A/N: You know, I tried to kid myself into thinking I didn't really care what anyone else thought of my writing. I tried to ignore the nervous tremors as I posted my first chapter (which I've since revised, by the way) and told myself I didn't need to know what other people's opinions were. Then I read my first reviews. I walked away from the computer with a big silly grin on my face and thinking "They like it! They like it!" I'll be riding this high for quite a while. Thank you all for that little boost to my ego. I shall not, however, ask for any further reviews (after all, I still have my pride). If you all choose to post something, then so be it. ;-) I shall do my best to live up to your praises.

Now, on with the next chapter!

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Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen or any of its characters, nor do I own the musical talents of the late great Louis Armstrong.

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Chloe slipped the cassette into her boom box and hit play. Louis Armstrong's gravelly voice drifted from the speakers. It was August 30th. Byron's birthday. He would have been forty-two years old. Chloe took down the framed photograph, cradled it in her hands. Byron and his bride smiled out from Central Park. The picture had been taken on their fifth anniversary. They had eaten a picnic lunch by the duck pond, or tried to until the ducks rallied an assault to take the bread pudding. Chloe had rolled on the blanket laughing uproariously while her husband chased off the quacking, waddling bandits, cursing them all the way back to the water. The memory still made her laugh. Afterwards, they had taken a leisurely walk, enjoying the perfect sunny day. Chloe carried the rolled-up blanket while Byron toted the picnic basket in one hand and the boom box in the other, and they had sung along as Louie exalted in skies of blue and clouds of white. They'd agreed wholeheartedly, it was indeed a wonderful world.

Chloe was so grateful she still had this picture.

Tap, tap, tap, came the sound from her window. Puzzled, Chloe returned the photo to the wall and went to pull the curtains aside. An amorphous black and white visage confronted her. She opened the window and stepped back, giving her visitor room to come in from the chilly night. Rorschach closed the window behind him; an uncommon courtesy. They regarded each other in silence.

"Yes?" Chloe prompted.

He pushed his overcoat aside, lifted his shirt and pointed. "Stitches."

"Oh! Right, um…" she pointed to the bed, "Go ahead and lie down. I need to get a couple of things." She trotted downstairs, got a small pair of scissors, tweezers, and some extra gauze in case of bleeding. When she returned Rorschach had stretched out full length on her bed with his shirt unbuttoned. Chloe washed her hands, then knelt on the floor beside the bed. She gently removed the bandage and set it on the floor in front of her. The wound was healing nicely; no redness or inflammation. Chloe snipped the first stitch, used the tweezers to tug the loose bit of thread free. A tiny dot of blood welled up in the hole it left behind.

"That hurt?" she asked.

"No." His voice was a low rasp, the sound of darkened alleys and empty houses left to crumble. It sent a tiny shiver through her and reminded her of the supposedly haunted house her childhood neighborhood had sported. Unlike her friends, who wouldn't go within fifty yards of the thing, little Chloe had regularly snuck in to explore its empty rooms festooned with dusty cobwebs. It wasn't that she didn't believe there was a ghost. Quite the opposite. It was the anticipation of meeting such a wondrous, fearsome thing that moved her to go back inside week after week.

Chloe worked her way down the row, depositing the loose ends onto the used bandage for disposal. The boom box continued playing her husband's favorite music. She smiled as she heard a particular song's opening chords and began to sing along.

"It was just one of those things. Just one of those craziest flings…"

Rorschach stared. He had never seen her expression so wistfully happy. Her voice rose in lighthearted accompaniment to Louie's joyous growl while her steady hands continued their work.

"Just one of those fabulous flights. A trip to the moon on gossamer wings. Just one of those things."

"There." Chloe dabbed the traces of blood with a square of gauze and sat back on her heels to view her handiwork. "Looking good. There'll hardly be a scar." On impulse, her hand reached out. She ran her fingertips across his freckled skin, just under the healing wound.

Rorschach's body recoiled as if burned. Chloe exclaimed in surprise as he leapt from the bed. He took several long strides away from her and stood facing the wall, back ramrod straight and gloved hands clenched.

"S-sorry," Chloe stammered, gathering her implements and soiled gauze with hands no longer quite so steady. She had let herself forget for a moment just how dangerous this person was. His swift, intense reaction to her touch brought to mind a feral street dog who seemed harmless until you stretched out a hand, then out came the teeth.

Chloe stood, walked slowly to the kitchenette to dispose of the used bandage in the trashcan. From the corner of her eye she saw the vigilante button his shirt with greater care than necessary. The inkblots on his mask whorled.

What must it be like, she wondered, to view the world as a potential threat? To never know another human touch except in acts of violence, leaving bruises and broken bones? Did he long for something as casual as a handshake, as friendly as a pat on the shoulder, as innocent as a peck on the cheek? Or was brutality all he'd ever known? Sadness welled in her; she suspected it was.

Rorschach finished buttoning his shirt and pulled his coat closed. He was irritated with himself over his lack of self control. The woman had a disturbing effect on him. She had a way of worming past his defenses with her easy banter and cheery disposition, her seeming lack of sinister motives. He did not know how to contend with kindness.

He turned from the wall intending to make his exit when he saw her standing there, looking at him. Her face held such a depth of sorrow he feared it might swallow him whole. And it was directed at him. For him.

It was too much. It could have been anything else--fear, or hatred, or even pity--but this? He had no protection from this. No way to shield himself from the brunt of such an emotion. No way to prevent his own emotions' response. All he could do was flee. He hurried to the window, flung it open, dove through. The fire escape rattled under his weight as he struggled down the rusted steps. Little more than halfway down he jumped, landed hard on the pavement. He all but ran down the alley, letting the night envelop him in its familiar dark embrace, but it couldn't blot out the memory of Chloe's sad eyes boring into him. Alone in an abandoned tenement he leaned against a wall and took off his fedora, then his face. The autumn air against his skin brought the awareness of moisture on his cheeks. He wiped it away with his sleeve; hard, angry swipes that left his skin red. A sound threatened to emerge from his tightening throat, but he stamped it down through sheer willpower. He would not lose control. He was hardness and cold anger, vengeance made flesh. He would show no weakness, even to the empty night. He was Rorschach and he would not falter. Not even in the face of another's compassion.

God damn her.

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Chloe shut the window and drew the curtains. She should have turned away before he saw. Her face was not made to hide her feelings and though she could tell nothing from his mask, she knew Rorschach had received a hard blow to his carefully maintained detachment. She feared she may have healed one wound only to have ripped open another, deeper one. An old wound that never truly mended. Chloe knew about such things; cuts on the soul which no amount of artifice could cleanse, no skilled surgeon close. Like phantom pains from a lost limb, they could only be endured.

Louis Armstrong sang on; his best known and perhaps most poignant song. Chloe closed her eyes and swayed to the music, remembering long ago happy days with Byron. She pressed her hands to her chest and felt the strong beat of her heart. Still alive.

I see skies of blue

And clouds of white

The bright blessed day

The dark sacred night

And I think to myself, what a wonderful world…

Chloe spun, head tilted back, smiling as the tears rolled down her face.

And I think to myself, what a wonderful world.

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A/N: Yeah, it's short, but I was eager to get this new chapter posted. I promise to make the next one a bit longer.

This chapter featured my two favorite Louis Armstrong songs. I'm sure everybody knows at least bits'n'pieces of his wonderful world song (which I can never listen to without getting misty), but I'd only ever heard "Just One of Those Things" in a commercial years ago before I found it again on a jazz compilation CD. You readers out there should check it out. I can guarantee it'll have you humming along.