide they way they should. Sometimes they create imbalances, too.
Rorschach faces Daniel in response, body language harsh and deliberate. Disapproving. Rorschach knows Daniel expects this response from him; he has made enough noise during the course of their partnership to inform the man where he stands on many an issue. Maybe it isn't fair to use their philosophical differences in this way, but Rorschach sees an advantage. Daniel's body language tightens in predictable Pavlovian response. Rorschach hopes Daniel doesn't see through the ruse and call his bluff; he has no idea just what confessed youthful transgression has earned such imagined condemnation.
"No. I don't know," Rorschach grumbles out. He takes a small measure of satisfaction at that. It sounds like the castigation Daniel expects, and yet it is the honest truth. He doesn't know. Whatever the nature of his partner's late night—technically pre-dawn—confession, whatever depravity from the man's obviously misspent youth, Rorschach would really rather not know.
They silently round the corner into another non-descript alleyway.
Then there is a broad hand on his chest. Daniel pushes him bodily against a grimy brick wall before tapping his index finger against his lips. He then shifts to position his own body flat against the wall. Their shoulders press firmly together, and Rorschach files this contact as 'solidarity.'
A strong odor dances toward them, a pungent, woody smell. One Rorschach recognizes at once as the illicit substance often associated with a certain type of youth; those unwashed, disgusting, lazy freeloaders wishing to live off the labors of normal, hard working men while all the while biting the hands that feed them. Nothing less than shameful, immature hedonism.
Daniel removes his goggles in one easy sweep. Before Rorschach can protest, they have been pushed into his hands.
"I promise not to look." There is a playfulness there. It's trying. Why can't the man ever take anything seriously?
He ignores it, just nods. He shifts away from Daniel, positions himself in just the right angle. Secure, he lifts his mask enough to accommodate the eyewear.
Daniel pointedly looks off to the middle distance.
The whole world is illuminated. The corridor becomes longer and wider, and everything is clear as day. Daniel is fidgeting now, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Rorschach intends to give a sharp glare, but the man is too busy contemplating his boots. Goggles hide eyes well, though not as well as Rorschach's mask. Still, there is an advantage. Vision is greatly improved. He can see Daniel's pupils, for instance. He can see how large they are in the absence of enough light. He can see grime on his partner's face. A spot on his cheek, a smear under his lip. In his mind, he wipes the city's filth away with one simple stroke. He imagines Daniel closing his eyes at the contact while he whispers—
"Rorschach?"
He starts. A heaviness sits in his gut. He isn't sure what it is, so he labels it 'frustration.' It's not guilt, what ever it is. Can't be guilt. He has no reason to feel—
"Have 'em yet?" Daniel says, sotto voce.
He has a task and a responsibility. He doesn't keep Daniel waiting.
He scans the area; the world as seen through green glass. He sees metal trashcans lining one wall, the scurrying motion of what he presumes is a rat, the inexplicable presence of a dirty and sodden sock, but he doesn't see—
And then he does. Two figures pressed together in a recess set in the brick wall. The frame of a doorway. Then he notices a tiny bright dot hovering between their heads. The source of the offending odor.
The bodies shift in subtle, upsettingly lewd rhythmic motions. He knows what perversions must lay within the pair, what compels them to behave in this disgusting manner in public. Flaunting their sin for all to see. There is a brick in his stomach. Must be revulsion. He is revolted.
He returns the goggles to Daniel, and before he hears them snap back into place, Daniel is off.
"All right, now. Let's take this inside," Daniel says, his words enunciated slowly and clearly, in a tone that is just a touch deeper than his normal speaking voice. His Nite Owl voice. Although, Rorschach has noticed Daniel doesn't always remember to affect it. He makes a mental note to remind his partner of the importance of consistency.
The young men—and they both were men, to Rorschach's dismay—thoughtlessly discard the marijuana cigarette to the ground. Daniel reaches to pick it off the ground, makes his way to one of the trash barrels as the two men slip wordlessly inside.
"Out of sight, out of mind, Nite Owl?" Rorschach says.
"Well, they weren't hurting anybody. And besides," he says, vaguely waving the cigarette in the air before pointedly tossing it into the trash, "I'm hardly in a position to judge."
"It was just the one time," Rorschach says.
"Yeah." Daniel says. Then, "Sorry."
"Thought better of you," Rorschach mutters to himself.
Daniel shrugs.
"Didn't intend for you to hear."
"I know."
Daniel turns, walks out toward the larger city street. He fumbles for his belt console. He's preparing to call the ship.
"Listen," he says. "I think we've done enough damage for one night. I don't know about you, but I'm gonna turn in."
Rorschach nods at this. He isn't sure exactly what has happened, but Daniel is… not happy. His body language is too tight, his words forced.
Daniel hasn't extended his customary invitation back for coffee, or something to eat or even to rest. It might have to do with the fact that Rorschach has declined the offer each time.
"I am tired," Daniel says with a small laugh. "I'll see ya."
Rorschach watches the ship ascend. He casts his eyes toward the direction of Daniel's home. Wonders if maybe he should follow.
. . .
editted to fix typos