Convention

"An agreement, compact, or contract."

Walter sniffled slightly as he hovered over his sewing machine, groping blindly to his left for a tissue. Around him in all directions, the cacophonous symphony of sneezing, nose blowing, and wretched coughing echoed practically into the street outside – everyone in the shop was sick. And Walter blamed every last one of them for the cold he knew was coming. He knew none of them made very much money, and this area of the city was not the smartest place to see a doctor, but it was completely within the realm of human capability to keep other people from getting sick. All it took was covering your mouth when you coughed or sneezed, or washing your hands frequently, and no one bothered to do either.

Recognizing his coworkers' disregard for others' health, Walter had tried to keep himself from growing ill as best he could. He refused to touch anything that had recently been sneezed on (infuriating his boss when "anything" eventually became his sewing machine), and sometimes ducked into the bathroom once or twice a day to scrub his hands until they came out from under the scalding water red as a lobster. He had even added an extra layer of clothes to his costume, throwing on another jacket underneath the trench coat while Nite Owl shivered in his second skin. Despite all his care, Walter thought as he carefully pedaled a blouse through its seams, it hadn't really helped. His nose was constantly running like a faucet, his nose was a terrible shade of red, and every so often a cough shook his body in a way he found a little foreboding. There was no way to get around it – he was falling prey to a cold. That inevitably meant that not only was Walter going to be sick for the first time in about eight years, but Rorschach would be sick for the very first time, and he could not afford to stay in for even a night. Criminals would not take a personal holiday in recognition of their foe's absence.

Of course, he didn't doubt Nite Owl's ability to take care of them alone, but it would be a personal admittance of defeat if he sat at home and sniveled on his mattress.

"Kovacs!"

Walter pulled the blouse out from under the machine's needle, scrutinizing it briefly as he turned to face the walrus he had for a boss wobbling towards him. His hand must have slipped at some point; the stitches up the side went a little crooked near the middle. Removing a cigar from his mouth, his boss narrowed his eyes at the material and coughed into a handkerchief.

"Looks good," he said, wiping his lips with the kerchief and stuffing it back into his pocket. "Listen, we just got a new order – some kind of cocktail dress the lady wants 'exquisitely made.'" With an imperceptible sigh, Walter carefully folded up the half-finished shirt and set it to the side of his workstation. He knew where this was going.

"I already explained I cannot work late," he said quietly, flexing his fingers to work out the stiffness. His shift was over in ten minutes – just ten minutes. Couldn't this woman have waited that long?

"You've been good about making deadlines without having to work overtime. Look, I'll level with you, Kovacs." His boss came in a step, hovering over Walter by a few embarrassing inches. Cigar smoke wafted into his face, probably by accident, and he resisted the urge to cough. "You're the best damn guy here – guys who are better are staying home sick. I know you have a lot on your plate, but I can trust you to get the job done quickly and right the first time."

It would have been almost flattering, if Walter wasn't busy feeling the sudden onslaught of a terrible headache. He resisted the urge to rub his temples, as though he could simply massage the pain out of his forehead, and clenched his fists to quell it. "I appreciate that, sir."

"Sure you do, kid. Thanks for being so accommodating. Lady wants it finished by next Friday, all right? Start it in the morning – you can go home a little early." His boss palmed a sweaty order into his clenched fist and waddled away, puffing on his cigar like a baby on a pacifier. Once he was a safe distance away, harassing a new girl about the poor quality of her skirts, Walter covered his mouth and tried to smother the cough threatening to burst from his lungs. The attempt failed miserably – people from all corners of the shop paused to stare at him in either mild concern or vague indifference.

Biting his lip to keep any further outbursts in, Walter stuffed the unfinished blouse into a drawer and picked up his jacket, leaving the dress order inside. Coworkers gradually turned away to resume their business, and no one watched him walk out the door.

It was already dark out, black as ink, and heavy clouds threatened either snow or freezing rain. Walter rubbed his hands together against the cold, holes in his threadbare gloves scraping against each other. The streets were almost empty, save a hollow-eyed junkie wallowing in the gutter and a gang of kids in the mouth of an alley. They eyed him suspiciously, sizing him up and down to see if he was worth sport or money, and he kept walking without making eye contact. As soon as he'd put three blocks between himself and the shop, he ducked into an alley and felt along the wall until he reached a city dumpster. Walter didn't need to be at Daniel Dreiberg's brownstone for another hour, but it couldn't hurt to be ready early – and putting on a few extra layers of clothes might help stave off his cold. He couldn't let it stop him.

It only took a moment to become Rorschach, shedding his skin and drawing on another (the middle of the transition was the worst, in semi-private with his pants around his ankles); the mask's ink swirled beautifully as it met his face, and suddenly he felt as though colds and frozen fingers never existed. Coat firmly tied over his silk suit, he almost sensed a surge of power running through his veins and invigorating every inch of his body.

Walter only just managed to lift his mask up before he sneezed. Maybe that surge of power was really a bloom of warmth, although he slightly doubted that as he was shivering again. He wrapped his arms around his torso briefly, not even bothering to pretend it wasn't to keep in heat, and collected himself long enough to spring up onto the nearby fire escape. The buildings here cramped together, as though they were huddling together against the crippling cold, and made it easy to cut the 20-minute walk to Daniel's down to ten minutes, maybe less. Rooftops also provided a little more seclusion, kept him away from prying eyes or punks who figured they could take down a superhero. Besides, he thought as he crept along the roof's edge, hot air rises, and if he kept telling himself that, maybe it would be true. His poor body would be unfrozen within the next few minutes.

Even with all his wishful thinking, the trick didn't work much; his shoes couldn't grip places covered in ice or snow (which was everywhere), and after so much slipping and sliding he almost felt ready to storm home and call it a night. On top of all the other frustrations, his nose would not stop running, and after a failed attempt to tolerate it he had to roll up his mask and expose most of his face to a bitter wind. He was cold, he was tired, a broken bottle had snagged his trousers and ripped them, and worst of all, he was perfectly miserable – it was so easy to forget how much you hated being sick until it happened again.

Finally – oh, yes, finally – he could see Daniel's house about a block away. Walter had decided against using the warehouse tunnel (cold, hollow, and a few streets out of his way), and after watching the street for a few minutes he knew no one would see him go through the front door. He nimbly slid down another fire escape ladder, straightened his scarf, and bustled past the street lamps and up to the hideously painted doorway. Daniel put in a new lock since he last came in this way, probably as terrible as ever, but instead of breaking through he simply pressed the button underneath "Floors 1-4 – D. Dreiberg."

"Coming!" Noises echoed through the thin wood, suspicious mutterings and the occasional crash, and after a long silence the door opened a crack and one brown eye peeped out. "Yes?"

"Let me in, Daniel," he grunted, hunching his shoulders and trying to look more irritable than cold and upset. The door slammed shut, much to his surprise, but it swung open mightily with a chain dangling from a bolt. His partner looked… well, ridiculous, as he had thrown a sweater over the top of his costume and his hair stuck out every which way while his glasses dangled off one ear. Walter eyed him incredulously as he shuffled around him and into the welcoming cheeriness that seemed to permeate the house.

"Jesus, Rorschach, you scared the hell out of me. I didn't have time to change out of this – thought somebody had caught me with my pants down." Daniel wrestled with the sweater, fighting to get it over his head as Walter bent down and examined a ceramic vase lying in shatters on the floor next to an end table. That explained the crash. "I had to – damn it – this was just laying on a chair and – shit – it's kind of small on me now…"

"Didn't feel like breaking down your door," Walter said, stuffing his hands into his pockets. Daniel chuckled and yanked, sending the sweater flying across the hall. He sighed in satisfaction.

"I appreciate that. Besides, I don't know if you could break this one – supposedly, they're one of the best locksmiths in town."

"Would you be willing to test that?"

"No way, man." Daniel laughed again, cheerful and looking quite a bit more impressive now that he was just in his costume. "Come on – it's a little early, but it's dark enough to take Archie out." With a grin, he left his glasses on the end table and snapped on his goggles before striding into the kitchen. Despite an irritating tingling in his nose, Walter managed to hold in his sneeze until he was alone in the hallway and pretending to examine the rip in his pants. It really did irritate him that they had ripped, but he could fix them in the ship. He folded up the tissue twice before putting it back into his garbage pocket, underneath a crumpled hot dog wrapper and an old envelope, before following Daniel into the kitchen.

"Here," Daniel said, seemingly from nowhere. Walter had to look around for a moment before he saw Daniel on his knees digging in a cabinet under one of the counters. "I have a sewing kit in here somewhere. I saw that rip in your pants. What was that, by the way, in the hallway?" With a grunt, Daniel used the cabinet as leverage to stumble to his feet and held out the kit. Walter peeked inside before accepting it – just the right shade of purple. He really did always think of everything.

"Thank you. What was what?"

"I could have sworn I heard you sneeze." He shrugged, gesturing to the tissue box sitting on top of the fridge. Walter shook his head. That was the last thing he needed – at heart, Daniel was a worrywart, and if he knew Walter was catching a cold… well. At best, he would refuse to take Archie out, and at worst, he could imagine himself to a chair and force-fed soup. Definitely a situation he wanted to avoid.

"I'm fine. Thank you." To his surprise, Daniel merely nodded and started downstairs to the basement, not even giving him a second glance – apparently, he was believed, which was shocking in itself. Making sure there was no chance of being caught, Walter stood on his toes to pull a few tissues and stuffed them in his pockets as he walked downstairs. There was no shame in being prepared, and having a few tissues on hand might prevent a few uncomfortable situations. He didn't really want to ruin his leather gloves – they never came cheap.

Daniel prattled meaninglessly as he steered Archie out of the basement and into the sky, emerging beautifully in a mist of fog and air pollution that was almost impossible to enjoy through the violent pounding of another headache. He really wished he could tell Daniel to shut up, but that was at the risk of hurting his feelings (something that he never really minded doing, but it led to sulking and pouts and was really better avoided), so he sat quietly and tried not to think about it. Instead, he focused on how abnormally cold Archie was, and how grateful he was to have his coat when all Nite Owl had was spandex and a cape. However, despite his disadvantage, Daniel hardly seemed to be cold in the least, while Walter was clenching his teeth with the effort of keeping the shivers in.

"…was watching the news earlier, and the only interesting thing they had to say was that the Raiders beat the Packers for the Super Bowl. They haven't said a word about how we captured that mobster and sent him packing last Tuesday…"

Deep breaths, in and out, teeth clenched, he did not have a headache, and he was not cold…

"…been catching wind of some rumors circulating around about this new gang in Queens…"

Concentrating so hard on specifics like no headache and not cold ultimately meant that something had to slip through; he could feel it building in his chest to the point where it just would not leave him alone, and he had to do something…

Walter only had time to take a quick breath before the cough shot out. It almost hurt physically; he felt as though his lungs were shriveling up and he couldn't pause long enough to breathe again. The hand that wasn't covering his mouth shot to his chest, clutching at the area around his heart almost in fear of it giving out from the violence of his cough. It echoed around Archie's hull eerily, coming back to him twofold, and when it finally stopped, he could still hear it – it did not sound good. Nite Owl lifted up his goggles to stare at him, eyes full of concern and a steely something he recognized all too well.

"That was not a normal cough." He sighed. So it began – there would be no end of this now.

"It was nothing, Daniel."

"Rorschach –"

"Leave it."

"I'm trying to make you admit that you have a problem." Walter lifted up his mask and wiped his lips with a handkerchief. His body ached, as though coughing had set off a new slew of complaints, and his headache was making it very hard to deal with this in a sensible way. Part of him just wanted to go home, and the other part wanted to go down now and fight away his troubles. It worked every other night – it should do the same job. He folded his arms and stared out the window.

"I do not have a problem." To his chagrin, Daniel pulled Archie to a stop. They were still too high for anyone to really see them, but he put on the smoke screen anyway.

"Yes, you do, you're sick. I can tell." With a bit of a creak and a grunt, Daniel hoisted to his feet and came a few steps closer to prove his point. Walter felt like sinking back into the chair. "Your nose is all red, you seem clammy, I swear that I saw you shiver, and you're obviously dead tired. Plus, that cough was bad news – you need medicine."

"I'm fine."

"Like hell you – oh, man, Rorschach." With that, he seemed to make up his mind. Daniel threw himself back into the pilot's chair, and Walter felt his hopes raise for a moment before they came crashing down again. He turned Archie around. "I'm taking you home."

"Don't know where I live. Can't take me home," he said quickly, praying that Daniel would just drop him off and hope he went home.

"My home."

No such luck.

They argued the whole way back to Daniel's, back and forth proclamations of perfect health and varying degrees of "You're fine, my ass." It was one thing to admit defeat, stay home from work for a day, and wait it out under a blanket with a cup of what he pretended was good coffee, but Walter refused to be cosseted. He didn't need someone fussing over him, hadn't needed it since he was a boy, and was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, a phrase that Daniel was probably unfamiliar with. He was practically dragged out of Archie, struggling to get away all the while (but he wasn't really trying; in this state Daniel was faster and quite a bit stronger and could overpower him quickly if need be). Shoved into the living room, Walter eyed the windows carefully in hopes of planning an escape route while Daniel fiddled with the thermostat.

Finally, cowl and cape abandoned somewhere else and glasses perched sternly on his nose, Daniel turned and put his hands on his hips in a faint womanly manner. The thought would have amused him at any other time, but right now, it only made clear that he was not going anywhere soon. "All right, Rorschach. Give me your coat."

Walter crossed his arms over his chest, more to prevent him from coming over and ripping it off than out of defiance. "No. I'm leaving."

"I'm going to give you a pair of my pajamas. You're staying the night. Give it to me." Walter started, almost jumping back a step and studying the seriousness in Daniel's face. Stay the night – that was a breach of his security, the careful lines he had drawn between Just Partners and a dangerous familiarity. He could count on one hand the times he'd been in the upper part of Daniel's house, tonight not included, and… sleeping in… no. It was an imposition, an intrusion of privacy, and not just his. He would not do it. He'd run for it, if he had to.

"No."

Daniel held out his hand and frowned deeper than ever. The next minute, he'd probably find himself tied to a chair. "Just give me the goddamn coat, Rorschach! That's it!" They stared at each other for a moment, sizing one another up, and seemed to reach stalemate. He was beginning to think about giving in (it would be so much less exhausting to just go with it)… and then Daniel's shoulders sagged ever so slightly. "…Fine," he said bitterly, huffing. "I hope you're uncomfortable. Use this." Grabbing a quilt off an armchair, he tossed it at Walter and was obviously dismayed when Walter tossed it back.

"Don't need a blanket," he said, covering up a sneeze with one of the tissues he took. The quilt came hurtling back and hit him square in the face. By the time he had pulled it off, Daniel was half out the door and paused to talk over his shoulder.

"Yes, you do. I'm going to go make some soup or something and see if I have any cough medicine. I swear, Rorschach, if you budge an inch I'll… I'll… hit you," he said uncertainly, looking uncomfortable with even the thought. "Even if you are sick."

Walter couldn't keep his mouth from moving. "Can still hit back."
Daniel threw his hands in the air in the universal gesture of defeat. "Jesus, Rorschach, just take a nap or something. I'll be back." With that, he bustled down the hallway and in a minute, clanking sounds drifted from the kitchen. For a moment, Walter really considered escaping through one of the windows, or even just walking out the front door, although it was a little more conspicuous. It would be so much easier than dealing with Daniel's tantrum, and he could get the night over with. Even as he thought about this, he slowly sat down on the couch and draped the quilt over his knees. Daniel had promised he would hit him if he moved, and he didn't doubt that he would follow through, and it felt good to relax for even a minute… but just a minute. He would leave soon. He had to.

Time suspiciously jumped ahead, and though he would swear he never fell asleep, when he glanced up he saw Daniel holding a thermos and a cup. He took the thermos without complaint, assuring Daniel that once he'd finished he would be on his way, and Daniel sat in the armchair with a thoughtful expression. It really was good soup, some flavor he'd never had before; half of it was gone before he'd even thought about it. At some point, he must have asked about it, because after stirring his drink with a spoon Daniel answered.

"It's tomato. Usually chicken soup is what you give people who're sick, but I was out of that." Walter nodded and made it a point to drink it slowly, letting it warm his body in stages and ebb his headache away. Daniel watched him for a moment. "I worry about you, you know. Sick people freak me out anyway, but if you… you know…"

"Yes?" He seemed to fight to find the right words for a moment, gesticulating vaguely and almost knocking his cup over.

"What if you got pneumonia or something and died? I'd never know about it. I don't need, you know, your address or name or mother's maiden name or shit like that, I just want to know you're all right. Can't you just oblige me that?"

Walter thought about it for a moment, swirling the soup around in the thermos absent-mindedly. When he looked at it that way, he supposed his partner's rampant mothering made sense. He would never – could never – tell Daniel his name, or where he lived, because Walter was nothing to be proud of, but… yes. He could oblige him this. Just this once. Never again.

"Don't need pajamas." Daniel jumped, looking up from his cup with wide eyes. Walter stared down at the thermos. "I'll be fine without them."

It was a whole other battle with where he slept, Daniel arguing in favor of the guest bedroom not currently serving as storage, Walter in favor of the couch where he sat, but in the end Daniel was simply pleased that he was staying after all and gave in. He promised not to touch the coat, which was draped over the back of the couch, and ran back and forth to get that cough medicine, a glass of water, extra blankets, a warm set of pajamas "in case he changed his mind," and finally a book before Walter gently demanded to be left alone.

It was a weird experience, watching Daniel turn out the light and back out into the hallway, shutting the door behind him. He was vaguely reminded of childhood fantasies about his father, taking care of him and tucking him into bed before turning out the light. His memories were hazy (that might have been the cough medicine), but he could swear that he remembered his mother doing the same, once or twice, though it sickened him to think of her. In the end, if he were to be honest, he didn't mind being fussed over, so long as it was Daniel and it didn't happen often. It really… his muscles were so relaxed, like he was melting into the couch… it really wasn't… he felt so warm, so comfortable, even with his nose stuffed up and somehow running at the same time, and oh, he'd forgotten about his pants, that needed to be fixed… he'd do it tomorrow…

It really wasn't so bad.

AN: To clear this up right away, I mentioned that the Raiders won the Super Bowl, but I'm not good with sports and hadn't realized that the Raiders just might have won a different Super Bowl than I intended. This story takes place January-ish, 1968, not 1976 (which is the first Super Bowl the Raiders ever won and is impossible in this particular chapter). Secondly, I realize that when Walter put on the mask, I probably could have started calling him "Rorschach," but that would have been an uncomfortable transition and I like to think that because he's sick he couldn't really get into the whole Rorschach personality all the way.

That said, poor Walter. Three chapters of him in a row - I wish I wasn't so used to putting him through uncomfortable situations. I know there are other stories where Rorschach becomes ill or whatever and Dan takes care of him, but I thought I might put my own personal spin on this by making it from his POV and making him fight it all the way (or most of the way, anyway). The tough thing about writing for this fandom is that by now, many of the good ideas have been taken. ;)

Good Lord - only 5 chapters to go, one of which is written and one of which is half-written. I'm actually going to finish something.