Repeating

"To recite from memory."

He remembers the street – walks along it, unable to control his feet. The brown fence looms ahead, and he knows where he is – when this is. He waits to hear the snarl of dogs, feel the cold chill creeping up his spine and settling at the back of his neck. They never come – puzzling, but the door sits there, and without thought and even motion (for hasn't he done this many times before?), he kicks it open. Goes through the motions: looks in cabinets and cupboards for murder weapons, waiting for his feet to carry him into the small room tucked away out of sight. He has had this dream many times now, many repeats of the terrible (beautiful) night when Blaire Roche was lost and Rorschach was born.

This dream, he thinks wearily, is different. Out the window, the German shepherds that so frequently haunt his dreams are not fighting over a bone, but sleeping peacefully in a heap. He scans the yard for a discarded femur, a misplaced finger, anything… but there is nothing to find. Confused, he forces himself to move, dragging himself into the little room with the little stove, almost desperately wishing to find the little scrap of fabric inside.

It isn't there. Instead, in the corner, there is a little girl. She is trembling, six years old, trembling like a leaf in teddy bear-printed pajamas. Blue eyes wet with tears widen, aghast at what this new torture might be. Briefly, lost in unknown territory and inexperienced dreams, Rorschach falters and Walter wishes Daniel were there to handle the child – the girl – for him.

Her unabashed fear, however, puts words into his mouth. "Don't cry," he rasps, the sentiment sounding foreign and odd. "I'm taking you home."

He wishes he could stay, find the scum that kidnapped her (his name? what was his name?), serve him the justice he deserves, but all thoughts of fire and saws and dogs and hatred slide away when Blaire Roche gets to her feet unsteadily and reaches for him. He slides her little arms around his neck, amazed at her softness, wondering at how she holds to him like a life preserver. Innocence still clings to her like a perfume, buried beneath grime and fear and man, but there. Holding her tight, he slowly moves out of the house, swearing he will come back later, keeping the girl pressed close to his chest that she might never be stolen again.

There is no one on the street. He can only briefly find this odd, let his mind fill with conspiracies and questionable circumstances, and then he is grateful. No criminal would ever take Rorschach seriously after something like this… On the other hand, perhaps they would. There was something triumphant in this, carrying the Holy Grail out from its hiding place and displaying it for the world to see on the way to its next safe place. If someone does see him, no nuisance is made, and he wanders in a daze. Blaire is drifting to sleep against him, pressed against jutting collarbone and bony shoulder padded down by layers of clothing.

Before he realizes it, he has wandered into Daniel's basement. It is hard to guess if this makes him lucky or not, but the light is on and Daniel is curled up under Archie making a lot of noise. His partner slides out from under the bird smudged with oil. "Hey, Rorschach," he begins, waving his hand in greeting… and his mouth opens wide, hands falling limp and useless to his sides. "…What?"

For a moment, Rorschach does not know how to explain it. How could he explain how what was originally a dream now seemed to be horrifically real? Unpredictable? He shifts Blaire a bit, hoisting her back up onto his hip, and sighs. "Blaire Roche," he whispers, and she stirs against him. "Found her… saved her." There is something ludicrous in that statement to both of them, and there is a biting moment when Rorschach realizes that Daniel never thought he would save the girl at all. As though still unable to believe it, he draws close, uncomfortably close, and reaches out to brush dark hair from her eyes. Walter almost pulls her away, never wanting another man to touch her again, but then he remembers that this is Daniel. Not a man, a Jew, a liberal, or anything else – Daniel. He lets him gently stroke her, smoothing her hair back into place. An achy sort of pride worms its way down through his throat and into his heart.

"I didn't think you'd find her," he whispers reverently. "I thought for sure she was dead." But she's not, Rorschach thinks, and that's the best part of all. She's alive and breathing, whispering against his chest, holding fast to his neck, and when Daniel reaches for her, he takes a step back and does his best to eye him through the mask. It's hard to get his point across, but his partner gets it and turns away, cheeks a little red. "We need to take her home," he sighs, running a hand through his hair.

"Three in the morning." He gestures to a clock on the wall with a finger. "Decent people are asleep at three in the morning."

"Don't you think her parents will want her back right away?" Blaire stirs again, lifting her face from his body and biting her lip. Her little fists clench his trench coat tighter, and she threatens to sob.

"I want my mommy," she whimpers, and it's all Walter can do not to squeeze her until she explodes, wishing desperately that he could take her, hide her, and never let the world hurt her again. Quickly, Daniel bends down before her, face pinched in earnest.

"You'll see your mom soon, sweetheart," he says, and Rorschach's pulse dances a quick little jig. He is reminded of a life, so long ago, when his mother said things like that – when his mother loved him. Daniel would make a good mother. He almost smiles at that, but stops – weak, weak, weak, and the part of him that still knows the little Roche girl was cleaved apart and fed to animals hates him for it. "Are you hungry?" She nods, and he can feel her stomach tumbling, wonders if the scum ever even thought about feeding her. Daniel looks at him as though he expects him to set the girl down. He doesn't.

"Lead the way."

Time hiccups, as time is wont to do in dreams (is this still a dream?), and he is sitting at the table across from chubby, swinging legs. Little Blaire watches him as she slowly eats the sandwich Daniel made her. He watches back, simultaneously searching for evidence of physical abuse and repressing amazement. It felt strange, setting her down after holding her for so long, and he is amazed to feel such a weird sense of loss. Daniel drops a can of beans in front of him. He eyes it, watching the steam rise from the food, and decides to ignore it – doesn't taste the same, hot. Still, moving his gaze back to Blaire, he nods in thanks. Daniel sits next to her, but at her uncomfortable glance, he scoots away compliantly.

"Doesn't seem that taken with you," he mumbles, willing his lip to keep from quirking. Daniel does smile again, shrugging his shoulders.

"I'm a man," he says simply. Rorschach ponders that, wondering the little girl only attached to him because of his ambiguity. To Blaire, Daniel is of the same species that took her away, kept her locked in a little room and terrorized her daily. He, on the other hand, is not a man – simply a creature emerged from the dark to perform search-and-rescue. If he were Walter, ugly, freckled, and red, would she have come so compliantly?

Blaire drops her sandwich and looks up at his swirling mask. She refuses to speak to Daniel, which he honestly finds amusing, despite his partner's obvious disappointment. "Can I go home now?" Daniel looks at him wearily, unable to make an excuse. Uncomfortable. He clears his throat, weighing his words carefully –how does he explain the situation so that she understands?

Simple. He lies.

"Yes. However, your parents are coming here. We will have to wait." Ignoring his partner's shocked expression, he watches the little girl hop down from her chair and walk over to him… take his hand. He is embarrassed – his old, bloodstained gloves aren't fit for her angelic, stubby fingers, but her smile chips at his heart.

"Okay."

They sit on the couch, Blaire between Rorschach and Daniel, snuggled into his side. He is uncomfortable, so close to the both of them, but he can't move. Daniel sighs, pets the girl's head, and his fingers barely graze Rorschach's coat. He pulls away briefly, moving back enough that he gets the hint.

"I'm proud of you," Daniel says, and it's surprising to both of them. Rorschach doesn't need pride, doesn't need his ego stroked, but Walter trembles slightly at such praise. Daniel doesn't lie. He means it. "You saved her life. She probably would have died, if you hadn't shown up." He leans closer, conspiratorially, and Rorschach can't bring himself to move again. "You know what, man? She might tell her kids this, someday. You'll be a hero to her, forever."

Kids. Kids. What kids?

The illusion shatters.

Daniel continues to speak, but it echoes as though from miles away, and Blaire goes cold against his body. The warm comfort of the house is ripped away, leaving Rorschach and Blaire and Daniel and Walter, Walter, screaming in torment as the little girl falls to the floor and breaks into a million pieces. Dogs chew on her remains, gnashing horrible teeth, and all he can smell is ash, blood, and death. Walter disappears, eliminated again, and he remembers. He remembers the way his hand reverberated when he struck the first dog down, the warm spatter of blood on his chest. Remembers looking down at Grice (Grice, Grice), covered in his dogs' blood and whimpering pathetically for his life. Remembers watching the house burn down, a fitting fate for someone who would burn a child. Blackened breasts, singed bellies, flesh scalded and fading, fading, fading away…

Daniel is still there, watches him, and when their eyes meet, he shakes his head and walks away. Disappointment. Knew he wouldn't find her… never wanted to dash his hopes by saying so. When he has stood, watching the flames an hour, he turns around and walks to his apartment. Not to Daniel. Not when all Daniel will offer is stammered misgivings and questions.

Walter is gone, swallowed up by the ink on his mask, fallen into the abyss, and he is dead. Only Rorschach remains.

Only Rorschach survives that night.

AN: This chapter is different, I know, and I planned a different ending, but… I like it. It has a sort of charm, for me. Besides, I haven't really seen any stories playing on what might have happened if Rorschach found Blaire. This is, however, supposed to be within the actual book's continuity, so I couldn't really say "oh, look, there goes little living Blaire skipping down the street!" without causing a few problems. Hence, his dream. Rorschach (if not Walter) strikes me as the kind of person who has nightmares, regardless of how strong and fearless he might be… everyone has nightmares, sometimes, and Rorschach's got enough bottled up that his nightmares must be horrendous.

I also don't think Walter really 'died' (the end of the book is proof enough), but that's an entirely different matter.