SO, I've decided this is finished. There's nothing more I can say for them at this stage. And I need a break from the angst. So I'm going to write porn instead... LOTS OF IT, for myself... for you. Just porn porn porn. For about a month...

Then I have more angst for this universe that you will see... that's... owwwie that will come in a couple of sequels. BUT I WONT RUIN IT! SHUTTUP DIBDIB.

Anyway, yeah. Sorry it's so abrupt, but it seemed the right place to finish.

Ror's POV

Walter hides. Behind his mask and in the shadows. Hides from himself, and from her. From the monster that he is. That he let himself be. He hides from the sight of it. Playing off of her face like light reflecting from a crystal. But it's no use. Distracting his mind, from playing it over and over. Because he still feels it.

Feels it sliding under his sinew. A stubborn memory, crippling him with more guilt than he can bear. He could feel her. Over his skin. He was trapped inside her. A ghost of the sensation rippling over him. Nothing better, or worse, than this. And he groans against the wall as he pulses and aches.

Hiding could not change what he- he had... Pulled her in as far as he could, without ever asking for permission.

But he had to. He had to. It was the only way he knew to prove she was there. She was real. She wasn't dead. Or lost inside somewhere untouchable. She was there and real. And he could be inside instead-

No...

He growls his fingers' digging into skin through latex. Excuses. They were only excuses. And there were none for what he had done to Daniel. For what he had taken. Had hurt. Again. When he'd promised not to. So he hides. Here in the dark. Huddled in a corner like a child in a dunce's hat.

But Nite Hawk still sees him. Stares at him. In a crumpled mess on the concrete ruddy floors. Her insides spilt. Just like... but not the same. Never the same. And she knows. She is the part of Daniel that knows. The part that is angry and alone, and knows. That might hurt him back. Like he wanted. Like he deserved.

Fingers close around his scalp, and he would have jumped. He would have, if he had not already been shaking himself onto his knees with remorse and paranoia. Nite Hawk crawling, empty across the floor to climb under his skin.

"Enough." Comes a whisper, pulling away the mask, "Enough hiding."

There is the sensation of contact somewhere over his hair, as his skin burns with cracking tears. But she steps away. Leaves him hanging in empty frozen air. The sound of her bare feet makes him wince. Until she sits solemn and still, somewhere behind out of reach. He can only imagine what she thinks. Of him. Of this. Of the wrong he has done. To her. Sitting in silence. A judge, jury and executioner. Ruling over a truly guilty party.

"What happened?" She asks so quietly, as though she is committing some great sin in breaking his solitude.

And he hates it. He hates it because he knows she isn't going to let herself be angry. She isn't going to scream or cry. Or hurt him. She is just going to ask, like she has done twice already, and he will barely form the words, like he hasn't been able to. Twice already. Because it is impossible to describe it. Describe what he sees when he closes his eyes. Every piece of her dead on the floor. Every piece lost.

"You-" He retches on the words, on his mothers laughs and burrowing claws, "died."

The silence stretches out like an undiscovered arm of the universe. Presses on him in the darkness. Shows how small and insignificant everything is in comparison to something else. Something larger. More visceral. Reminds him again how everything is an excuse. Upon an excuse. Upon an excuse. An excuse he had no right in making.

"Should have stopped me."

His hands press against the cold concrete, to keep himself from running. Turning. Looking at her. Because he knew she could have. If she had tried. She could have stopped him ruining her.

"Probably." She concedes, and her tone is something he cannot recognise.

And he moans. He moans as every muscle in his body convulses with pain and regret. He doesn't understand. How she is so strong. So silent. So simply present. She should be screaming. Tearing. Biting. Swearing. She should be telling him to leave and never come back. But she isn't. And he isn't sure which hurts more as the silence burns around him all over again.

He misses the inane ramblings Daniel used to make before any of this. To fill his silences. To alleviate his guilt. To lessen the burden of responsibility. To make his side of the relationship, his own participation, easier to neglect. Because now all she does is wait. No whispers of words that meant nothing and everything. She just waits. For him to say what he needs to, instead of saying it herself.

"So sorry, Daniel." Is all he can think to say.

And she laughs. She laughs. But it's not the same as before. It's bitter and a little forced, and it makes him cringe. It makes him look at her as she leans back, her chest heaving with some hysteria he can't comprehend.

"You're sorry, I'm sorry, everyone's sorry." She says plainly, flatly, emotionlessly.

Her eyes fall from the pipes and wires weaving above her head, to the little man who doesn't understand how much he is loved. Her face resolves from the pain of seeing, a pain he understands, because he's not what he was before either. Resolves into something settled and determined. Hollow. Persevering. A little condescension he's never seen before. He's never seen any of this before as her mouth opens with an air of finality and ruin.

"I'm sick of sorry. Can we please get angry instead?"

The light flashes in her oversized glasses, and the words become more than that. They become something physical and fundamental. Shining in the lenses like a creature caught by the firelight. Angry.

Both their eyes trail to the pieces of monster left barren on the floor. The one that had terrified them both only the night before. Now, though, its dominance is tempting. Calling. An outlet. A way for her to scream into the night and hurt something real. Something worth hurting. To change something that can be changed. To stop feeling victimised, and guilty, ruined and worn. To feel strong and succinct and whole.

A way for her to be something. Just what Rorschach had meant Nite Hawk to be.

"We?" He mutters, and hates the sheepish tone to his broken voice.

"We."

The city spread beneath their bloody feet hours later, the dawn's first attempts barely breaching the smog that has settled. The screams of the night are dying away as he watches her watch him like two predators dancing to the same sickly tune. Two hungry savages circling a kill. But it's not. As they sit over an alleyway. It's relaxed and free. Something like the first nights they ever did this together.

"Feel better?" He asks, it's inhumanly balanced and hollow, the people who fell tonight mean nothing in their lives.

She bears her teeth in some manic grin, as another fearful cry comes somewhere underneath this strange uniting of beasts. There's nothing but violence and grime. But they feel better. Muscles heaving with unused adrenalin. They feel better. Worked out and done in. Exhausted but good. Like they've fought with fate and won. Instead of being beaten down and spat on by it.

It is still sad, though, as the smog turns to drizzle about their ears. There was a life before this that has ended now. A life they won't get back. A life they don't need to get back. But a life that needs mourning. Without feeling the blame for having lost it.

"Think you'll be able to behave like a normal person?" He asks passing her a sugar cube from the deeper recesses of his trench coat as the water hitting their clothes sounds like a symphony of percussive waves.

"Well behaved women rarely make history."

He smiles under the swirling ink. That's exactly what he hoped she'd say.

And this time when they fight together there's no fear of falling to the beasts, for a person who has hit bottom can only see up. This time when they dance together, back to back, side by side, there's only knowledge and synchronised relief. This time, when they fold together, becoming one once more, there is no guilt or repulsion. Only an understanding.

It is not about the skin. It is who she is that matters. And she is Daniel.