Ror' POV

Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. Daniel was in trouble. No, worse than trouble, pain and he needed to get to him. He needed to save him. To hold him. To protect him. He needed to get to Daniel.

Stupid. Shouldn't have split up. Should not have gone separate ways. Now Rorschach was facing an empty hall surrounded by wet screams. Barely recognisable. Pounding through the halls like a thousand fleeing feet, ringing in his ears like an air raid siren, telling them to get out. Get out now!

The pipes rattled like zoo-monkeys beating against the bars, and he's running. Tripping. Scrabbling over obnoxiously waxed floors, and the seconds were ticking by like they do not care. The screams wavering and gargling in the dark. Dragging on and on as though they had replaced the need to breathe. Broken and rattling, changing pitch, then whining out into silence.

"No." And it's barely there as feet skid over tiles, rumbles into nothing.

Hissing into the dark and everything stops. Everything's stopped. And nothing feels better. It's worse. Silence means it's ended. Silence means it's over. Silence means-.

"Help..."

It's disgusting. It's terrible. It's terrifying. But it's not Daniel. So why can't he look away? Why can't he drop his eyes and leave him to die in peace. Why was he watching, rooted to the spot by his own mounting horror, as what is left of a man scrapes through a door towards him?

Blood pours out of his mouth and trails on the floor. Tears stream down his face and yet he is blind, holes where his retinas should be. And this time there are no screams as skin ruptures and bursts, leaking over the floor in a bloody mess. A vile parody of melting wax, or pouring custard through a layer of film.

Rorschach has to look away. Has to pull himself back across the floor where he has fallen, because that face is no longer unfamiliar and un-connected. That face is turning into Daniel's with each passing moment. Showing him how his partner had burned in his bones and spread into shapeless patterns on the tiles. Had died without him, had died alone. Just the way they had always feared they would. Just the way they had always promised never to-

"No." And this time its anger, denying the grief, grasping at seeping flesh, "Where is he?"

No answer comes. He doesn't need one as he throws the pulp aside. Tearing into the sepulchre. Vowing a Nite Owl would not be buried here. Among death and decay, among murder and lies. Buried beneath Rorschach's inadequacies and poor planning. A Nite Owl would not be buried here.

But Rorschach is not prepared. He is not prepared for the sight that confronts him. Of Nite Owl spread across a vomit soaked floor. Silent and still. Small and alone. Broken and hidden under shadows.

There is no blood, no burns or boils to see on the exposed flesh glowing under Kevlar, and somehow that makes it worse. For that means they still need to be discovered. Revealed as zips pull back and organs pour out. Slip through the gaps onto the floor. Because right now those zips and clips are all that is holding this corpse together.

And as he stares, ink blots swirl lazily ignorant of the pain behind the face, Rorschach is lost. All the threads holding him together, all the ropes tying him to the ground snap and fray. Leave him in freefall, leave him frozen from the tips of his fingers to the edges of his soul. Nothing makes sense. Nothing is fair. He knew this. Had always known this. But this time knowing it hurt. Hurt like scissors to the eyes. Like bleach in the throat. Like a knife to the gut. And this time warm arms, brown eyes and wings weren't going to make it go away.

And if Rorschach could have breathed, could have moved, could have even made a sound, he would have screamed. Roared. Torn himself apart and used the pieces to put Daniel together. Make a whole person out of the two broken bodies pouring over the linoleum. Shoved them back together, like making love.

So perhaps it is insanity that drives a man onto his feet when there is no life left. Nothing left. Perhaps it is madness that scoops the last of himself up onto his shoulders and stumbles out into the night. Maybe it's a complete absence of awareness that makes a man carry a body 20 blocks. Arms, chest and face beating his back in steady rhythm with the steps. Or perhaps it's basic instinct to take your friend, your lover, your family... your life, home.

Rorschach takes Nite Owl home. Through tunnels and trap doors, into the hole where monsters reside, where a metal moon judges him wanting and he lays a hero on the dust thickened floor.

Now Walter sits beside him, no tears, no words, nothing. Just sits. Consumed by the absence of anything. Barely aware of Rorschach's screams for revenge, for retribution, for justice. They just ring in his ears, like the silence, reminding him that he is completely alone. Now until the end, which he hoped was not long.

But then he hears it, scraping through the silence that had been blotting out everything. Making the world fall back into focus, sharp and painful, no longer the blur of nothing but his own fingers and failures. But he hears it, rasping in the dark. Breathing. Breathing... Breathing!

He'd been breathing the whole time. He'd been breathing. He hadn't died. He'd been breathing, and the suit is torn open so fast that blood flies into his face. Splatters his coat and oozes onto the floor but he doesn't care, because Daniel's breathing under the blood. Breathing.

It's wrong though, it's wrong. He finds the beating chest too deep in the armour, too shallow and the wrong shape. Softer. Feels like-

"No." Panicked fingers rip back the cowl, "No, no, no, no, no!"

Too high cheek bones sweeping softly. Sharp jaw rubbed into a delicate curve. Lips fuller, brows rounder, and eyes... eyes...

Eyes open.

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