Somewhere, a requester on the kinkmeme wanted an exploration of Walter's day life; and also a conversation ( . ?thread=123181#t123181) about wanting to see him surrounded by little old ladies trying to show him how to knit. This is also, quite by accident, a fill for someone who wanted a crossover with Terry Pratchet. I don't know how Nanny Ogg got in here, but I won't even bother asking. I probably don't want to know.
You will not believe how much fun this was to write though.
Rorschach, now in his daytime guise of Walter, sleepwalked through his shift as usual. His job required little conscience thought; even after a full night as a vigilante and dead on his feet, he could do this menial work. He'd thought of leaving this job once or twice-working on ladies' undergarments was undignified-but he felt he couldn't find a more suitable job. It was easy, paid a decent wage, and since he had been there so long his manager never paid attention to him and the ladies no longer twittered behind his back. He was just a background feature during work; innocuous and ignored. People paid him as much mind as a piece of furniture, which was how he liked it.
He'd found that most people got uncomfortable around him in social situations; probably put off by his predisposition to stare intensely at the person talking to him without a break in eye contact, the long pauses of silence that he didn't bother to break, and his zero tolerance for so, how's the weather kind of chatter. As a teen it had bothered him how often his attempts to socialize had fallen flat, but he'd gotten used to it. Preferred it. If people were that bothered by a stare, they could go speak their meaningless drivel about New York weather to someone who would actually entertain such social niceties. He would only talk to people who were actually interested in listening to him, not following some script dictated by some obscure rules imposed by society.
Daniel for instance. At first he'd been similar to all the other people he'd met, trying to fill in the silent gaps in conversation with one-sided chatter, and noticeably put off by his atrocious social skills. But, instead of becoming offended, it had simply been a little confused, mixed in with what he suspected was amusement. And then it seemed as if Daniel realized that he didn't follow the usual script, shrugged with acceptance, and then just moved right on with chatting to him, completely ignoring his quirks. He didn't know how he'd found someone who didn't mind the stare, was completely okay with silence, or could care less about his bluntness. He didn't look gift horses in the mouth.
He held up a finished garment, inspecting his work. It was more habit really, his work was usually flawless, even nearly dead to the world after a rough night. He tossed it into the bin behind him without looking; it fell in perfectly. Muscle memory.
The whistle blew just as he started another; which was just as well. He'd filled his quota before lunch. He stood in line, waiting for his turn to punch out for lunch, tapping his foot in impatience.
"Got a hot date tonight?" Giggled a voice behind him.
He restrained his sigh, and said in a voice of flat politeness, "No, Mrs. Ogg."
The elderly woman smiled at him, papery skin crinkling around her eyes; She, and two other women, where the exception to the general rule at the factory. Unlike the majority of workers here, who were all young wives, all three of them were no younger than sixty. They had somehow adopted him as a surrogate son and unofficial mascot; they all sat with him, their chatter swarming around him as he silently ate lunch. They didn't mind his idiosyncrasies, and he was always unfailingly polite to them, so it worked.
Though he sometimes wished Mrs. Ogg would stop insisting that he call her 'Nanny.' Or trying to set him up with her granddaughters (and, once, a grandson. He refused to think about that incident.)
But when she made cake, she brought it with her for lunch. And she shared.
...He could overlook her moral lapses.
Mrs. Weatherwax, on the other hand, was never very interested in sweets; she habitually refused confectionaries of any kind, and pushed them over to him. She did take coffee, however; and usually had a thick metal thermos on hand that she topped off with free coffee from the break room before leaving work. Mrs. Aching might have dessert once in a while, but she usually didn't partake either. He suspected she declined for some other reason, not because she disliked sweets. She always seemed to have an unidentifiable look on her face when she slid her cookie or cake over to him. At one time he had wondered about it, but he didn't look gift horses in the mouth. Not with teeth like hers, anyway; and coming from him, that was saying something.
"I could get you one." She grinned-and, speaking of teeth, or the lack thereof-displayed the single, shining tooth. Watching her trying to eat pickled onions was a sight to behold.
"Mrs. Ogg, I believe the last granddaughter you tried to set me up with was less than enthused."
"Well, how was I supposed to know she already had a date with a young man from accounting?"
He was sure she'd known. In fact, she had probably known the name and numbers of his entire family. He was also sure that she hadn't approved of this fairly innocuous young man, and for some obscure reason, thought he was a better match. He still wondered about that; he had no illusions about his looks or personality, and yet this woman still tried to set him up with her own children, of which she was immensely fond of. He had no idea what she could see in him that he could offer to her cherished offspring, but he let her keep her illusions.
Then again, she had alluded-many times, in rather suspicious ways-that she liked gingers. He wanted to think that she just liked the idea of red-headed grandchildren, but he really didn't want to investigate that any further. He also wondered why she wanted any more grandchildren; many of her numerous children had already married and had produced a veritable swarm of grandchildren and some of them had produced even great grandchildren. He was sure that she was at least 70, some of her grandchildren where his age, thought he was afraid to ask never thought to ask.
Lunch started. In the case of Walter, it was a forlorn tuna fish sandwich-sans mayo, since he didn't have a fridge at home-and some saltine crackers. Mrs. Weatherwax's lunch consisted of a lone egg salad sandwich, while Mrs. Aching had a generous slice of ham and boiled cabbage soup. Mrs. Ogg, of course, pulled out bottomless quantities of food out of her lunch pail, but the star of it was a large slice of bacon quiche; which he couldn't help but eye greedily. A quarter slice magically found its way on top of his soggy tuna sandwich, which normally he would have glared at; he hated such blunt generosity, but he was too hungry to say no. The last meal he had was a can of peaches that tasted more like syrupy aluminum last night at Daniels; he'd run out of money, and had no more cereal or powdered milk for breakfast.
Then, almost as one, they pulled out their knitting. Or, in the case of Mrs. Aching, her spinning. She worked on a drop spindle; a dangerous looking torture device of iron that had baffled him the first time he'd seen it. It was big, heavy, and black. With her arms, she could probably do some damage with it. Mrs. Weatherwax looked like she could do some damage too; she was currently working on a steel-grey coat, and the straight needles she was using were a good foot long. Mrs. Ogg was working on a lacy...he wasn't sure what it was.* He wasn't sure he wanted to know.
The chattering started, most of it done by Mrs. Ogg, and he paid little attention; choosing instead, to watch the spindle. He was forever mystified by purls and Ktog and other techno babble that even Daniel, in all his engineering rants, couldn't match. He could, however, appreciate the movement of the spindle, the hypnotic up-down rhythm and simple process of turning roving into yarn.
It could be said that he liked Mrs. Aching; in so much as he could like anyone besides Daniel. Mrs. Ogg he tolerated, Mrs. Weatherwax he respected, but Mrs. Aching...he liked. She rarely said anything that wasn't immediately practical, and so remained quiet most of the time; which he could appreciate in this cacophonous world of neighbors screaming heard through paper-thin walls. Even if her voice was colored with some foreigner brogue.
And once, he had escorted her home, and seen The Pictures. Pictures of an uncompromising, pale face with warm eyes; adorned in cap and dress uniform, brass medals gleaming on the chest. Some of the black-and-white pictures had been colored with soft watercolor, revealing dark red hair. This man, and many others, all bore those features.
Husband, son, grandsons.
And, in the corner, a folded flag in a wooden display case; awarded for the permanent end of service in the second 'War to end all wars'. Pictures of a son, who had moved back to the land their mother had once lived in, before she had come with this man to America. A son who still sent her cards and bags of wool.
And after that he knew, he knew why she gave him her share of cookies or cake; and didn't begrudge it. It was why he wore the scarf and the fingerless gloves. Gifts from all three; knitted by Mrs. Ogg and Mrs. Weatherwax, and spun by Mrs. Aching from sheep grazed on endless green hills.
The lunch bell droned, and now they went back to work; each to their sewing machines (though Mrs. Weatherwax had to give her temperamental one a good kick to get it going) and the day passed quickly.
Mercifully, when he went home, the neighbors were out; the wife cheating, the husband drinking, the children running roughshod over their haggard grandmother. He was left in peace to sleep until his true job started; undisturbed by even the landlady because he'd sacrificed his food money for an extension on the rent, and the bloated whore was content. For now.
His dreams were flat and colorless, like old and faded pictures. He dreamed of rolling seas of grass and stern faces with gentle eyes.
They were not disturbed by fire and bones. Not yet.
When he woke, the evening light was fading fast. He rose, and shimmied down his fire escape, wanting to avoid the wearing fights about rent, the hypocritical glares of suspicion as her children were shuffled behind her, well out of his reach. It always needled him that she thought he had such perversions; but he ignored it for the sake of an inexpensive place to live.
He gathered his uniform; waiting patiently in the alleys to cover him with its mantle of power.
Rorschach tugged on the leather gloves, over the woolen fingerless ones. While the scarf was his, the wool gloves were Walters; allowed to remain, however, because the night was cold. The chill November night welcomed him, swallowing him whole.
His partner was already waiting for him, dressed in full regalia.
"Ready to head out?" Nite Owl's harsh face formed by the mask was broken, just a little, by the soft eyes of Daniel.
Stern face. Gentle eyes.
"Always."
This shift they had no big plans, so it started off with a bit of light exercise. First there were muggers and drug dealers, then a more substantial workout of a gaggle of topknots; a decent quota. A break for snacks-saltines for Rorschach, boiled eggs for Nite Owl-then back to work. A crack-addled pimp with more balls than brains, then raking an informant over pavement for information. And here he didn't hold his work up to the light, examining it for flaws. His check was an appreciative pat on the shoulder; an automatic assurance of a job well done. Muscle memory.
And here, there was chatter about the inner workings of the owl ship, techno babble he'd never understand. And also silence, warm and comfortable.
In the middle of one of those silences, a scuffling sound.
Immediately he hared down the alleyway, and Nite Owl followed close behind, but it seemed he wouldn't need his assistance, not with a single mugger assaulting-
-attempting to assault-
And getting a face full of shattered glass and milk for his troubles.
Mrs. Weatherwax glared down at the would-be mugger, likely more irritated at the waste of a half-gallon of milk, rather than at being almost mugged. He stopped in his tracks, trying to remain in the deepest, darkest shadows. Her piercing, hawk like eyes found him anyway. They only briefly flicked over to his partner, then were back, pinning him to the wall. It was useless to hide, but he did anyway, letting his partner do the talking.
"Uh...well." He blinked. "I see you've got it handled. We'll just cuff him and truck him away...my partner can escort you home, if you like."
Before he could object, she jerked her head in a nod.
The walk was awkward to say the least.
He remained steps away from her, sliding from shadow to shadow, a menacing presence. His guardianship was completely and utterly unneeded, however. Her presence exuded a sort of awe that kept people well out of her bubble; the only reason the mugger had dared assault her must have been severely impaired judgment.
She grunted as she sorted through a jingling mess of keys on the front stoop, and was almost, almost, able to vanish like the mysterious noir figure he was-
"See you tomorrow."
-And nearly stumbled over his own shoes, jerking his head back to see the door of her apartment slowly swinging shut, left wondering...
His hand wandered to his scarf; but slid away. Too dark to see, his mind attempted to placate; to reason. To come up with a hope that maybe his identity was safe, that her words meant something else. But he was certain exactly what she meant by those three words.
And the truth was; she didn't need a scarf to know.
*Let's hope he never finds the book 'Naughty Needles' by Nikol Lohr. Though, if you are a knitter, I highly recommend it. Besides the hilarious commentary, theirs instructions on how to knit a whip out of suede lacing. Granny is working on the 'fembot' a lacy nightie in mohair.