A/N: Well, here's another longer chappie! The two song verses book-ending this are taken from "Alone" by Heart and "Possession" by Sarah McLachlan, two beautiful songs of unrequited love. I felt they fit the situation quite well.

This chapter gets pretty emotional towards the end (it IS a romance, after all). I know it had an effect on me while typing it, so better keep the tissues on standby. ;-)

Oh! There's also some pretty nasty language in parts (including use of the N-word, but fear not, the guy gets his comeuppance). You have been warned.

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Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen or any of its characters, nor the musical works of Heart or Sarah McLachlan.

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You don't know how long I have wanted

To touch your lips and hold you tight.

Oh, you don't know how long I have waited

And I was going to tell you tonight.

But the secret is still my own

And my love for you is still unknown.

Alone.

The rain stopped by the time the cops had finished questioning her. Chloe went home, dejected. As she entered the clinic Rachel called out to her. "How was your day off?"

"Great," she mumbled, dragging herself up the steps to her apartment. She tossed the plastic tote into a corner and stripped from her wet clothes. Her skin was freezing. She took a hot shower, slipped into her blue terrycloth robe. Back in her little living area, she switched on the TV and sprawled on her bed. The mindless saccharine tune of The Brady Bunch theme washed over her. Chloe hated that show, its perkiness and its homogenized all-American whitebread family. She hoped her irritation with the show would distract her from the crappy end to her day. She was wrong. Once the commercial break started her treacherous mind returned to that terrible incident in the alley.

The street prophet had run towards the screams before they even registered in Chloe's mind. She'd dashed after him, but he was so fast he pulled ahead of her. She'd caught up, shoved her way past the crowding gawkers in time to see the enraged redhead storming towards a man with a gun. A gun pointed at him! It was panic that made her hurl the heavy tote bag at the man, luck that brought it slamming into the side of his head. She saw the gun fall from his hand and snatched it up without a thought. Everything was going to be okay! Her friend was safe.

Then the street prophet had told her to shoot. It had terrified her, the coldness in his voice; terrified her more when coldness turned to rage.

"Shoot him!"

"N--" And the man had rushed at her. So fast. She hadn't time to think about it, just did what instinct told her to do. And her instincts had not involved pulling the trigger.

The look in his eyes. Only moments before she had felt on fire from those eyes, but what happened in that alley, her inability to pull that trigger, brought only coldness from him. And then he'd left without a word; just disappeared through the crowd. Chloe didn't know whether to be angrier with herself or with him. She hated this feeling, not knowing if he would come back, not knowing if she should turn him away. His voice…

Chloe punched the pillow angrily. Goddammit! Her life had been so uncomplicated a month ago. She hadn't been particularly happy, but she hadn't been miserable, either. Now it seemed as if her emotional wellbeing hinged on an unstable man whose name she didn't even know, even after all those weeks of chatting with him. It was all too crazy! Maybe she'd be better off if he stayed mad at her and didn't come back; let her life return to its predictable pattern. You mean "rut," the no-nonsense voice in her head sneered.

"Shut up," Chloe growled. The commercials ended; elegantly coiffed boys and girls frolicked on the Astroturf lawn.

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Clint's mom bailed him out, as always. He thanked her with an absent "see ya," then sauntered out of the police station, smirking at the pigs' ineptitude. Those weepy little bitches wouldn't have the balls to press charges against him. He knew their type; squeeze out a few tears, make the usual I'll-never-do-it-again sob story, and they'll lose all heart in locking poor little him away. That midget freak who'd come at him wouldn't be a problem, either. He was just some crazy homeless guy. Nobody'd listen to him, even if they found him. It was that nigger bitch who'd be a problem. Anybody'd clock him with his own gun without hesitation wouldn't fall for a few crocodile tears. Besides, he owed her for the lump on his head. Tracking her down shouldn't be too tough. Then him 'n' her could share a little quality time together. Clint grinned.

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Kovacs watched as the mugger sauntered out of the police station and proceeded to follow him. He didn't have his sign, and he had a stocking cap pulled over his distinctive red hair. The scumbag didn't notice he was being tailed. Stupid, arrogant. It was almost too easy.

The rage was a steady glow in his belly. It hardened his resolve. The memory of that brief moment when the man had lunged for Chloe, the split second when Kovacs knew she would be harmed, even killed, and him unable to prevent it, was more than he could bear. It was his own fault. He should have taken the gun from her, put a bullet through the bastard's head. If he had been thinking clearly…but his mind had still been muddled from that fleeting kiss. His cheek still tingled where her lips had touched. It had distracted him, made him weak. He never should have told her to shoot. She was too good for that, too pure. She didn't have it in her to commit coldhearted murder, even on someone who clearly deserved it. Rorschach did; it was what he was made for. And Rorschach would make sure that scum would never harm another innocent, especially Chloe.

His lips pulled back in a snarl of anticipation. Tonight.

It was cold; a thin rime of frost coated the dying leaves of the trees, thin crusts of ice formed on the standing puddles. Rorschach approached the tenement, a shadow among shadows. He brandished his grappling gun, fired. The hooks caught on a ledge high above and the vigilante climbed the brick wall to the third story window. It opened easily; the fool didn't bother to lock it. Thought he was safe this far above with no fire escape. Rorschach entered the darkened interior. It stank of marijuana and fornication. Snores emanated from a closed door. The vigilante quietly turned the knob, let the door glide open. The robber sprawled naked in his rumpled bed, a black-haired whore beside him. A drop of saliva glistened at the corner of the man's mouth. His snores were asthmatic pig grunts.

Rorschach unwound his soiled white scarf from his neck, twisted it into a cord. He held it taut between his fists as he approached his slumbering victim. Funny, despite the wheezing din, the whore somehow sensed his presence and woke. The sight of the shadowy figure with the shifting face brought the expected reaction: she shrieked, rolled out of bed, and ran into the bathroom. The door lock clicked.

Clint woke with a snort, stared with bleary eyes. "Th' fuck?"

Rorschach leapt onto the prone man, coiled his scarf around the man's neck and pulled. The man's eyes bugged in alarm, his mouth gaped. He thrashed on the bed, trying in vain to dislodge the wiry attacker perched on his chest, strangling the life from him. In desperation he clawed at the vigilante's trench coat. His fingers caught on one of the shoulder straps and yanked it loose, the button tumbling away into the general mess of the bedroom. Rorschach bore down, snarling behind his face. He watched in satisfaction as his victim's movements grew feebler. The man's tongue jutted from his mouth obscenely, his face turned an alarming shade of purple. In Rorschach's mind he saw this monster coming at Chloe, her unable to move fast enough and falling under the larger man's weight; saw huge hands wrap around her slender neck and twist. Rorschach screamed in rage and pulled the makeshift garrote even tighter, until the flesh of the man's neck bulged on either side of it. Finally, stillness.

Gasping, Rorschach slowly unwound the scarf and draped it over his own neck once again. He slowly climbed off the corpse on the bed, turned, walked out the bedroom door to the open window. Somehow managed to lower himself to the ground without falling. So tired.

In Clint's apartment, the hooker peeked cautiously from the bathroom. The john lay on the bed in pretty much the same position as she'd left him, except now there were no explosive snores. His chest didn't move up and down with his breathing. Trembling, yet unable to resist her morbid curiosity, she crept from the bathroom and approached the still form. Despite the darkness, she was able to see the gleam of his bulging eyes, his protruding tongue. The hooker choked, clamped a hand over her mouth. "Oh god," she groaned, turning away. She couldn't stay here. What if that…thing remembered her and came back to finish the job? She grabbed her clothes, threw them on, spent a few precious seconds groping through the pockets of Clint's discarded jeans for cash, then fled into the night. She left the apartment door open, which was the only reason Clint's body was discovered so quickly. By morning, the room swarmed with police.

Detective Steven Fine stared at the corpse. Despite the fact that the victim was a known scumbag, the brutality of the murder still got to him. This was hate, pure and simple. Strangulation was up close and personal, the unnecessary force behind the act spoke of uncontrollable rage. Detective Fine had seen similar corpses over the years. Though the calling card was not always present, in the back of his mind he knew who the perpetrator was; Rorschach, last of the masked heroes. Steven Fine's unicorn.

"I wanna know everything this guy's done, everywhere he's been in the last forty-eight hours," he said to his balding partner.

"Sure, Steve."

The detective turned away from the sorry remains, thinking of masks and retribution.

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"Mrs. Whitfield?"

It took a moment for Chloe to realize the man was asking for her; nobody had called her Mrs. Whitfield in years. She turned from cleaning up her station for the next patient and found herself facing a tall, strikingly handsome white man with blonde hair and wearing a trench coat. Obviously not from this neighborhood. His slightly arrogant stance and flinty gaze marked him as a cop.

"Yes?"

The blonde whipped out his badge. "Detective Steven Fine, Homicide."

Chloe almost laughed. Good lord, the name sounded like a stripper's. "Um, how can I help you?"

"Is there somewhere we could talk privately? I have a few questions regarding a case."

Puzzled, Chloe let the others know she was stepping out for a few minutes and led the detective outside, to her usual spot by the wall. "Go ahead."

"Mrs. Whitfield, you were involved in a mugging recently, were you not?"

"There was a mugging," she nodded, "I wasn't really involved until I foolishly rushed in like some masked hero. Why?"

Fine reached into his trench coat, pulled out a photograph, held it up. "Is this the mugger?"

The face in the photo had a waxy, unreal look to it. His neck was a wide band of blackened skin. The zigzag stitches of the top of the coroner's Y-incision were just visible on the man's bare shoulders. Chloe swallowed. "Yes," she croaked, "What happened?" "Someone broke into his place last night. Strangled him."

"That's a shame."

"Yeah, his mother thought so, too."

Chloe winced. "What does this have to do with me?"

"When you intervened with his robbery," the detective said, "witnesses claim there was a man with you. Red hair, kinda shabby."

"He's a friend."

"This friend have a name?"

"I'm sure he does, but he's never told me."

Fine's eyebrow quirked. "Must not be a very close friend, then."

Chloe crossed her arms and returned his stare evenly. "He's just a homeless guy that showed up at the clinic one day. We get a lot of those."

"Hm. Any idea where this friend is now?"

"No. Sorry."

Detective Fine tucked the photo back into his trench coat. "Thank you for your time, Mrs. Whitfield. I may have some more questions at a later time."

"Well, you know where I am." Chloe turned, walked back into the clinic. Steven Fine watched her leave, a thoughtful look on his face, then turned and walked back to where he'd parked his car. He was unaware of the red haired man watching from the shadows of an alley, his sign behind him leaning against the wall.

Kovacs carefully unwrapped a sugar cube, popped it in his mouth. Crunch. He flicked the wrapper into a dumpster. Hurm. Pig questioning Chloe. Must've found the body already. Found out about her at the mugging. Slim lead, but… Better to keep his distance for the time being. Keep her out of it. Kovacs turned, picked up his sign, and wandered off. Two hours later, Chloe stepped outside once again to take her break. Though she searched the milling pedestrians, she saw no sign of the street prophet. Guess he's still mad at me, she thought sadly and went back inside to her work.

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A couple of days later, Detective Fine made his second appearance. This time he brought his partner, a dumpy, balding man whose name slipped Chloe's mind almost immediately after being introduced. Chloe spoke with them outside once again.

"More questions about the mugging?"

"No," Fine said, "This is about a couple of other cases I'm covering. I think they may be connected."

"Oh?" Chloe was curious in spite of herself.

The detective had a manila folder under his arm. He pulled it out, flipped it open. "Do you know a Jesus Sanchez?"

Chloe grimaced. "I know a lot of Sanchezes, and quite a few Jesuses. Can you be more specific?"

"You might know him better as Lobo?" Detective Fine watched as the nurse's expressive face turned stony. Interesting.

"Yeah," she said coldly, "I know him. Treated more than a few of his girls. Why?"

"He was found dead on the night of that big storm. Same night one of his girls died in your clinic, as a matter of fact."

"Mimi wasn't his girl anymore. She quit." Chloe swallowed. "That's why he hurt her."

"You believe he was the one who beat her? Did she say that?"

"She wasn't in any shape to say much of anything."

Fine nodded; his expression seemed genuinely sympathetic. "In your statement that night you said a man brought her to the clinic. Anyone you knew?"

"No, I'd never seen him before."

"You have a description of him?" He knew damn well she'd given a description to the cops. Chloe frowned in annoyance. "White, tall, brown hair."

"Pretty vague. Can you remember anything else?"

"I was a little preoccupied." She was gratified to see a fleeting expression of embarrassment on the man's face.

The detective shut the folder. "Were you aware that same night four other suspected pimps were found beaten to death?"

Chloe crossed her arms, eyes wary. "You think that guy might've done it?"

Fine shrugged. "Too early to think anything." Right. He traded folders with his silent partner, flipped the new one open. "Ever hear of Horton Morris, a.k.a. Ogre, or Stephanie Martinez?" When the nurse shook her head, he continued, "Horton Morris was a small-time amphetamine manufacturer and dealer. Stephanie was his live-in girlfriend. They were found two days after the storm in the abandoned warehouse they were staying in. Morris's lab had been trashed and his and Stephanie's bodies were beaten and burned."

"Jesus!" Why was he telling her this? A feeling of dread crept over her.

"We asked around," Fine went on, watching her face carefully, "Some of Morris's 'clientele' mentioned he and Miss Martinez had a baby. When we searched the place, though," he shook his head, "No baby. Oddly enough, the next morning you, Mrs. Whitfield, reported an abandoned infant to Child Services. A girl, in fact, who matches the description of Morris's missing infant."

Unseen by either policeman, Chloe's nails dug into the soft flesh of her arm. The pain distracted her, kept her face neutral.

"When did you say the baby was left here, Mrs. Whitfield?"

"Around ten-thirty."

The detective frowned. "Clinic's closed by then, isn't it?"

"I live on the second floor." Chloe pointed out the narrow window facing the street; the one without the fire escape. "I heard a noise. Came down to investigate and found the baby in front of the door."

Fine's partner spoke up for the first time. "Heard something all the way up there?"

"That's right."

"Can you describe this noise?" Fine asked.

"No." Her tone was casual, as if he'd offered her a glass of water. Mild annoyance flashed over the detective's features. He decided to ask a more direct question, just to gauge her reaction. "Do you know a man named Rorschach?"

"If you mean the vigilante," she replied coolly, "I know of him. Just stuff I pick up from the news, radio, stuff like that." She smirked. "Why? D'you think Rorschach left a baby on my doorstep?"

Wouldn't put it past him. Steven Fine closed the second folder, tucked it under his arm. "I just find it interesting how all these incidents are somehow indirectly linked to you or this clinic."

The nurse shrugged. "Not in this neighborhood. The clinic's the closest thing to a hospital around here. Anyone gets hurt, they rush over here."

Fine nodded. "Makes perfect sense. Thank you for your time, Mrs. Whitfield." He and his partner turned, started to walk away. After a few steps, the detective suddenly turned. "Oh, one more thing," he said, casual as Columbo, "Clint Darrow, the mugger who got strangled…"

Chloe frowned. "Yes?"

"Turns out he wasn't alone when he was attacked. We found a hooker who claims to have been at the scene. Just before she locked herself in the bathroom she got a good look at the killer." He smiled in false amusement. "Said it was a man with no face."

Chloe felt as if the world were opening up beneath her feet. Her mouth opened of its own accord. "Oh?"

"Yeah. Hell of a thing." The detective tipped an imaginary hat. "See you around, Mrs. Whitfield." And with that, he and his partner got into their vehicle and left.

Chloe slowly listed to the side until her shoulder came in contact with the wall. She lifted a hand to cover her mouth. Oh god. He couldn't…couldn't be… She squeezed her eyes shut. In her memory she heard the voice yell Shoot him! That voice; hard, pitiless. A rasp. Chloe covered her face with both hands and sobbed.

From the alley, Kovacs watched in growing rage as Chloe wept. Those bastards. How dare they drag her into their sordid dealings? "Protect and Serve." Where were they when Mimi was brutally beaten or the baby starving from neglect? Where were they when that scum committed his robbery in broad daylight? They only sought to protect their own interests, to serve the corrupt leaders who allowed such atrocities to occur. He would not let them harm Chloe. She was one of the few, the precious few good people in this cesspool of a city. She did not deserve to be treated in such a way as to leave her crying in the open. With a snarl, Kovacs turned away from the tragic scene and stormed off. Rorschach had work to do.

Later that night, two known police snitches were found bound and gagged to a parking meter, brutally beaten. They had choked to death when a large dead rat was stuffed down each of their throats. Pinned to the collar of one of them was a scrap of paper with Rorschach's symbol scrawled on it. The bodies were well away from the free clinic's neighborhood.

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Sometimes, late at night when the lights of her apartment were out and sleep wouldn't come, Chloe would stand in front of the fire escape window and peer out into the night. It was always too dark, since the city still hadn't repaired the streetlight, but there was enough ambient glow from the distant lights and business signs to cast the surrounding area as a series of silhouettes. Sometimes, if she looked real carefully, she could swear there was an extra shadow on the roof of the neighboring building, or out on the street. A shadow resembling, say, a shortish man in a trench coat and fedora hat. In those moments she was tempted to throw open the window and shout at him, though what exactly she'd say she had no idea. It was a moot point, anyway; she never opened the window.

In the few days following Detective Fine's second appearance, Chloe spent her break each day searching the faces of the ever-passing crowd for a familiar shock of red hair or ice blue eyes, or a sign proclaiming THE END IS NIGH. But the street prophet did not appear. Maybe he never would. The thought saddened her more than she ever could have predicted.

Kovacs, meanwhile, continued with his work. In daylight, he wandered the twisting streets of New York bearing his sign, scouting for foul deeds in need of retribution. At night, Rorschach stalked the darkened alleys, meting justice with his fists and his insatiable rage. But sometimes an overwhelming urge took hold and he would abandon his duties to watch over the little clinic and the nurse who dwelled within it. Watched in hiding as she leaned against the wall, searching the passing faces with a sadly hopeful expression, only to go back to work, dejected. Watched at night from the rooftop as her blurred silhouette passed the curtained window, or even when the lights were out and there was nothing to see but more darkness. Her sadness cut him, yet he kept his distance. He would only put her in more danger if he insinuated himself into her life again. She would get over her sadness, he told himself. He didn't let himself think about his own.

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Rorschach crunched on another sugar cube as he walked. Needed energy. Hadn't slept since Chloe had crept into his dream…how many nights ago? Couldn't remember. Bad sign. Needed rest, but sleep brought dreams and he couldn't bear another dream with her in it. There but not there, touching but not touching. Waking alone, still hearing her voice. No. Wouldn't put himself through that. He walked and soon, to his relief, he heard the distinctive sounds of fighting ahead. He quickened his pace.

Knot-Tops. Three of them. Beating a homeless man. Rorschach picked up a broken bottle from the ground, snuck up behind one and stabbed him in the neck. The gang member went down, gurgling, as his remaining compatriots gaped.

"Oh, fuck!" one of them shouted. His face clouded with rage as he looked at the intruder. He pulled out a switchblade. Snick! "C'mon then, fucker. Want somma this?" He waved the weapon menacingly. His companion pulled out his own blade and began circling to the left. The homeless man, forgotten, took the opportunity to scrabble to his feet and scurry away. Rorschach stood impassively, broken bottle in hand. The Knot-Tops lunged.

After. Adrenaline wore off. Rorschach could barely stand. This was it; complete and utter exhaustion. He could do no more tonight. He desperately needed sleep. Rorschach dragged himself along, step by agonizing step, trusting his instincts to guide him to his apartment (he never thought of it as home). It was only when his gloved hand touched the familiar wall, an eternity later, that he realized his feet had erred. They had taken him to the clinic. Idiot. With a low growl, he started to shuffle away.

The sound of a hastily opened door, bare footsteps on pavement. "Wait!"

No, don't stop. But his treacherous body did not listen. He stopped, turned to face her. Chloe approached in her blue bathrobe, her long hair damp from her nightly shower. She looked so vulnerable out in the darkened street. She stepped close to him, eyes staring intently. "I need to talk to you." She tentatively gripped his sleeve, tugged, gentle yet insistent. In his weakened state, the vigilante couldn't resist and followed her as she led him inside the clinic. She kept hold of his sleeve as she took him up the stairs to her apartment. His steps were slow, hesitant. As the door shut, she turned to face him. It was dim inside her little apartment; only the light from the hall leading to the bathroom was on. She stared at Rorschach's slowly shifting face.

"What?" he rasped dully, too tired to be irritated.

"There's something I need to know," she said. Slender hands reached up, fingertips touched the bottom edge of his face.

Rorschach's gloved hands shot up, gripped her wrists with almost bruising force. "Don't."

She stared at him with her sad hazel eyes, unafraid of his terrible strength, how easily his hands could break her. "Rorschach," she said quietly, "I have to know. You owe me that, at least."

He was tired. He was weak. He hadn't the strength to fight her. Rorschach released the woman's hands, pushed his fedora from his head and let it fall, gripped the edge of his face and peeled up. The latex fabric slid from his skin. He stood before her completely exposed.

He looked terrible, even in the dim light. His cheeks were covered with several days' growth, his red hair a tangled mess. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot. He practically swayed on his feet.

Chloe's hand went to her mouth. "God, I'm such an idiot." Her hand withdrew from her mouth, started reaching out to him. "I should have known."

Her hand. Towards his face. Rorschach flinched from her, voices from long past echoed in his mind. Whoreson…I shoulda had the abortion!… His blue eyes stared at her. Chloe had seen the look in those eyes too many times before--in children, in wives and girlfriends--a look that said I did something bad. I did something bad and you're going to hurt me for it. Tears welled in the nurse's eyes. "I'm not going to hurt you," she whispered. Her hand reached out, slow and gentle, until her palm rested against his stubbled cheek. Kovacs blinked his stinging eyes. His body trembled with repressed emotion. "Chloe…"

"Shh." She brought her other hand up to cup his face. "It's alright. Whatever you might've done, I forgive you."

He whimpered. A tear spilled down his cheek, wiped away by a gentle thumb. Chloe leaned towards him, her eyes filled with tenderness. He closed his eyes, felt her breath on his lips. Her mouth against his, soft and sweet. She smelled of lavender soap. His breath tasted of sugar. They ended the kiss reluctantly, foreheads touching.

"Come on." Chloe tugged; he followed, unresisting, as she led him to her bed. She helped him shed his overcoat, draped it over the chair. She pushed down on his shoulders until he sat on the bed, then coaxed him into lying down. As she drew away, he grabbed her arm. "Don't go."

She gently disentangled herself. "I'm not going anywhere." She went to the other end of the bed, eased his shoes off, pulled the covers up. She climbed in beside him, the narrowness of the mattress bringing their bodies together. Chloe left the hall light on, knowing intuitively that he needed to see her. She gazed into his tired eyes, whispering words of comfort, stroking his face, his hair, kissing his forehead, his cheeks. His eyelids grew heavy under her gentle touch, drifted closed. His breathing grew heavy and even.

"Sleep," Chloe murmured tenderly, "I'll be right here when you wake up."

And I would be the one to hold you down,

Kiss you so hard, I'll take your breath away.

And after I wipe away the tears,

Just close your eyes, dear.