Author's Notes: Please read the first chapter if you haven't already, else this probably won't make much sense. All those notes in the beginning of that apply to this.
Enjoy.
It didn't take long for Alana to start taking the bus home again. It wasn't that far to walk, only seventeen or so blocks, but after she bought herself some security at home, there was no sense in walking all that way. So, in the fall of 1963, she stepped gingerly on the steps of the bus, and quickly found a seat by the door. The knife she bought stayed with her in her purse. At home, it nestled in the pocket of her dress. She stayed tense, ever alert, yet it still took two times before she noticed the driver was talking to her.
"Excuse me," she said, looking at him with wary eyes. "I missed that."
"I said it's nice to see you again," he replied with a chuckle, closing the door. "I'd wondered what happened to you, or if it was my cologne that chased you off."
"Oh," she replied, hand digging in her purse to wrap around the knife's handle. It made her feel safe. "No."
He seemed to understand to shut the hell up then, and went back to driving. She turned her gaze out the window, glad to be sitting up straight instead of cramped over the workstation's table. It'd been a couple weeks, and her father stayed away from her. A dance played out every evening, especially over dinner. It was a daughter's responsibility to cook and clean for him, but she kept a close watch. She was never within arm's reach of him, and sat at the opposite end of the small table instead of right next to him. Patrick watched her, surly. Instead of his hands, he hit with his mouth, the drink talking for him. Slut, whore, bitch, and worst of all, sinner, were his fists. She didn't mind. Words hurt less than fists. Most of the time, anyway.
And what did it matter if she cried herself to sleep, near every night? Those lessons learned from the redhead served her well now. She locked everything away behind a bland expression, not letting the words touch her outwardly. At least she was safe in her own room now; a private sanctuary. She'd get the money back, slowly. The thing she was most afraid of was Patrick kicking her out. He would be well within his right to do so, as nominally he paid rent. As the weeks passed, it dawned on her he wouldn't do so. Else, who else would cook and clean for him?
It was tolerable, but barely. Being able to lock her door and cry at night helped keep her sane. That, and work. At work she didn't have to worry about that sort of thing at all. She shifted in her seat, eyeing the driver as he rolled open the door for another passenger. If he was going to start... all men wanted was just one thing.
A couple months after the incident on her steps, she began bringing him food. It was... bizarre, to say the least. Walter didn't mind so much as mostly what he was used to eating was straight out of a can, heated on the small stove in his apartment. It was still strange.
It all started off innocently enough. One day during the lunch break, she sat down next to him. That was unusual in and of itself, but the warmth of her body next to his was... not unpleasant. "Would you like a biscuit?" she'd asked. He shrugged in reply, and she handed him a handkerchief, then went to her own packed lunch. They were good, but tasted funny. He learned later they were potato biscuits, homemade.
Nothing for a week after that, then once more, she sat down next to him. It was a Monday. She held a tin, and offered it to him with a slight, almost shy, smile. Inside were two pieces of apple pie. He took it without words, and ate one piece there. The other he had at home. It took a few times to realize it wasn't just extra food she'd brought by accident. She was making it for him. The workers at the shop usually only had twenty minutes to wolf down their lunch and, for some of them, have a smoke afterwards. She was taking special time out, both inside and outside of work, just for him.
The thought made him warm inside. Nothing much was ever said; sometimes she asked and sometimes she didn't. Sometimes he thanked her, but more often he just accepted. They never touched. It seemed taboo, to break such a delicate spell. He didn't want to break it. The sensation was not unwelcome, either. Other than the time he spent at the gym, he felt accepted, no, wanted even. He drew some small comfort from that.
Sharp and observant as always, he noted the bruises stopped after that night as well. Whatever she had done had worked wonders for her physical health. She walked light and aware now, paying attention to her surroundings. He approved. A virtuous woman had to fight to protect her virtue, if she could. At the very least, she wasn't going to let anyone take her unawares again.
He still walked by her apartment building during his evening strolls, until it got too cold. Yet he felt confident enough she'd take care of herself, so he wouldn't need to. The knowledge made it bearable to forego the circuit, and instead head to the gym or the library, then home.
"G'wan, ask her," someone said behind her. Alana turned on her heel, recognizing the voice dimly. A couple of the other workers from the shop were behind her. It was bitter cold in February, chilling her to the bone. She was glad she started riding the bus again, even if the driver always looked at her. And smiled. Couldn't forget that.
One of the boys stepped forward, snatching his hat off his head in a last second gesture of courtliness. "Miss, I was wonderin' if ya'd care to go out to the movies with me on Friday?"
She blinked, relaxing, then tensing again. Someone was asking her out; that hadn't happened for a couple years. Alana was nineteen now, and had only been out on a few dates, most of which happened before the... happened before. "No," she said firmly. "But thank you." There, that was polite.
The fellow turned back to his buddy, "See? I toldja."
"Nah," the other stepped forward. "C'mon, girl." He gestured towards her, "You look like you need some fun."
"I don't want any fun," she said, her lip curling in a sneer. They all wanted the same thing. She just knew what 'fun' they had in mind.
Evidently that was true as the aggressive one stepped toward her, "You think yer too good for us, is that it?" She took a step back hurridly, and dug in her purse, heart pounding.
"Stay away from me!" Where was it? Where was it?
He grabbed her arm roughly, "Alla you are the same!" The man's voice softened just a bit; no doubt he thought he was being seductive, trying to coax a wild animal. "It'll be fun, c'mon..."
There it was. She seized the knife and drew it out. Both of them stepped back in a hurry, and she was released. "I said, stay away from me!" She was shaking from head to toe. Now she was going to suffer this... this... indignity from other men? How would she ever meet a nice man to marry? She couldn't go to church. Men were horrible, lustful. All that was in and out of her head in a blink, and she brandished the knife clumsily. "I don't want to be touched!"
The two backed off, the first looking more sorry than his counterpart (maybe he was alright; just fell in with a bad crowd). The second waved his hand in a dismissive gesture, "Crazy bitch. C'mon, let's hit up that Terry girl..." Their voices faded as they walked away. Where was the bus?
"You shouldn't carry it in your purse," he said. She was surprised, but not too surprised. Alana'd recognize his voice anywhere. After all, her mantra had first been uttered by him. Do what you have to.
She lowered the knife, looking over to him. She never looked up to him, at least not anymore. In the last couple of years she'd grown a couple inches. He didn't. Now, she was taller than him, but not by very much. "I carry it to be safe," she said simply.
"I know, but you shouldn't carry it in your purse," he replied, approaching with a few slow paces. "You should have it out already, or someplace easily accessible." He smiled, a slight smile, but his always were. "How else will you use it if you need to?"
It was the longest speech he'd ever given. "You're right." She looked at the short blade, frowning.
"Either keep it in your pocket-it's small enough-or up your sleeve," he offered, voice growing more confident. The cadences were almost like a normal person; maybe it was because he was outside of work and not around people. Which, now that she thought on it, would make him relax, let his guard down. He was like her, after all. Being with him was sort of like being alone. She liked that.
She tried the pocket first, but it stuck out as the pockets in her coat weren't deep enough. After looking at him and quirking her brows in question, he stepped closer and took the knife from her gently, slowly. He held it so the dull side of the knife was laid against his arm, and the sharp side out in a reverse grip. Then he slipped his arm up his jacket slightly, and the knife whisked out of sight. "See?"
Alana nodded. "I think so, yes. Let me try." He handed it over to her, and their fingers touched briefly. She didn't notice him turning red, absorbed as she was in trying to situate the knife like he did. Once she had the grip down, she tried to bring it out as he did, but it got caught on her coat.
"You'll need some practice," he offered, muttering.
"Or wider coat arms," Alana noted. Yes, it would probably work like that. For now, the purse. As she closed her handbag, she looked back to him. "Thank you."
He nodded, then turned and started to walk away. The bus was pulling up now. A sudden realization dawned. "Wait!" she called. He slowed, and glanced around, frowning. "I'm Alana-what's your name?" They had gone three years, back and forth, without even bothering to ask the most basic of questions.
"Walter," he replied, looking shy for the first time. He has a crush on me, Alana thought. She wasn't sure how to feel about that. Men were awful, hard and cruel. Marriage was a thought that loomed over her constantly, and how to meet a nice man. He was definitely nice, at least to her, though his odd mannerisms at times turned her off. That, and... to look at that face, every day. Even as she thought it, something must have crossed her expression, as he began to close himself off. She actually watched his face shut down, bit by bit, in seconds. No, she didn't want that.
"I'm pleased to meet you, Walter!" she called out, waving. She smiled, flashing her white, even teeth at him, something she never did anymore, and was pleased to see him warm up again, and nod slightly before turning and walking away. He was nice to her-the least she could do would be nice to him back. After all, his words saved her life. Perhaps that was an exaggeration, but he'd given her comfort when no one did. For that, she'd be forever grateful.
"Are you getting on miss?" the driver asked. "Because while I like the winter, I don't think everyone else does." When she turned, he grinned.
Her smile faded, but a ghostly visage of it remained. "Yes, I am. Thank you."
Over and over he replayed it in his mind. He felt ten feet tall... like a hero. For the first time in a long time, he was happy... more or less. He looked forward to work every day, and even though they didn't talk any more than they normally did, there was a bond between them. Gratitude shone in her eyes whenever she looked at him. Gratitude and warmth. It was not something he was used to. Over and over her words, the small touch. He never embellished it; just treasured it, like some secret they and they alone shared.
It wasn't until the first dream that it turned into a nightmare.
The dream reminded him of his childhood nightmares, of his mother and the dirty things she'd done. Alana wasn't like that. She couldn't be. Yet those dreams came back to torment him, filling him with sick disgust at the images burned into his mind. No, he would never. She would never. She wasn't a whore. She was pure and good and kind.
Those nights left him restless, moreso when he awoke to a wet stomach. He felt physically sick at the thought, but it was like some dam in his mind had been broken and the images tumbled through like a tumultuous river. The scent, the look, the feel of those dreams sent him into a maelstrom of confusion and loathing. He would close it off again, somehow. He should never, ever be thinking that. Women existed just to corrupt men... well, most of them did. After all, wasn't it Eve who tempted Adam?
The days after those kinds of dreams, he kept his distance. Subconsciously, he waited for her to betray her true nature. He couldn't help it, not that he thought on it seriously. It was instinct for him to mistrust women, knowing they were bad. Yet it went on the same as before, and at the end of the day, he was back to quietly watching her, taking comfort in what small moments they spent together, just like he did his matches at the gym, or in a good book. The next one would start the cycle over again.
He thought about taking another job in the shop, one that wouldn't bring him by the seamstresses. However, if he couldn't resist one temptation-and who wasn't tempted in this corrupt world?-then he might as well give up now. She'd never touched him, or even looked at him in that way. As a matter of fact, she never looked at anyone that way. He would just have to live with it, knowing those dreams and her actions were not the same thing. Walter found a balance within himself to accept the paradox of the morally good woman.
The dreams made it rough, though.
"What? How could you not have heard about it?" Janice shrieked as the both of them stood outside in the damp March day.
"I don't read the papers very much, and Patrick always watches the television," Alana replied. "I read books." She shook her head, "I can't believe that... people watched, and they didn't do anything?"
Janice nodded, looking dead serious, even a little pale under her make-up. "Thirty-eight of them," she affirmed. "They didn't do anything... just stood around and watched."
Alana felt sick to her stomach. It wasn't too surprising; the world, and New York in particular, had a habit of not getting involved. Her neighbors must have heard her cries, but they'd done nothing either. It was the way it was. "Oh my god, the poor girl." To be raped and stabbed. Her thoughts lingered on the boys at the bus stop. That could have been her. She would redouble her efforts to be vigilant.
Her friend nodded in sympathy. No doubt she was thinking the same thing. It could have been any one of them, any one of the people they knew, talked with every day. It was a terrible thing, but what could they do about it?
Ever since he read in the paper at the library about the girl, he felt sick. He'd walked home in a daze, barely paying attention to his surroundings, and once inside, he raged. How could this happen? There were good people in the world; they should have stopped it! He sure would have!
But would he have? Really? For a second, his thoughts flickered to Alana, and the abuse she must have suffered over what... two years? Two years, and he knew, and didn't do a damn thing. Who else knew? How many times had this happened over and over again, in houses and homes across the city, the nation? He punched the wall; people should have stopped it! He hit it again, harder, righteous indignation warring with revulsion for people, for himself. He liked to think he was better than they were, but when it came down to it, what did he do? He walked away. The least that could be said was he didn't watch.
Tears squeezed out beneath his tightly closed lids, hands clenched into fists. Thirty-eight people! Not one or two, but thirty-eight! The words of the article burned in his mind. How could good people-and Walter did believe most people were good, if slow and lazy-stand by and let that happen? He struck the wall again, breaking the plaster and scraping his knuckles. The stud in the wall held; else he might have punched right through it. How could they do nothing? How could they watch? How could he have stood by?
Again and again he punched the wall, until both of his hands were raw and bleeding. A neighbor shouted down to keep it down, to shut the hell up. He hit the wall again, softer this time, his anger spent, leaving only the disgust behind. Weak-kneed, he moved to the bathroom where he threw up. Oh, God... thirty-eight people. No one did anything.
Standing up wearily, he washed his hands, watching the blood run in the sink. It swirled down the drain as the water became pink, mixing. No longer clearly delineated; his world mixed. Shades of grey... how could good people stand by and do nothing? It was their responsibility to their fellow man... to protect their daughters and wives, the good men and women of the world. He knew they were out there. What had she done to deserve this? What had she done to warrant being raped and killed in such a savage way?
He looked up, facing himself in the mirror. His eyes were red and swollen, and cheeks wet with tears. All he could see was the corruption, the lines in his face etching out his own faults. He looked in the mirror and all he saw was them. He was not any different. He'd stood by too. He was just like them.
The mirror shattered when he hit it, pieces falling into the sink. A smear of red was left behind, and still he couldn't bear to see his reflection, not even broken as it was. Tearing himself away from the mirror, he reeled back into his bedroom. He had to cover it up. Black and white and shades of grey, all mixing. No... no. There had to be lines, lines you didn't cross. People knew what they were supposed to do, they knew what was right and what was wrong! Feverishly spurred on by thoughts of white-and-black, he dug through his chest of drawers. It had to be in here somewhere, it had to be...!
There. There it was. The dress the woman with the Italian name-no, Kitty, Kitty Genovese, he was certain that was the name-had ordered lay in the bottom drawer, cut up in various sizes. He'd thought it was beautiful when he first saw it, the ever shifting shapes, the way the black and the white never mixed. That's how things should be. There was good, and there was evil. None of this moral ambiguity. People didn't talk about the things that happened behind locked doors. They should. Someone should. Someone should do something.
He drew out the fabric and held it up, watching how the black shifted. Yes, it would work. He draped it over his face, sighing. Maybe he'd be able to look at himself this way, make a new face to cover his shame.
It was September again, already. Time just kept rolling on, Alana thought, no matter what we do. She felt pretty good about herself-her stash was almost back up to two hundred dollars! Estimating that she would need four hundred, maybe three if she moved in with another girl, she thought if she worked overtime-or maybe got a second job-she'd be able to move out by this time next year. Oh, God, please! she quietly prayed. Her home life was a wreck; it was amazing the things Patrick could do to hurt her. Not with fists anymore, but throwing the plates of food she made him against the wall, yelling, screaming... and the crying. She pitied him. She hated him. It was her father, however, and it had to be borne. Soon.
In these last few months, Walter had opened up visibly. He seemed more normal than he ever had, quietly pleased at something. He had new confidence in his step, and maybe he didn't smile at people a whole lot, but he wasn't empty, not any longer. Something had filled him. She was happy for him, and relieved for herself. The thought of him pinning everything on her had been too much, and for a while, she had the feeling he'd done just that. However, something changed, he was happy, and she was left alone.
They were friends, of course. Instead of bringing him a biscuit or two every once in a while, she would share her lunch with him. Well, most of the time. Sometimes, he was still lost in his own world. And he'd talk! That was the biggest change of all. They held actual conversations now, about the news, or the weather, or about work. He never joked, but he had a sharp mind. She'd never seen it before. Alana had only a year of high school, and he had about the same, but he read a lot. That he picked up so much from books was inspiring.
The bruises which started appearing randomly worried her. She didn't ask, but when her gaze lingered too long on a nasty bruise around his neck, he explained quickly about boxing. That he did, every day, at the gym. Not knowing any better, she accepted his explanation. Boys had to be boys, after all.
Maybe, she mused one day. Maybe she might have married him. The thought was disturbing on some level, but if it would have been anyone, it probably would have been him. He was always kind to her, soft-spoken, and gentle. However, she would never get married. Men were too... one-minded. Coarse and rude, the lot of them. She didn't need to get married, though. Janice was talking about moving out of her mother's house, and Alana thought if she could convince Maria to do the same, the three of them could share a decent-sized apartment. The thought kept her buoyed.
Other than Walter and Patrick, the only other man in her life was the bus driver. He never stopped smiling at her, and sometimes she smiled back. The days she did, he was extra chatty, but polite. It was just his job, though. It didn't mean anything.
1965 was a great year for Walter. After the learning experiences in the beginning, his costumed career really took off. He forewent the gym and his walks to fight crime, to do something about the filth on the streets. Bit by bit he learned about the seedy underbelly of New York, about where the criminals lived and thrived. If no one else would, he would make it safe for people. He wouldn't stand by idly again.
But yes... 1965 was a good year. Other masked vigilantes were on the streets. Most came and went, it being a fad and a short one at that. Or ended up dead in the gutter. However, the second Nite Owl was different. For one, he was prepared with his various gadgets and the Owlship. It didn't take long for Walter to figure out Daniel's identity. And soon after that, Daniel had told him anyway, their partership fostering trust between the two men. Together they took down crime lords, seeing each to jail. It was a great feeling. There was nothing else finer than tracking the wicked, or the surprise on their faces when Rorschach and the Nite Owl busted in through a window (alright, alright, it wasn't always a dramatic entrance, usually wasn't, but there had been a few memorable ones), and arrested the lot of them. Each criminal caught was another victim saved.
Right before Christmas of that year, Nite Owl had given Rorschach a grappling hook, designed especially for him. Walter was touched by the gift. The timing wasn't lost on him either. It was good to have a friend whom he could trust.
1965 was a fantastic year for Alana. She was twenty years old and finally free! After months of wheedling and begging, Maria had agreed to the three way partnership, and the women moved in together. It was small and cramped for three, but she was finally, deliriously free of Patrick. She practically floated to work every day on Cloud Nine. Every day she thanked God. God may not have had much to do with it-her hard work and perserverance was the reason-but she thanked Him anyway. She thanked the shop, thanked her boss, the bus driver, and Walter. If it hadn't have been for him, she might not have made it. But she did, and she was free!
Christmas of that year was a happy occasion for the first time in years. The girls decided to each get one small gift for each other. Nothing big or expensive. She got a bottle of perfume from Maria, and a pair of earrings from Janice. She'd made each of them a dress, a fancy, pretty dress. The cloth was cheap from the shop, and the embroidery at night by the window calmed her. It was so soothing, and fun again-not just for work-that she decided to make something light and pretty for herself. She'd probably never have the occasion to wear it, but it would be something just for her.
The rough times were over, she felt, for both her and her awkward friend. He seemed happier than ever before too, still somewhat hiding in his mask of neutrality, but more open than ever. Lighter, freer. Both of them.
Her world came to a halt after Christmas though, as she was riding home on the bus. She still kept the knife, having altered the pockets in her coat to carry it comfortably there, out of sight. Better safe than sorry-that lesson she had learned too well. Getting ready to get off at her new stop (her new stop!), the driver behind her caught her attention. "Excuse me, miss?"
She turned slightly, guard down. She was riding too high to be vigilant all the time. "Yes?"
"I know you don't know me, but would you care to go out with me on New Years'? Have some dinner, maybe?" His tone was hopeful, and he scratched his forehead, knocking the hat back.
Alana paled. "I, uhm..." Her hand slipped into her pocket and gripped the knife, waiting. "No. Thank you." Polite. It was best to be polite, but firm.
He gave a ghost of his smile, looking disappointed. "Alrighty then. Merry Christmas." He opened the door for her, and waited, looking back forward, away from her.
She stepped down and out, feeling nervous, anxious. She hadn't been asked out since those other boys-word got around at the shop quickly how 'crazy' she was, at least among the men-and she didn't interact with anyone else. Work then home. Home then work. That was all. No church... she didn't belong in church. She knew she was damned, having accepted that long ago. It would've been hypocritical of her to go.
As she walked up the stairs to her apartment, she wondered if she did the right thing. No, of course she did. They wanted just the one thing, remember? Well, except for Walter, but he wasn't a man... he was just Walter. She set her bundles down on the davenport and frowned. Maria was home, and she was way more experienced. She always had a boyfriend.
"Maria," she called out, looking around.
"In the kitchen!" Alana followed the voice in. "I'm making fajitas tonight!" It was Maria's turn to cook, and she always cooked some spic food. Then again, Alana always cooked something that her mother taught her, invariably Irish recipes. With a lot of potatoes. Her room mates complained about that, but at least potatoes were cheap.
"I..." Now that she was here, she wasn't sure how to put it. "I have a question."
"Go ahead," Maria replied, glancing at the clock. "Where is that girl? She coming home?"
"Yes, she was talking to someone and missed the bus. She'll catch the next one I'm sure. Someone asked me out." She said the words in a rush, before she could think about it too hard.
"What?" Her friend turned around and laughed, "About time, chica! Who was it?" She made a face, "Not that one that followed you around all the time?" Janice had filled Maria in on Walter's crush, and Alana burned at the mention.
"He's perfectly nice, and no," Alana replied, sitting at the table. "It was the bus driver."
Maria turned the heat on the chicken low, and took a seat next to her. "The blond one?" Alana nodded confirmation, "He's nice. Talks sorta funny though."
"I think he said he was from Minnesota," Alana said slowly, straining to remember. "The problem is... it's going to keep happening."
"What?" Maria blinked, not expecting that.
The Irish girl shifted uncomfortably. "I wouldn't mind Walter, if he asked." Maria made that face again-Janice had also reported his looks and how short he was. "But other guys... I don't know. Don't they... just want... that?"
"Some do and some don't," Maria said matter-of-factly, her face creasing in a frown. "You're thinking about-" Alana nodded quickly, cutting her off before she could say it aloud. People didn't talk about that sort of thing. Even this was pushing the boundaries. "Honey," the girl said, taking Alana's hand in both of hers. "Honey, that won't happen. Most guys, they're stupid, you know? But not that stupid." Most guys don't rape, she was saying.
Alana thought about that, uncertain. "I don't feel normal. Maybe I'm not... like you two." She wasn't really comfortable around men anymore, only women.
"You're not some dyke, are you?" Maria asked, skeptically.
"No, no," Alana assured her. "It's just... I don't like men, all that much." She stammered a bit, "Bec-cause of... you know..." Putting that behind her was harder than she thought it would be. Free she might have been, but she still had the scars the chains had left on her.
"Listen," Maria said quickly, as they heard Janice open the door. "You come out with me and Ricky, ok? If it was for New Years'..." Alana nodded. "...then you come out with us. We're gonna have dinner and a few drinks, and watch the ball drop. I ain't never seen it in person before, and it'll be fun. But you stick close to me, and if he does anything, we're outta there. Sound fair?"
That... might be workable. She felt like a freak anymore. Once upon a time her head had been filled with the thought of boys and getting married, having a family. What had happened after her mother's death ruined it. It was unthinkable anymore, but she felt so alone. However, she trusted Maria with her life. She knew how to handle guys. And there was always the knife. "I'll... try."
All the next day, she thought about it, drudging up every bit of information about the driver she could remember. He'd said he was from Minnesota, and said his name once. Something with an 'M'. He'd always smiled... not leered. He seemed a gentleman, but then, Patrick had been too, before, with her mother. Who knew what lurked beneath? On the other hand, if she lived her life afraid all the time, she'd end up alone. A loving person by nature, she didn't want that. But who else...?
Her mind drifted to Walter. No, she wouldn't mind him, but he was even more awkward than she was for all their friendliness. He'd never ask her out. She couldn't bring herself to ask him; it was improper. Nor... she was ashamed to say it, but she couldn't see herself kissing him, much less anything else. He was a friend. He was Walter. The bus driver was reasonably handsome, and seemingly nice. Ricky was a construction worker. He was tough, and he was crazy about Maria. Even the few times Alana had met him, she could see that. He could probably beat up the driver. There was also her knife. And if he tried anything...!
With that, she knew she was going to try it. When her shift ended and she said goodbye to Walter, Alana walked to the bus stop, rehearsing what she would say. When he opened the door and she climbed the steps of the bus, she stared at him. Was he a good person? Would her hurt her? "Uhm..."
"Yes?" he asked, looking a bit surprised. She'd never initiated conversation between them before.
"My roomate is going out. Double-dating. Is that ok?" The words were clipped.
"Yeah, sure!" he replied, realizing she was accepting his proposal. "Just tell me where to show up and I'll be there!"
She gave him an address, where she would be with Maria and her boyfriend. Janice might come too, and that would be even better. "What's your name?" she asked.
"Mike, Michael, sorry. Whichever." He was smiling at her, looking ecstatic. It was a little embarassing.
"I'm Alana."
He offered a hand, "Pleased to meet you." She didn't take it, and he lowered it, smile not fading a bit. "We're going to have a great time. I promise."
He was walking by the bus stop, in his old habit of 'walking her home', when he stopped in his tracks, shocked. She was kissing the bus driver on the cheek! Walter couldn't help but to stare. He was aghast. The door closed as he was watching, and Alana sat down in the window seat. She didn't see him. She looked happy.
Walter turned that over in his mind a few times, still shocked at the thought. In the years he had known her, she had never shown one bit of interest in men. How long had it been? Six years? Yes, of course, she had started going out sometimes, not that he was around to see. Being Rorschach kept him busy, and fulfilled in ways he never thought possible. He didn't even have dreams about her anymore, and hadn't for quite a long time. His crimefighting kept him busy. His partnership with Daniel was really the only social contact he needed, or even wanted.
Maybe... she had moved on?
Hurm, it was possible. Not all men were criminals. Look at himself and Daniel. Both were fine, upstanding gentlemen, even in their 'day jobs'. There were plenty of others, cops and firefighters... ordinary men who were just fine. Some others were not so fine, hiding beneath a veneer of respectability. He'd... better make sure that driver wasn't one of them. A lot of people wore masks, after all.
A few simple inquiries outside of the mask got a name. Becoming Rorschach, he followed the trail, found out where the driver lived. It was simple, nothing extravagent, just what he expected on a bus driver's salary. A few more inquiries got a police record. Nothing there either. Rorschach took to following the man around, just for a couple of days...weeks...and while this Michael drank, it was nothing excessive. He didn't go trolling for whores. Most of the time, he spent at home and at work. One night a week, he went out with some other men, and another night he went out with her. It was a simple life.
Feeling like a peeping Tom, he watched one of their dates. They ate, talked, laughed. Walter didn't know what he was feeling as he looked on impassively. For a while, he thought he might have been jealous, except... it wasn't that. He didn't envy the man, and he didn't want to be him. Walter was focused on Alana, watching her movements, seeing her bright smile-which, now to think of it, had been brighter in the past few months-studying her face. She was happy, very happy. Walter was... regretful, but it wasn't to be. Afterwards, he checked in on them occasionally as Rorschach, just to make sure, but in the end, he let it go. Walter and her were both happy; destinies fulfilled. He left it be, knowing that a circle had closed he hadn't realized was open.
They were both living their dreams, once thought unattainable.
During her break, she handed out invitations. Light on her step, she saved the most important one for last. When she handed out the invitation on the cheap paper to him, her eyes were solemn even as her mouth was smiling. He tilted his head to the side slightly, asking, "What's this?" His eyes were warm, knowing. He knew. She didn't know how, but he knew already. This was a formality.
"An invitation to my wedding," she said quietly, smile widening at the thought. On the first of May, her and Michael would be man and wife, something she never thought possible. Ever. "I want you to be there, Walter."
Slowly, his head canted to the other side. "I'm not much for social gatherings," he observed mildly.
Alana bobbed her head, "I know...but it would mean so much to me." She looked him in the eye, her gaze steady. He matched her look, and there the secret passed between them. He understood her, had watched her for so long. That she was stronger now was partially because of him. She never forgot those words he said to her; they were etched in her heart. She grasped his hand, "If you don't, I understand, but it would mean a lot to me."
He didn't flinch away, though she felt him tense at the contact, then he withdrew his hand. Politely, yet firmly, so there was no question. "Congratulations," Walter said. His smile was there and gone in a blink. "You're a good woman; you deserve to be happy."
Smiling even wider, Alana lowered her hand. "So do you."
Author's Note: Writing happy is hard for me. I don't know why. Maybe because I'm a horror fan at heart. Anyway, this one was really hard because instead of going on the little bits and pieces of the Walter-that-was, we're starting to delve into Rorschach. The mirror scene was the hardest...yet it also made me wonder, in the novel, why that murder especially drove him over the edge? Other killers were around. Why that one? It had to be because people just watched... but that it also echoed something in him. He was capable of defending people, but he just watched as well. This just made it a bit more personal.
The other part which was hard to write was the very natural reaction Walter would have to someone he's attracted to. The mind works in mysterious ways, and trying to keep the normal part of his subconscious coupled with his very abnormal attitudes about sex and women... arrrgh! So. Hard. To. Write.
Thank you for the reviews so far. Again, I'm understanding more about the fanfic community, when a story grabs you and shakes you and screams, "WRITE ME!" This one is like that. I'm trying very very hard to keep things as In Character for Walter as I can. Thank you for the encouragement.
Also, thank you for the reassurances that Alana's not a Sue. Hee. I think that was about my biggest fear, besides keeping Wally IC. She seems a bit ...silly... to me, but that's the modern day me talking. The author-me realizes she can't be any other way. That's just how it was. Period pieces are especially hard.
There's one more section to be done. I think I might be done writing for a bit though. I need to plot this last piece out carefully. I have an outline, but it's capturing the feelings that's difficult. Which is why I'm surprised this segment came out at easily as it did. I don't do happy. Maybe because I know it's just the set up for the fall that makes it easy.
Cheers.