Private
"Intended only for the persons immediately concerned; confidential."
Dawn trickled through his curtains, waking Dan prematurely by throwing shards of light onto his face. He tried to swat them away, grumbling as they forced his eyes open anyway. Rolling to his side, he glared blearily at the clock – he had been asleep less than an hour, and now he was completely awake. "Christ," he murmured, and rolled out of bed. Last night's patrol had been tough: his knees cracked, his back ached, and a few still-tender bruises throbbed at the sudden abuse. Bandages and healing scratches covered almost all the skin laid bare beyond cotton pajamas. In short, he was tired, physically and mentally exhausted, and it was today that he had to be unable to sleep. The universe had a funny way of operating sometimes.
He pushed on his glasses, not bothering to wipe them off beforehand, and peered through smudges as he carefully moved into the hall. The least he could do was have a drink of water, maybe some milk, anything to busy himself while he waited for his body to succumb to fatigue. Dawn, he decided, unless it was just the smudges in front of his eyes, gave everything a funny light. It was rare that he saw the sun peep up from beyond skyscrapers. More often than not, he was in bed by four and slept until twelve, giving him an hour to get up and go to his classes. Dawn was… pretty. For a moment, a moment Dan did not understand, he wished he lived somewhere he could watch the sun come up from beyond the horizon… but that was stupid. New York was his home – where else could he possibly live?
The carpet burned his feet, shocking him – he had forgotten about that. A week ago, he and Rorschach stormed headfirst into a gang hideout (stupid, really) and he'd trod on recently extinguished coals spilled from an old-fashioned fireplace. They burned, right through his boots, singing his soles just enough to be painful. Apparently, they hadn't healed yet. Rorschach had apologized, in his clipped way, but it was a little hard to blame him for throwing some gangbanger into the coal in the first place. It was just how he did things – something you had to get used to.
Dan clapped a hand to his forehead. Rorschach. Rorschach followed him home last night, too exhausted to speak, but Dan had been too concerned with his own weary body to care about his partner. Had he walked to… wherever it was he stayed most of the time? Was he still here? Cursing his stupidity, he shuffled carefully to the living room – if he was here, he would be in that room – the only room besides the basement and the kitchen that he felt comfortable in.
His hand on the doorknob, he paused – listened. From inside, gentle rasping noises fluttered underneath the door and through the cracks. Tentative, Dan turned the knob as quietly as possible and nudged the door open just enough to slip into the room. Yes, he had stayed, he thought with a little relief – probably didn't have the energy to go anywhere else but slink into the living room and fall onto the couch. His overcoat and scarf lay discarded on the floor, flecked with blood that was not his, leaving a pungent odor that wafted through the room. Sad, but it didn't bother Dan much. After a few years of hanging around Rorschach, you got used to the smell.
Still… would it hurt to run his things through the wash? Their owner was asleep, curled up with his mask pressed into the cushions (how did he breathe?), and would not notice if he stole them away for an hour. When he woke up, they would look cleaner, smell better… Dan couldn't expect him to be grateful, of course, but perhaps he would get a grunt of silent thanks and buried pleasure. That was all he ever got, anyway – and besides, he would feel better if Rorschach smelled better.
Creeping on tiptoe, he slunk his way over, doing his best not to breathe. As he moved closer, his gaze fluttered to parts of Rorschach's skin he had never seen before – bits of his skinny wrists, a small strip of neck. Those, too, were marred by healed and fresh lacerations, some small and pale, others angry and red. A few, he thought with a wince, Rorschach obviously tried to stitch up himself. Yet, his partner never complained, never whined about it. He fixed himself, brushed himself off, and stalked away, ready as ever for the next challenge. He was so odd, so strange, so brave… so small.
Yes, Dan decided, grabbing the clothes and quickly shuffling to the door. The least he could do was wash his coat. The very least he could do.
Once he closed the living room door behind him, Dan figured it safe to make a little noise, and whistled a bit as he walked. It was almost comical, his love for order and cleanliness, but there was just something about little tasks like this that made him cheerful. Maybe it came from fond memories of his mother, bustling about the house busy with one thing or another, but always leaving enough spare time to pat him fondly on the head. He winced as he trundled into the laundry room. It was not a good thing to compare yourself to your mother – or at least, it wasn't in this case. As if his dad didn't have enough to roll over in his grave about; now he had to worry about Dan's womanly habits. Smirking, he glanced up at the ceiling in silent homage to his departed parents. He missed them, sometimes – missed them dearly.
Dan dug his hands into the coat's pockets, scrabbling for their contents. He didn't want to accidentally destroy something – this was supposed to be a gesture of appreciation, not the singlehanded murder of everything (if anything) his partner held dear. Amazed, he began to keep account of every item he placed on top of the dryer, and by the time he was scraping at grimy pocket bottoms, he had a sizable pile. Briefly, he poked through them – on a daily basis, Rorschach carried with him a flashlight, sugar cubes (his sugar cubes, but no complaint), the map he frequently used in New York's underground, three different pens, a few pennies, the journal-that-under-no-circumstances-should-he-ever-open, a withered receipt from the Gunga Diner, a folded-up check, and a thin, wrinkled envelope.
Fascinating.
The sweet smell of laundry detergent wafted through the room and burned his nostrils. Using one arm to dump the clothes into the washing machine, he briefly debated how much to use – what exactly were the procedures to wash a dingy, blood-crusted trench coat and a must-have-been-white-at-some-point scarf? In the end, he poured almost half the bottle in before setting the knobs and turning it on. You couldn't be too careful with something Rorschach wore – there were probably quite a few deep-set stains to kill.
Now, he sighed, feeling awfully satisfied with the rhythmic humming of clothes being well washed. What to do with the mass he had removed from Rorschach's pockets? He could just leave it there, wait until the clothes were washed and then surreptitiously slip them all back in… perhaps, that way, Rorschach would never notice. He did not think his partner would be too keen on the idea of his "snooping" around his personal belongings. Despite himself, Dan picked up the envelope and studied it. It didn't really look white anymore – somewhat yellowed at the edges, and wrinkled enough that it must have been terribly old. Had he kept it so long out of sentiment, or was it merely forgotten amidst the other things he kept…?
"Daniel." Guiltily, Dan leapt up and hid the envelope behind his back. Like a five-year-old with his hand caught in the cookie jar. "Where are my clothes?"
He was so small. His pinstriped suit didn't fit quite right, but he knew – those bags in the fabric here and there proved that his partner was nothing if not miniscule, even without his diminutive height. For a second, he almost found it endearing, but then Rorschach turned his head towards the pile of his things and Dan's heart skipped a beat. Oh, God, he was dead. "Uh… I just… put them in the washing machine for you –"
"Why do you have my things?" His voice was calm, collected – too calm, in that sort of way that told him he had better start saying his prayers. Sure, he cared a lot about Rorschach, considered him a friend when practically no one else would, but damned if he wasn't terrifying sometimes.
"Your coat's in the wash. I just took them out a minute ago – no harm done, honestly." Quickly, Rorschach nudged him out of the way and sorted through the pile, muttering under his breath. When his voice hitched, and he went perfectly still, Dan remembered the envelope in his hand. "Oh, here." He held it out, sheepishly, wishing beyond reason that he could read Rorschach's mask. He would have really liked to know a few seconds beforehand if he was going to die. "This… this too."
It was as if time stopped, frozen with the wave of a hand or a pressed button. Rorschach's head tipped gently, looking down at the envelope, then back up at Dan. His hand moved as though through molasses, taking a century for his fingers to close and take back what rightfully belonged to him. The purple pinstriped shoulders… shook. What… was he really that upset? Concerned, he held out a hand in comfort.
"Get out."
"What?" Rorschach's voice was rough as gravel, grating and angry, and now his whole body shook with suppressed rage. Dan knew he was pushing it, but it was just a wrinkled up… what did it matter?
"Get out!" Rorschach lunged forward, reaching as though to strike, and Dan quickly retreated out the door. It slammed shut behind him, and awful, violent banging noises began to clamor from inside. Dan pressed his face to the doorframe, wincing at each clatter and metallic boom that signaled the abuse of his (somewhat expensive) washing machine and dryer.
"Rorschach – Rorschach! Stop that!" The peaceful humming stopped dead, cut off like a hand to a windpipe. Something made a slapping noise onto the floor, the machine door banged, and all the noises ceased. Dan was not so easily fooled – he knew his partner by now, better than anyone else ever had, and it didn't take a lot of thought to realize this might be a trap. It would be just like him, funnily enough – luring him into a false sense of security, only to strike when he let his guard down. However, when minutes ticked by and nothing happened, he finally worked up the nerve to apply pressure to the door and peek inside.
Rorschach sat against the wall, hands fisted in his mask, his head on his knees. All the objects that had been sitting on the dryer now lay scattered in a corner of the room. His soaking coat and scarf sat in front of him in a sad, dejected mess, puddles from it racing across the floor to touch his shoes. There were a couple obvious dents in Dan's machines, but nothing irreparable – or irreplaceable. Right now, though he hated to admit it, he was slightly more concerned with his partner's condition. He did not move when Dan opened the door; the blots on his mask sat perfectly still as his clothes were dumped back into the washing machine; and he barely breathed when Dan slid down the wall to sit beside him. The last was probably from discomfort, but he hardly cared.
Gently, he extracted the envelope from the gloved fist, smoothed it out, and examined it. Rorschach tilted his head, not looking directly at him, but open to a conversation. "I didn't mean to upset you." He handed the envelope back as proof and watched Rorschach hold it in two fingers, rubbing the corners like a worry stone. "You keep a lot of junk in your pockets, man."
"Not junk." Dan shrugged, waving a hand as if to say, 'whatever.' Rorschach nodded and rested his forehead against his knees again. "I know."
"Know what?"
"Was an accident. Trying to do me a favor. Ruined it. Like I ruined your other surprise." Dan pondered that for a moment, trying to think of another time when Rorschach had lashed out and brutally abused his belongings and/or machinery. "Grappling gun, Daniel." Despite himself, he slapped his knee and smiled.
"Oh, yeah! I tried to give it to you, to commemorate taking down Underboss, and you thought I was trying to shoot you. You nearly broke my nose." He chuckled a bit at the memory, stopping awkwardly when Rorschach turned to look at him with what must have been slight disdain. "It's funny in hindsight."
"I'm sorry."
Dan started, bumping his head against the wall. There was no way he heard that right.
"Broke your machine. Threatened you. Sorry." At that moment, though he still somewhat doubted the credulity of this situation, he didn't care if Rorschach was lying or not. Hearing that word was enough – it made up for each mistake, each slip-up Dan had committed, each time he'd pressed too far in their friendship and sent Rorschach scurrying into the shadows. That didn't matter anymore. Even though Dan was terrible with relationships, stammered and stuttered through them like a baby learning to walk, his partner still apologized. He still thought he needed to say he was sorry.
"It's okay, man," he said, and he meant it. "You didn't break it. Who gives a shit about washing machines, anyway?" Getting to his feet quickly, he almost felt like jumping in the fragrant puddle the coat had left on the floor – almost. A very large part of him, larger than his giddiness, wanted that mess cleaned up right away… but he turned to Rorschach instead. "If you can wait an hour, your stuff will be good as new. Want some breakfast?"
Carefully, Rorschach gathered up the pile of things from his pockets and set them on the dryer with the envelope on top. He nodded once and stiffly followed Dan out into the hallway. Cheerful again, aches and exhaustion forgotten, Dan pulled the door shut and began to walk towards the kitchen before a tight grip on his pajama sleeve stopped him.
"Inside the envelope…" Rorschach rasped, looking down at the floor and letting go of Dan's arm. "…A picture."
"Really?" he asked, trying to keep his voice light and non-confrontational. Rorschach wouldn't tell him if he didn't want to, didn't want him to know. "Who of?" It was silent again, and he let his partner walk ahead so he didn't feel like Dan was caging him into an answer. When Rorschach was safe enough away, he turned back a bit and spoke over his shoulder.
"My mother." Part of Dan found that hard to believe – after all, it was hard to think of Rorschach as a person sometimes – but he knew, as a fault, that Rorschach found it extremely difficult to lie. Why would he, anyway, about something like this? Either way, as he made his way past him into the kitchen, he reached out and clasped his shoulder for a moment before letting go again.
There was still so much Dan had to learn – especially about his partner. Perhaps sitting around the table with him, doing something so natural as eating breakfast, would lead to a few more revelations.
AN: A little bit of a different pace – longer, less of a plot more than just a semi-typical morning after patrol. I like little moments that capture how these two… interact. "Design" was about one of the calmer moments, when Dan could pretend they had a normal relationship; this one is… well, about cranky Rorschach, I suppose. We know their partnership wasn't all beans and sunshine. I'm quite fond of this chapter. I was going to save it for later, but… eh. I have other chapters to work on, and I hate holding things back from you guys.
And I know, Rorschach hated his mom, I'm not fond of her either, but… she was his mother. It's not entirely illogical for him to have a picture of her somewhere. And who knows, it might be a relatively nice picture before (if there was a before) she became a prostitute.