A/N: DISCLAIMER- I do not own Watchmen in any way, shape, or form. Francise Jean Speziale/The Queen is my own creation.

Thank you, once again for the reviews. I sometimes have faint doubts about the fic, so it's nice to hear that I'm on the right track.

We're in the bar. Rorschach had commented that there would be no harm in at least trying Harry's. He is breaking a man's fingers, demanding answers. But as I expected, no one knows. They beg us to leave. I walk in quiet contemplation. As we head to the government base, my mind is far away. Rorschach matches my pace, his shorter legs taking larger strides.

"You're distracted."

I remain silent. After all, it was an observation, not a question. "You were a friend of Blake's, am I correct?" the idea is comically bitter. A slight smirk pulls on my lips at the truth.

"The Comedian didn't seek friendship, thus he had no friends." Comes my flat voice.

"Still close. Worked together. Were in Vietnam together."

I halt behind Rorschach as he begins to cut away at the metal fence. Beyond us is the military base. Inside… is God. Rorschach turns, the black mass on his face swirls as he looks up at me.

"He was a good man. Fought for and protected his country." Then he slips through the fence. I follow behind. I take Rorschach's consolation for what it is, but it hardly seems to mean anything. The Comedian wasn't a 'good man'. Even the blind and the dumb could realize that.

I am behind Rorschach as he climbs the side of a building. We swing ourselves over the ledge and stand on the roof. Without hesitation, Rorschach runs and jumps, landing on the roof of a nearby building. With hesitation, I finally do the same.

Close. The word made me feel uncomfortable. It wasn't the right word to describe us. Its usage was grossly inappropriate. Then, what was the right word? Maybe in the past I would have answered: "Understanding." An incredibly naïve answer, but there it was. I understood him because I was next to him through it all… Until the end that is… We both stood facing the ugly growl of war. We reacted in different ways, but it all somehow meant the same.

I have to laugh because even this word, 'understanding', is inappropriate. I thought I understood him, but I was wrong. Of course I was wrong. I don't think anyone could fully understand who the Comedian was. Not even himself.

Eddie can see that I'm not sleeping. He says I look sick. I haven't been acting right in the head, he tells me. I'm a danger to the men.

That night, I leave the foxhole. In my hands, I have enough tranquilizers to off myself. I stand still in the darkness, death in my palm. I feel the trembling and pulsating country of Vietnam around me. I think about the village kids, the women, the men I've killed. How nothing in my life will ever change the fact that I murdered these people without reason. They were just… in the way... and I took their lives.

I think about Murphy, who was supposed to be my fellow soldier, and I coldly murdered him as well. Everything was backwards. What was right or wrong? The US soldier shooting kids for fun? Was he right?

Or the US soldier who decides his life is meaningless, shoots him in the back of the head, and dumps his body into the road to be eaten by birds? Was I wrong? I didn't know anymore. Nothing was black and white. Everything crusted together in a knot. Grays. What was good and what was bad? Why can't I tell the difference? Individually, I start slipping the tablets into my mouth.

"What are you up to, Q?"

It's Eddie. Behind me. I pop a few more pills before quickly shoving the rest back into my pouch. I turn around to face him. His hands are on his hips, squinting at me suspiciously. I avoid my gaze from his eyes. I all ready know that he knows. For some reason, Eddie always knows what I'm thinking, can always tell what I'm planning. It's discomforting to feel as though you're so predictable.

The tranquilizers are fast. I can feel the heaviness course through my body. Pity I wasn't able to take enough to end my life. We head back towards our hole.

"You're driftin' away, you know that?"

I look at him and he starts shaking his head, "Quit doin' that eyebrow thing. You know it ticks me the hell off." I give him a lazy, drug-addled smile. We approach the foxhole. I slip in first and then Eddie comes in after me. We rest against each other, like how we usually do. Not for emotional comfort, but for physical. A warm body is better to sleep on than dirt. Eddie absentmindedly runs his fingers up and down my arm. My head lolls to the side.

My eyelids feel like they're being kept closed by magnets. The darkness behind them makes me feel like I'm spinning and being tugged softly into the air. Riding on clouds. Weightless. Calm. I'm outside of my human body. Eddie's lips push against mine. I don't respond. I can't. I feel like a heavy anvil in the sky but I can't come back down. I'm being tugged at the feet. Ready to drown in an ocean. In the back of my mind, I register that he's kissing me harder. Impatient with my lack of awareness to his needs. But it's all very distant. I'm becoming wrapped in a warm cocoon. Shutting away the world. There is only me.

I have a dream... for the first time, in a long time. I am inside my childhood home, recognizable immediately. I'm inside my room, standing before my old bunk bed. Its giant red ladder strangely intrigues me. The dream suddenly cuts away, and I'm downstairs in my living room. Even though it's my childhood home, I am still an adult. I step into the room. The soft sunlight. I see Eddie on the sofa. He smiles at me. He beckons me over. He's handsome and I can't deny him. I sit on his lap. Kiss his cheek. Run a hand through his boyish mop of hair. I feel safe and happy. The mood of the scene abruptly changes. Eddie's eyes hold a glint in them that they didn't have before. His pants are tight. There is a bulge. I suddenly feel wrong. I feel dirty.

I jump off Eddie. I'm a child again. Around eight or nine. I look up at his angry face. I run to the stairs and into my room. I'm in panic. I stand in my doorway and peak around the corner to see the stairs. Eddie's at the bottom, his hand gliding on the railing. His face is covered by shadows but I can still see him looking around, checking to see if anyone is noticing his ascent. I look behind me. Searching for a place to hide but there is none. I peak around the corner again. Eddie's closer now. He sees me. He's looking at me. I jump away and trip on the floor. I'm just a child. I'm scared. I back myself into a corner as Eddie slowly walks over. He's standing above me. His face is warped by shadows. And I'm crying because I know something horrible is going to happen. But I'm too young to understand what it is. Eddie reaches for me. The dream cuts blank.

I slowly blink. It feels as though I had just awoken from a long coma. My body feels rested, but also… something else. I recall my dream and chuckle at the absurdity of it. I laugh even harder in embarrassment as I remember how dream-Eddie had an erection. But I cannot shake the fear that hatched inside my mind. Why was I a kid in the dream? What kind of fuck up shit did that even mean? Turning my head, I finally notice that Eddie is not in the hole with me. Groggily, I push myself to a standing position. Then, I feel it. That unmistakable throbbing sensation between your legs… the morning after a fuck.

The morning after… Rusted gears are moving inside my brain. My eyes dart back and forth as I recall Eddie's kiss. I aggressively rub my lips in horrid realization and fall back down into the dirt. He knew I drugged myself. He knew and he… The childish fear that resided in my dream suddenly bursts forth. I begin tugging at my short, black hair. He was supposed to protect me from the men, but who was here to protect me from him? His loud, mocking laughter suddenly fills the foxhole. I'm drowning in it. My face clenches and tightens into a snarl of rage. I grab my gun and pull myself out of the hole. As I stand, my muscles quiver from fatigue. I can still feel the aftereffects of the drug dragging on my body.

But Eddie's there. Sitting with the boys as they eat a small breakfast. He's smiling. He sees me and gives a bold wink. My eyes widen at his audacity. I hobble closer. Lift my gun, aimed to the middle of his face. The boys go quiet, their faces fall but Eddie continues to smile at me. I squint at him as he lifts a flask to his mouth.

"What are you gunna do, Q? Kill me?" he takes a swish and his white teeth gleam at me.

I breathe heavily. My chest heaves. I glare at him because I know I can't do it. I can't pull the trigger. He knows I won't. But I will ruin that handsome face of his. Quickly, I flip the gun and swing the heavy butt towards his smirking mouth. At collision, I jump backward ready to defend myself. The hit caused Eddie to fall onto his back. Time moves slowly. He blinks, looking down at the ground. His eyes are dangerous as they trail up to lock with mine. Blood is leaking from his mouth. I stare, without fear, back at him.

He jumps up at me. I match him. We collide in the air and Eddie is able to take me down easily. We hit the dirt. It feels like there is an elephant on top of me. The sheer, unrestrained weight of his muscle against my smaller body is suffocating me. He rips away my gun and tosses it away. I punch him. Eddie shakes it off. His face is beat red with anger. He pulls back his large arm and then it shoots forward like a slingshot. I see stars. The side of my face feels numb. The imprint of his knucle stings my cheek. I can hear his haggard, uneven breath against me. I lie still in pain beneath him. Waiting. Playing dead.

Eddie stands and then I lift my leg. I smash my heel with as much force as possible against his groin. He howls and falls to his knees. I jump at him again. Push him to the ground. The blood from my face leaks onto his. My elbow collides with his eye. I punch him in the mouth again. His arms come up to block his face and it's like hitting brick. His immense hands close around my wrists and cross my arms at the elbows. Effectively preventing my attack. Without much effort, he tosses me off. I roll in the dirt as he jumps up. For a long while, we stare at each other. Blood is leaking down my face and mouth. It trails along my throat and onto my shirt. Eddie's eye is getting swollen. The skin around his mouth is tinged dark red. My blood is on his jaw. It drips down onto his uniform. Trickling onto his smiley face badge. He sneers at me and then finally turns away.

The company is silent. They stare at me as I collapse in the dirt, too tired to move. They don't act to help me. They don't budge to comfort me.

From then on, I sleep alone in my hole and tent. I hold my gun closer than ever. Every sound causes my ears to prick with alert. Eddie doesn't speak to me. He doesn't acknowledge me. The boys follow the older man's example. I'm like the loser sitting at the lunch table. The loneliness of Vietnam is tangible, even through the thick fires and destructive monsoons. I cling to it. It's all I have.

We are heading to Saigon. Dr. Manhattan has finally agreed to intervene in the war.

The city has enough bars and prostitutes to keep the boys happy. I am floored by my own reflection in a real mirror. Pale, unhealthy skin. Eyes rimmed red and the sensitive skin around them smudged dark. The facial features were familiar. The nose, the mouth, the cheeks. A person I had seen before but could not remember her name. I am only twenty-two years old.

The purpose of my life has slipped away. I was supposed to help people. Not murder kids. Not murder screaming, innocent people. The boys in this war didn't care about peace. Didn't care about spreading democracy or common good. Their fight was spiritless. They killed because they were afraid to be killed. Burned down jungles because they were scared at the chance of the Vietcong running through. Scared. They were just scared.

I wore their dog tags. Eddie had once told me I was carrying their weight for nothing. Dead weight. But it wasn't for nothing. Was it? I couldn't let go. Didn't want to let go. It felt like Vietnam was it's own separate plane of existence. Where the rules to reality need not apply. Boys blew up and they disappeared. But we moved on. Didn't think twice about it. It felt like they would simply be waiting for us back home. They were gone from Vietnam but they weren't gone from the world… were they?

Were we that ignorant of death? I would lie awake at night, thinking about it. Dead. Boom-dead. Nothing more. Nothing else. That was it. That was all there was. Nothing.

I longed to be a child again. I longed to hide from this world. I felt old. I am only twenty-two. I felt heavy. Dead weight. I could smell the stink of this country on my body, and I wondered if it would ever go away. All the questions of the world come colliding together and are thrown into a single stream that leads to only one answer.

We are alone.

"Alone." I whisper this word to myself.

We build golden stairs to an empty Heaven. The abyss of the world stares, and I stare back. I trip and fall. Our existence is not made. We are what we are. There is no destiny. I was not born to murder. I was not born to shoot a gun. I was not born to be lonely. We are what we are.

Our illusions are too thick to see clearly through. They plea to be saved and beg for there to be something more. There is nothing else. Don't turn away. Those people wailing at night. Don't turn away. And fear that it's all a sham. Accept it. Your fingers reach for smoke. We are alone.

You pray to yourself. The only thing that waits for us after death… is a worm. Accept it.

We are lounging in a bar the day we meet with Dr. Manhattan. He's dressed in a suit and we're dirty and sweaty. A Vietnamese woman is hanging off Eddie as he shakes Dr. Manhattan's glowing hand. He pulled her in about an hour after we stepped foot into the city. Like a proud fisherman showing off his prized tuna, he dragged her around. It's sickening, and almost sad. She believes he cares for her. But I knew. The Comedian cared for nothing in this world. I should have warned her… but I couldn't bring myself to.

"Q."

"Doc." I shake his hand and he gives me a simple smile. I return it stiffly.

"I suppose with God on our side now, the war is ours…" I release Dr. Manhattan's hand and twist my bar stool away from him.

"God?"

He stands beside me as I down a shot. Watching me. Humans have become something abstract and unknown to him. I noticed a long time ago, all the way back to the Crimebusters meeting, that he stared a lot. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Eddie and his woman at the bar. I try to blink it away and ask for another shot.

I can hear the soft giggles of the Vietnamese woman as Eddie whispers something in her ear. And Dr. Manhattan is just leering at me with white, unblinking eyes. Watching my anger churn under my thin skin. Noticing the angry bruises on my face. I strum my fingers against the wooden bar table. Nervously. Compulsively. Drrrum-Drrrum-Drrrum-Drrrum.

"Oh, Mr. Eddie!" she playfully slaps his shoulder. Dr. Manhattan cocks his head to the side.

I abruptly stand, knocking over my stool. I mutter about how it's rude to stare and I march out of the bar. Even as I was leaving, I could feel God's eyes following me. Haunting me.

I stare up into the unfathomable and other worldly blue light of the Almighty. He's made himself into a giant. Choppers and planes fly around him like bugs. The Vietcong shoot at him. With a raise of his hand… they're gone. Just gone. I look down at my gun. My obsolete weapon.

Other soldiers are around me, stalking through the grass. We were meant to kill the stragglers that Dr. Manhattan left behind. There's enough to keep us busy. In front of me, Eddie is setting a man on fire. The Vietcong are retreating. They can't defeat God.

Not long after this, the entire Vietcong army surrenders. Some ask to surrender directly to God. He stands on a box as they curl to the ground in a bow before him. I look at the groveling filth before me and then at the indestructible man. I grit my teeth with rage.

It's June. V.V.N Night is finally here. There is a celebration outside. I don't partake in it. I stand beside Dr. Manhattan in the bar. Eddie is behind us, pouring himself a drink. I suppose we should feel elated. Perhaps even proud that our country won. But there is nothing. I watch the fireworks burst in the sky, the kids running around with sparklers, the adults drinking and laughing.

"-all thanks to you, right?"

"You sound bitter."

Dr. Manhattan turns to look at Eddie. I don't even bother to. The sound of the bottle clinking against the shot glass reaches my ears.

"Me? Bitter? Fuck no." he gives a soft laugh.

But he is bitter. He is angry. We've been stuck in this filthy country, apparently getting nothing done. We watched soldiers die, become mutilated, go slowly insane. Murder, blood, skulls, bones, bullets, fire, children, screaming, women, crying, heroin, lice, disease. Then Dr. Manhattan finally decides the war is worth his time to step into. He waves his hand and it's all over. He waves his hand and does everything that we had been trying to do. Our weapons are obsolete. We, as humans, are obsolete. In the news, all the credit will go to Dr. Manhattan and no one else. We were bitter and he didn't seem to be able to fathom why.

"First chopper out, man. I'm gone."

Hate was not something Dr. Manhattan could understand. Contempt neither. Both emotions are needed to understand Vietnam. I was ready to leave too. Ready to leave this jaded, rotting country. Ready to leave these distrustful, stupid people. Ready to leave behind the decay and jungles. I was done with it all. I was tired.

A Vietnamese woman approaches the bar. She is pregnant. Remembering her from two months ago in Saigon, I glare into her face. I feel disgusted by her… and by Eddie. My eyes glue to the floor as she walks by and into the bar. Disgruntled, I lean against the door frame as I continue to watch the fireworks. My mind skips around, carefully avoiding the potholes of thoughts that lead to... him.

A flutter of excitement and nervousness pops into my stomach as I think about our departure for home. I observe the scene in front of me. I hated this country. I hated these people. But for some tragic reason… it all felt normal. Maybe that's where the feeling of contempt comes from. There is shouting behind me. I turn my head slightly to hear better, but not to look.

It's Eddie. Of course it's Eddie.

"My face!" he yells.

I turn more to see over my shoulder. "What did you do, you fuckin' bitch, you hurt my face, you whore-" his hands are covering his face. They are soaked with blood. I turn around fully and watch as the woman drops the jagged bottle. I slowly unfold my arms from their crossed position, my mouth slightly agape. God intervenes,

"Blake, don't…"

Eddie pulls out his gun. "… do it."

BANG

The woman falls back on to a table. It turns on its side and she falls to a crumpled mess on the floor. I stare in shock. At her still open eyes, at the gunshot wound, at her protruding stomach.

"She was pregnant… and you gunned her down."

Eddie killed his own kid. I'm appalled. The feeling, strangely, passes at the drop of a second. Was that mass of flesh inside her belly different than any other kid we killed during this war? Or the babies we strapped bombs to? I frown down at the woman. Short pointless lives. Apparently Eddie didn't see the difference, and I was having difficulty to as well. Insanity that was still, cruelly, sane to me.

"You don't really give a damn about human beings! I've watched you."

Dr. Manhattan remains silent during the accusation. Because maybe he acknowledges it's all true. If he knew her death would occur, why not stop it? Why not protect human life? Though, who the fuck was I to preach? I did even less than he.

"God help us all…"

Eddie screams for a medic. As he struts through the doorway, his eye catches my own gaze. For the first time in two months. It's only for a millisecond. He looks away and walks on. Dr. Manhattan is still standing over the dead woman, a hand thoughtfully resting on his chin. I turn to watch Eddie's retreating form as he heads to the medic building.

In the middle of the night, I find myself standing in front of the building. It's raining out. Cold. When I exhale, a cloud of breath leaks out and becomes battered by raindrops. But I don't go in. I reside to sitting on the stone steps. I stare at the ground, my hands on my knees. The puddle on the ground shows my warped reflection. It never becomes clear enough to see. The rain is unrelenting. My mind races with thoughts, questions, and answers. But none of them seem to explain why I'm here. I decide to just revel in my physical feelings. My hair clinging to my forehead. The pitter-patter of rain against my bare arms. My breath against my chapped lips.

I no longer hold a gun by my side. There is no need for it. Peace has been brought. Set on the table. Greedily eaten. But I can't escape feeling the uncomfortable absence of my weapon. My consolation. The object which I would cling to during the nights in the jungle. It was gone. This was all going to be gone. What did I have to cling to in New York City? I tilt my head back, allowing the hard rain to touch my face. I couldn't think of an answer.

"What the hell are you doing?"

I snap my head around. Eddie's leaning against the poorly made, wooden door frame. The entire side of his face is covered with gauze. His blood was still slightly soaking through it. He would need stitches. I almost feel sorry for him, but then I remember that he's Eddie… and he deserves a lot more than a cut up face. I remain silent as I continue to be stared at. There was no answer to give. After all, I didn't know what the hell I was doing.

"I was gunna sneak out for a drink but-" he gives me a nod.

"-you're fuckin' drenched to the bone. Come on…"

Eddie turns around and steps inside the building. I look forward once again, staring down at the dirty puddle. Shiver at the temperature. I slowly get up and follow him inside.

I sit in a chair across the cot he has been given. He tosses me a blanket and without a second's hesitation, I toss it right back. Eddie wordlessly lets it drop back onto the sheets. Releasing a long, irritated breath, he takes a squat on the edge of the cot. I cross my arms and jut my chin out. I didn't want his comfort or his offering peace. I stare at Eddie and he stares back.

We sit in silence. My anger and bitterness settling heavily between us. My body language purposely showing my reluctance to give any pity or kindness. Eddie looks down to the floor, and then gives a sour, breathy laugh. "Guess I won't be winning father of the year, huh?" laughs again, touching his bandaged face. I crinkle my nose with distaste. When he looks back up at me, I slowly, deliberately shake my head. None of it was funny. He leans back,

"Jesus Christ, Q. Whaddya want from me?" asks Eddie, with a frown on his face.

"Yeah, I shot her. Yeah, she was pregnant. Who gives a shit? You think I would actually give a crap about that kid even if it were born? Better off, in my opinion."

He smirks.

"And all of them back in the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave will gasp, shout, and protest." His brows knit together as he looks off to the side in thought.

"But they don't get it, do they? They don't know. No, of course not…"

My stare is unchanging, unrelenting, unsympathetic. Hard. I remain silent. I had nothing to say to him. He all ready knows. I didn't have to utter a syllable. Eddie looks at me again. Leans forward, touches my knee. I release a hiss and he immediately removes his hand. He appears hurt. He can't be hurt because Eddie doesn't contain real human emotions. Or at least this is what I want to believe.

"Look, Q…" a muscle twitches in his jaw.

"I've done things, ya know…" he looks into my eyes with recognition. "Never once have I felt bad, let alone apologize." His dark gaze trails around the room. "I've only asked for forgiveness one time before… Only apologized once before…" from his eyes I can tell he's lost in the memory of that 'once before'.

"But…" he's back in present time. Back with me.

"You deserve an apology." I breathe in. No.

Time is ticking unbearably slow. "I'm, uh…" A muscle twitches in his jaw again. I hold my breath.

"I apologize." the lameness is enough for me to want to rip open his new stitches.

I feel anger. Anger towards the words that come out of his mouth. Anger towards how sincere he actually seems. I half-wished there would be no apology. That it would all just fester inside of him and make him miserable. I didn't want to forgive him. My fingers dig into the muscle of my arms and my nostrils flare. Why do it in the first place? Why abuse me in the first place?

"You really are hell-bent on destroying anything good in your life, aren't you?" Eddie appears taken back by my rise of words.

But it was true. I knew it was, but I just kept denying it. But why? Why hide it? Why deny it? I hated him. I hated what he did, but even more, I hated how secure I felt with him around. How he always had my back. How he always seemed to care... in his own Eddie way. And, god help me, I think I actually cared for him as well. With revulsion comes this realization. This care was hard and hateful, violent and explosive, right and wrong. Words spit from my mouth that only seem natural to say,

"You sick fuck."

Eddie smiles at me, eyes shimmering. He even nods. Agreeing with me. "What can I say? I'm just a man."