Title: Come Indoors

Fandom: Watchmen

Characters: Rorschach, Dan

Word Count: 1,737

Summary: Dan encounters a hypothermic Rorschach.

The biggest snowstorm that year fell on a night of patrol.

Dan had been expecting an argument, something fierce and scathing. Rorschach would throw a fit about staying indoors when there as so much to be done but even he would – eventually – have to bow to the logic of not dying out in a blizzard. Dan expected a scene… but nothing like this.

Six past eight and Rorschach had stumbled into his kitchen, so loose boned that, had he not known better, Dan would have said he was drunk. Already there was snow and ice caked into his trench coat, piled in the rim of his fedora. His pants were so soaked that the pinstripes were no longer visible, just patches of fabric that now looked more black than purple. Indeed, even with all the layers, his whole frame seemed to be one giant bruise, pummeled not only by the criminal class but now by the elements as well. To Dan, it seemed the perfect metaphorical example of how sick this world had become: heaven itself, punishing a man for trying to do what was right.

"Oh my god, Rorschach-"

Later, Dan spent a great deal of time categorizing his feelings regarding this moment. Was it more embarrassing that, as one of the city's strongest defenders, he'd been so easily caught off guard? No, after all, he was in his own home, supposedly with a partner and friend. It was far worse that he'd been clobbered by a man so weak as to barely be standing. Then again, Rorschach's fist was as cold as the ice that adorned it and just as lethal. There was no warning, other than the years of experience Dan had gained. He knew not to touch his partner but there was something about him that night – slumped again his counter, so cold that he'd stopped shivering, nearly seemed to have stopped breathing… - that had Dan reaching for him without a thought. To do what, he wasn't sure. Hug him? It seemed ridiculous. Maybe just to hold him, using body heat as an excuse to give his partner what he needed psychologically, as well as physically.

None of that mattered though. Before he could even brush his arm – the simplest of gestures - Rorschach had swung it back, laying Dan out with a punch to the jaw and sprinting for the basement door.

"Fucking hell…"

Dan's after him as fast as he's able, spitting a wad of blood out on the clean, linoleum floors. He half expects Rorschach to be a mile away by now but the stairs have slowed him down. He's three steps from the bottom, hunched over the rail, making a keening noise at the back of his throat.

How long had he been out in the cold? How long before the storm? It didn't take a genius to realize his partner wasn't well off, that there was more to his stealing food and shoddy hygiene than awkward social skills. Hell, Dan was awkward. Rorschach was just a mess. He could picture his friend all too easily, holed up in some crappy, heatless apartment. He could envision him having to use his trench for warmth and being constantly scared that someone would see him with it - make the connection. Dan could understand the toll that would have taken, coupled with the cold's unrelenting beatings. So how long had he been out there? Long enough for hypothermia. Long enough to drive the poor guy round the bend a bit, coming here only to hit his partner and make a beeline for the door.

Of course, he had come back. Some primitive, instinctual part of Rorschach's brain associated Dan's home with food, shelter, warmth. Sleepless and out of his mind, Rorschach had still shambled back here.

And that was good.

"Easy now, buddy. I'm not gonna hurt you…"

Bad move.

Anything at this point, be it assuring or not, was translating itself as a threat in Rorschach's mind. His overwrought body tried to take another swing at Dan – who had the sense this time to keep his distance – and only succeeded in throwing his weight backwards, stumbling over the last three steps.

Dan winced as he saw his ankle torque. That would need wrapping.

So bandages then. Ice. And pain killers. For the hypothermia there would be blankets, the electric ones, heating pads, a fire, broth later – much later – and hopefully there'd be no need to call the hospital (because he would, dammit. He'd make up a name, and a story, and later he'd brave the wrath of his partner's paranoia. Maybe even lose him, the cause labeled as betrayal. But if it came to that, he'd do it. Without hesitation). He'd have to find some clothes that had the best chance staying on his friend's lithe frame. God help them both if Rorschach woke up in a strange bed, naked and unarmed. But it was a risk he'd have to take. His costume was positively soaked so everything, modesty be damned, would have to go.

Curled on the floor, Rorschach moaned and briefly lifted his head. Dan caught a glimpse of black on white.

Except the mask, of course. That would stay. No matter how cold it got under there.

"All right then…"

No use being cautious anymore. Jumping the last of the steps Dan pinned his partner, being as gentle as he possibly could. Rorschach's body tensed, and then arched, trying to throw him off with a surprising amount of force. Gloved hands scrambled at Dan's waist but the cold had made them clumsy, their joints seizing and forbidding purchase. Dan grasped them both, raising them above Rorschach's head in a move he preferred to save for lesser men. As he did his index finger brushed the space between sleeve and glove, where a sliver of skin was hiding. It was so cold as to be almost hot, hissing against Dan's touch. Rorschach cried out, two parts sick fury, one part pain.

"Jesus, man…"

How long? A few days? A week? They hadn't met up in a while. The criminals were getting smarter, if one could believe it. They'd begun to realize that there were hundreds of them and just a few of the masks, so they'd spread themselves out accordingly. After all, the Watchmen could only be so many places at once (except for Manhattan, but he was becoming more and more distant. He'd starting looking through people, literally, and Dan wondered how many victims of the streets met his foreign gaze instead of the tangible one they needed). So he and Rorschach had split, covering as much ground as possible for a month and only coming together for the bigger raids. That's what tonight was suppose to be – until the snow hit. So what had his partner been doing this past week? Keeping warm, or dying of cold because he was too stubborn to come and ask for help?

"You realize I'm going to kill you for this, right? You're an idiot. Jesus Rorschach, why didn't you come over? I bet you don't have heating wherever you live, do you? I bet you've been killing yourself right under my nose. But oh, you can't ask for anything because you're Rorschach. Terror of the underworld. You don't need anybody's help, huh? Of course not! God dammit, stop struggling."

Rorschach, against all odds, had managed to gain his feet. He pulled against the bonds of Dan's arms, half fighting to get free, half pulling back when the pressure was too much on his sensitive skin. All the while, spitting something intelligible and, undoubtedly, cruel. It was a string of words Dan wasn't sure could be termed a language. Grunts and growls, dispersed with random phrases, not all of which sounded like English.

"Is that Latin, Ror? Why am I not surpri –ouf!"

There was a sedative in the top drawer of his work desk, one of many he carries on his belt when they go out. Brute force was all well and good but when it came to taking down a mob of men high on drugs and adrenaline, sometimes it was best to have a little synthetic help. One prick and someone the Comedian's size would drop for an hour. Rorschach, the shorty, would be out for the night. Dan strained to reach the desk.

"Come on, man. We're going upstairs. Gonna get you warm and you can fight me later. Hell, you can even bitch about me giving you secret, evil solutions. 'What was in that, Daniel? Government drugs can't be trusted, Daniel. Scientists all in league with one another…' Blah, blah, blah. We'll argue sci fi over breakfas-Rorschach!"

Free, he made a lunge for the exit. In many ways, this was worse than their toughest fights. This wasn't the Rorschach of the streets, but a sick man frightened out of mind and sense. And even though he knew it was the cold, even though he knew his Rorschach wasn't in control right now, it hurt Dan each time he pulled away.

"Will you please let me help you-"

Later, Dan would manage to get a chokehold around his partner, dragging him past Archie and right into the path of a needle. It wouldn't be easy to get him up the stairs but it would be necessary - the basement's heating being far from adequate. Dan would, an hour later, make it to his own bedroom where the rest of the night would be spent playing nursemaid. In less than 48 hours his idiot partner would be back to his old self, avoiding any awkward conversation by complaining that Daniel had crappy cereal.

But that was okay. Because eventually the snow would clear and they'd be back on patrol, with Rorschach thanking him through well timed fists and a willingness to use his own body as a shield. Dan would receive a thousand 'thank you's, none of which would be verbal.

Before all that however, Dan held Rorschach around the knees, trying to keep him from fleeing through the tunnel. He'd think about what the cold had brought out and what was really going on in his friend's mind. Physically hauling Rorschach away from the exit, Dan worries that same question he's toyed with a hundred times before…

What's made his partner more willing to brave the cold rather than endure the warmth of his kitchen?