Watchmen II: Restoration
Chapter Thirteen
By Nan00k

Thanks for the reviews! D: I am so sorry for letting time get away from me and not getting this chapter out to you sooner. Also, I apologize if the story seems very slow building. It was designed that way, but now that the "main group" has been formally "introduced"… well, trust me, there's far more action in the near future!

Chapter thirteen: in which the kids attempt to speak "Rorschach" and Laurie is a mom. Sort of.

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Warnings & Disclaimers

"We don't accomplish anything in this world alone ... and whatever happens is the result of the whole tapestry of one's life and all the weavings of individual threads from one to another that creates something." – Sandra Day O'Conner

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Gestalt was pretty certain that they were either absolutely insane—or the luckiest people in New York, no, the entire goddamn planet.

Site-B was a temporary safe house they had plotted early on into their planning for going to the streets. She had tried to think of everything and anything that could go wrong, including running into a mass of cops or a gang they just couldn't beat. They needed a place to go where they would regroup and repair the damages they had taken, either emotionally or physically. Markus had found a condemned warehouse that was crummy, rusty and surrounded by more condemned buildings in one of the worst areas in Manhattan—it was perfect.

Gestalt had absolutely no idea what condition she'd find her teammates in, however, as she finally got herself to Site-B. Only Dark Squall was there, considering the wide and confusing routes they had taken to waylay any followers. Gestalt had slipped into the sewers for a block or two just for that reason. The two women waited impatiently for the others to arrive. Coyote and Nite Hawk wound up meeting halfway there anyway and showed up, beaten and terribly out of breath, but alive.

"Any serious injuries?" Gestalt asked, distracting herself from the panic of not knowing where Blitzkrieg and Rorschach were. If that midget hurt Markus…

"I definitely think we're outclassed," Dark Squall replied, arms wrapped tightly around herself. They were sitting in the back of the building, behind a large old tank, shivering from adrenaline and sheer terror. "Fuckers broken my baton."

"Not dead," Coyote offered, looking incredibly worn.

Nite Hawk just shook his head, leaning entirely against the tank, breathing horrendously. He shook his head at her concern, so she gave him space. He wasn't always the most fit out of their group, but this was no time to berate any of them for a fault. She was just grateful they were still alive…

Gestalt waited another ten minutes before she started to consider using the mic to see where Blitzkrieg was. It wouldn't do much good if he was dead or dying, she had to concede, but maybe they were just stuck somewhere, or just slowed by circumstance…

"Wh… there!" Dark Squall shouted, pointing out at the front of the warehouse. Gestalt spun around and saw the top of a Viking helmet—and then two hobbling, utterly pathetic looking costumed men make their way toward the group.

"Oh, thank God," Gestalt breathed. She strode forward, heart racing.

For the most part, Blitzkrieg looked pretty intact. His face was covered with blood, but from what she could tell in the dim lighting of glow sticks they had brought, it seemed to originate from a minor laceration to the forehead. He was limping, but smiled at her when he got closer. She smiled back, the fears and worries of a leader superseded by the joy of seeing a friend alive and well.

And then… she saw Rorschach. He was a mess. Coat torn, covered in blood (though most of it probably wasn't his) and grime, lame walk—he was leaning dangerously to the side when Blitzkrieg finally backed off, removing his hand from the other man's shoulder as if he were a wild animal. Then again, that was an apt description.

"We clear?" Blitzkrieg asked, glancing around.

"Affirmative." Gestalt looked at Rorschach, hesitating. She didn't know how to speak to him. He was either staring back at her or he had fallen unconscious standing up, he was so still. The inkblots barely moved. "Are you alright, Rorschach?"

He didn't flinch, but Gestalt had a feeling her question caught him off guard. "Alive," he replied gruffly.

Gestalt nodded. "Good."

She meant to ask the others if they thought it was alright to try to split up. They had a system to follow, and even if Rorschach was there, it wouldn't be that difficult to adjust their plans. They could get out of this alive, still, and she was intent on making sure everyone got home safely. Whatever came tomorrow or next week… well, they'd have to play it very, very carefully from then on.

She wasn't expecting to see motion behind her. Gestalt spun around and saw Rorschach started to stumble away, clearing having had enough to the group even for the few minutes he had been forced to stand there, probably due to his own injuries. Gestalt gasped, alarmed.

"Wait!" she cried, holding a hand out. Rorschach stilled, probably watching her the extended hand like it was some sort of weapon. Gestalt sighed, frustrated. "Don't go yet. We can help you get home, wherever that is."

"Don't need you," the older vigilante grunted, stepping back. He sounded disgusted.

"We just saved your life!" she exclaimed, torn between feeling shocked or insulted. It was difficult to get upset with a man she knew, beat up or no, could kill her in seconds.

Rorschach tensed. "Not saved," he spat. He could barely stand, but he still had the strength to be an asshole. Gestalt seethed, prepared to just drop it.

Unfortunately, her teammates were less patient. "Oh, really? You wanna go back there?" Coyote challenged. He took a step closer to the shorter man, radiating anger. "I can drag your sorry ass back there for those psychos to pick up if you want!"

"Coyote!" Gestalt snapped, turning to him. She caught herself and took a steadying breath. They needed to calm down. "Please, stop it."

Coyote scowled, but he back off, turning away in his own frustration. Nite Hawk, looking far better now, caught Gestalt's eye from across the room. They stared at each other and Gestalt knew the young man was feeling the same amount of stress as she was.

How did things go so wrong, so quickly?

"We need to get back, de-mask, and lay low for at least a week," she said, shivering. She hated the aftermath of an adrenaline surge. She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. They needed precise action now. "Go out in teams of two. Nite Hawk and Coyote, Blitzkrieg and Dark Squall, me and—Rorschach!"

She had turned around just in time to see the masked vigilante stumbled towards the front of the warehouse, obviously aiming to get outside. Gestalt rushed forward after him, abruptly angry.

"Are you insane? You can't even walk!" she snapped, reaching for him.

In hindsight, that was the second worst thing to do to the man, the first being touching his face. Gestalt barely managed to duck a gloved fist and yank her hand away from it, knowing if it were caught up in his grasp, he would have broken it instantly. Stumbling away, Gestalt drew back in a defensive pose. Rorschach stood still, facing her, a menacingly aggressive aura around him now.

"Back off," he snarled.

Fear mixed with anger and exhaustion. "I'm trying to help you," she shot back. They needed him alive, not wandering the streets like a drunkard. He couldn't even walk a straight line, but then again, he was recovering rather quickly.

Rorschach clenched a fist. "Don't need help."

Shaking her head, Gestalt glanced at her friends, who had moved up closer in case she needed the help, and then back at Rorschach. "Those were Veidt's people, weren't they?" she asked. He said nothing, but Gestalt hissed in frustration. "Rorschach, damn it! Did you bring them here on purpose? Did you try to lure them in?"

Those were unneeded accusations, but to her dismay, Rorschach said nothing to his defense. She stared at him, realizing that despite his strength and overall value as a witness to the Event—

He knew absolutely nothing of how this world of theirs worked, not anymore.

Gestalt glared. "You fucking idiot." Rorschach growled loudly, but Gestalt kept going, her anger building. "You don't go pissing off the Happiness Inquisition—I mean, Veidt, whoever!" she sputtered. "They don't play games. They were trying to kill you."

Rorschach tilted his head, challenging. "Didn't. All that matters."

Moving closer, Gestalt continued, "They're going to come back. After us now, after we helped you." She heard the others shift behind her and guilt suddenly plagued her. She hoped that she was just exaggerating; they would not survive an attack on their own team.

"Willing decision," Rorschach said, loathing permeating his voice. Gestalt drew back in anger.

"I don't know where you've been in the last two decades," she began, shaking her head, "or why you suddenly showed up after abandoning this city for all that time—!"

Rorschach's own anger interrupted her briefly. "Never abandoned!" he roared, the first time she had ever seen him truly riled by a comment from one of them.

"—but if you're going to cut into the scene now, you had better learn the rules, the new rules, fast!" she said, continuing without stopping. "This is beyond just the cops trying to stop the masks from coming back. Obviously, Veidt is out for blood, yours." She hesitating, remembering something they had discovered days before. "We found your calling card."

Nite Hawk made a sound of surprise, clearly getting what she meant by that. "That's probably how they found out you were back," he said, stunned.

Rorschach didn't seem terribly interested. "Hn." He moved away again and Gestalt let him, glaring into his departing form.

"If you keep leaving them, they'll find you, Rorschach," she said gravely, clenching her hands into fists at her side. She didn't know if that was a warning or a plea.

For a man with a faceless mask, Rorschach knew how to send a glare as he peered over his shoulder at her, posture tense and poised, even though the attack earlier had sent him sprawling only an hour ago. "Good," he bit out. And then he turned and walked back into the darkness, away from them.

Left standing there, Gestalt watched him leave until he disappeared from sight. Pain, exhaustion, fear and anger—it all swirled around her head like a vortex, leaching her strength away until all that was left was a teenager in a suit of cloth and leather.

"Christ…" she heard Markus mutter. Turning, Gestalt saw the other four sitting or standing there, watching her, waiting for some sort of command or answer or guidance.

She was a horrible leader, not knowing what to say. Closing her eyes, Gestalt tried to steady herself. They needed her to be strong just as she needed them to be stronger. Opening them, she looked at her friends each in their weary pairs of eyes—

"Let's go home."

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Everything hurt. Nite Hawk had crawled his way into his bedroom window from the fire escape literally on his hands and knees. He wasn't even sure he actually could find the strength to get a shower, so he settled for just collapsing on his bed, mask off, but everything else would just have to stay. Three hours later, he woke up to his alarm clock.

Time for school.

With a groan, Nite Hawk got up and realized he had to put aside the aches that had become more pronounced after he had been lying still for so long, because the day was not going to stop for James Hollis.

A shower proved to be hell and heaven all at the same time, washing away dried blood and dirt, stinging wounds and soothing the ache of muscles that had been thoroughly abused in the fight or in the following escape through the city.

"Shit…" he muttered, glancing into the mirror, grimacing. He brought up his hand and traced the outline of a black eye that was slowly manifesting on his face. It spread out into another long bruise along the cheek that he remembered received a rather vicious punch. A scarf or hat would not cover this up.

Getting through the day at school would be easier with it than escaping his house. His father had left for work, but his mother was still busying around downstairs. This was her late morning. Jimmy scurried across the hallway

As he hobbled around his room like an old man, Jimmy pondered exactly what they were going to do next. Audrey had seemed very disturbed by the whole thing, but he didn't know if she would persue Rorschach, or just let it drop. The others seemed a bit more interested in saving their own asses and Jimmy could relate. They had no way of knowing if they had just marked their own heads by helping Rorschach escape alive; they weren't ready for a full-scale assault by Veidt. They would all die and for… what? A crazy vigilante zombie? Pulling on a pair of jeans numbly, Jimmy didn't know whether to laugh or cry—

There was a creak at the top of the stairs and then:

"Jimmy, are you awake yet…?"

Jimmy gasped, horrified. "Wh—don't come in!" he squeaked, scrambling to grab a T-shirt as well. He got halfway to his dresser, but it was too late.

Laurie stopped dead in his doorway, the door swinging open with traitorous ease. The woman gaped at her black-and-blue-from-the-waist-up son, dropping a stack of folded laundry. "Oh! James! What on Earth happened to you? !"

"Mom, I…!" Jimmy's mind floundered. He hadn't seen his parents yesterday afternoon; he had gone 'straight to Markus's house' so… "A fight…! I… I got into a fight yesterday!"

Not exactly a solid execution of a lie, but Laurie seemed intent on staring at his injuries than anything else. She poked and prodded, having him spin so she could see his back. Jimmy grimaced; bruises in the shapes of boots were difficult not to diagnose.

"Wh—a fight? With who? !" Laurie sputtered, a mixture of incredulousness and worry in her voice.

"Some… some kids at school," he replied lamely, trying to think faster. Those were believable scenarios, sort of. He just had to calm down and flesh them out.

Laurie just looked at him and then seemed to catalogue his injuries. He was sure nothing was broken, but one side of his chest looked like someone had used it as a trampoline (it was more like one of those security guys used him as a hacky-sack). His face was black-and-blue on the one side, and his fists were bruised and cut to hell and back. He looked like he had gotten into a fight, mostly because he had… but Jimmy felt the building tension in his mother before he even turned around to face her again.

He waited for something. Laurie just stared at him for a while longer, eyes scrutinizing his face more than anything. Slowly, time slipped by and Jimmy wondered if he should just throw himself out the window just to escape the incredible awkwardness. Laurie slowly drew back after awhile and just stared at him.

"James?" she began, tense.

He almost regretted looking back up at her to answer. "Yes?" He brace himself for questions—lots of them. He could lie, but not forever.

Laurie started to speak, faltering slightly. "Jimmy…" she began. She looked him right in the eye, her own pair narrowed slightly. "Did you tell anyone?"

Jimmy stared back at her, brain momentarily freezing.

"Uh… what?" he managed to say. Tell anyone? Like the cops? He doubted that's what she meant, but the image of trying to tell the truth to the cops was almost comically terrifying. They'd be dead by sundown, with Veidt's network of cops alive and well in the Happiness Inquisition. The last thing any of them wanted was to alert the authorities of anything.

Something in Laurie's eyes affirmed that it wasn't the cops she was talking about. "Your teacher? Your principal?" she asked suddenly, shocking her son.

Jimmy, scrambling for traction, sputtered. "Wh-what?" he asked. Right, I was in a fight. "No… why? !" His voice squeaked treacherously, but he was trying to get past the idea if why his mother would want him to squeal. She was always against the idea of relying on someone to clean up the messes you make for yourself. Why would she even—?

"If someone is attacking you at school," Laurie continued, her voice heavy, "you should at least let those in authority know about it."

Suddenly… things clicked. James stared down at his mother, who was beginning to grow shorter and shorter as Jimmy finished growing, at first surprised… and then something colder squirmed in the pit of his stomach.

Oh.

"…Oh… um…" he tried to start, not sure how to reply. She thought he had been bullied?

He almost laughed, bitterly, at the mere idea.

Unfortunately, his mother didn't grant him the luxury of having defended himself. "If you had kept those defense classes, maybe you wouldn't have run into trouble." Laurie sighed; a frustrated, exasperated tone. "If you're not going to fight back, you may as well let your teachers know, okay? I won't tell them for you. You have to stand up for yourself."

Staring at her silently, Jimmy wondered for just a moment that maybe, he should have corrected her. Said the truth—or a lie that was less depreciating. That he had fought back, that he had stood up for himself, and that's what had gotten him into this sorry state—

But then… Jimmy realized exactly what had just happened. His mother had seen the bruises, the blood and thought… thought he had been bullied. Beat up. Picked on. And lost.

As if winning wasn't even an option for her sorry son.

Laurie glanced at him, noticing his blank face. "What, Jimmy?" she asked, frowning slightly out of confusion than anything else.

Jimmy stared at her, heart shuddering. "…Sorry." For disappointing you. For making you ashamed that your son wasn't as strong, wasn't as powerful as you—

Eyes softening just slightly, Laurie nodded. "Get cleaned up and I won't tell your dad," she said, which was almost relieving. Daniel never liked fighting, though now Jimmy really couldn't blame him. Laurie pursed her lips before sighing, almost as if giving up on something. "You just… you just have to stick up for yourself, Jimmy. Don't let people beat you down."

He almost wanted to tell her the truth—not to garner sympathy, or to just shrug of the viel of lies both of them had built up around each other and their secrets. No, he wanted to tell her, to prove to her, that she was wrong. He was doing everything but letting others beat him down. He might have lost fights, and he might never be as strong as his friends or especially not their newfound enemies—

But Jimmy wasn't going to go down anywhere without a fight. Laurie would never see that.

"I won't," he said instead, smiling reassuringly, even though the gesture didn't reach his eyes. "Don't worry about it."

Laurie would worry about it; he could see it in her eyes as she gave him some space. As soon as she closed the door, Jimmy sat down onto the bed, both exhausted and wound up. He stared down at his scabbing hands, remembering, blow for blow, what had caused the damages. His mother, unless he told her and showed her, would never believe the things he actually did with those fists. How he fought for people. How he… fought at all.

The first time his mother had tried to teach him self-defense, she had taken him to a basic karate class for little kids. He excelled at the basics, but once it rose to the level of attacking other students—he couldn't do it. Not because he was afraid of getting hurt, but because he didn't want to hurt anyone. It didn't seem right. He quit.

His mother got mad, but his father told her to back off, to give Jimmy space. He still remembered the sorry and frustrated look Laurie had given her son, as if she wanted something better from him, for him… just a better son who could keep up with her morals, her strength, her overall perfection.

Jimmy was not perfect. He never would be. A perfect son wouldn't make his mother think immediately at the sight of his bruised form that he was the weakling to get beat up in school. A perfect son wouldn't have to be dodging questions or asking the ones Laurie and Dan both couldn't answer, only the ones Sam and Sandra Hollis could.

"James, you're going to be late!" Laurie called form downstairs, the perfect mother—the perfect hero.

Jimmy stared at his hands, the hands of James Hollis, not that of Nite Hawk or a member of Crimebusters II. He was just a boy and he would have to be a boy for as long as was necessary for the public to believe.

Then again… his cover was flawless. In his imperfect image, he had the perfect alibi, the perfect alter-ego. His mother would never suspect he could be a hero; neither would the world. Jimmy smiled quietly to himself.

At least that was perfect.

"Coming."

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Next: Rorschach decides to do something new. CBII is highly impressed.