Title: Absolute Zero

Fandom: Watchmen

Characters: Rorschach, Dan

Summary: Before heading to Moloch's, Rorschach does a test run in Daniel's fridge and it leads to an unexpected confrontation.

A/N: So all you Watchmen GN fans, remember when Rorschach jumps out of Moloch's fridge? That wonderfully brilliant moment that they left out of the film? Yeah. I'm crying too. But I wanted to play with that scene a bit, add in a prequel, if you will, and somehow my tiny, humorous plot bunny morphed into a 3,000 word monster... anyone notice how these "little" stories are getting progressively longer...?

It took four kicks this time to get through the lock.

Good of Daniel, to finally take his advice. If his new locksmith's merchandise required that he splinter the doorframe to get inside it would certainly prove useful in deterring the petty, less motivated crooks. It would do nothing against whoever was hunting masks though, and that knowledge gave a protective strength to Rorschach's final kick.

His partner was out for the night attending a documentary on aviation, specifically, the early construction of planes. Walter had spotted the advertisement in his New Frontiersman, tore it from the page, and within ten minutes had deftly slipped it into Daniel's pocket as he passed by. Whether Daniel, after discovering the paper later that day sheepishly assumed that it had slipped his mind or, more likely, whimsically believed that its appearance was at the command of fate, hardly mattered. Walter and Rorschach both knew that the temptation of such a film would be too great. So Rorschach stomped the splinters from his boot, confident that he wouldn't be heard. He then made his way to the kitchen.

This route was well known to him. Hundreds of times before he had snuck inside, taking cold beans, soda, leftovers from the week before. This room was primarily his source of food but it provided numerous other essentials as well: shelter from the cold and clean air to counteract the city's fog. Rorschach fiddled with the yellow dish towels, remembering when they were navy (used to bind a cut in his leg). Before that they had polka dots (broken fingers. Required splinting). The originals had, of course, been owls and that time there was no injury, but a man hiding the identity of Nite Owl should not have so many birds in his home, so they too were disposed of. Daniel's tap water cleaned all those wounds. The vodka he thought he'd kept hidden on the top shelf had been used more for sterilizing than for drinking. Daniel's toaster, with its tiny dent on the left side, had been his primary mirror for stitching and bandaging. This room was distinctively familiar.

But Rorschach wasn't here for any of that. For once his body was (more or less) intact and thanks to a wad of bills sulking under a pile of leaves his stomach was full as well. Daniel would be back by 10:00. 10:15 if he stopped for a milkshake. His time was limited, and thus Rorschach was glad that he wasn't tempted by the food when he began pulling it from the fridge.

He actually started with the freezer, throwing all the ice into the sink and then tossing Daniel's meat, fruit, ketchup – everything, on top. Things that didn't fit in the sink went on the windowsill, cocooned by the night's chilling air. Soon the fridge was bare, gaping open. Slowly, almost as an afterthought, Rorschach removed the shelving as well, forcing it two inches lower then it should be. The scum he was observing wasn't as well off as his partner; the space he'd be working in would be smaller.

Now. Where to begin?

He needed to be facing outward. Obviously. He also needed leverage. A way to balance. Acclimation to the cold…

Forty minutes and only a portion of all scenarios had been worked through in his mind. But Daniel's half drunk bottle of tea was gaining condensation, so Rorschach tipped his hat to the theoretical approach and decided to get to work.

He was ducking into the fridge – three limbs gone and the fourth in the air – when something thin and white razored against the back of his neck.

Rorschach dropped, scooting the last few inches into the appliance. His hands touched the back wall and, finding his leverage, his left leg changed its arc and swung back out. It said hello to the body that was steadily looming towards him, reverberating against a stomach. He pivoted, and in the same moment heard a shattering at his feet. A plate then, meant to bludgeon his head and nip at the arteries in his neck. A particularly ragged shard had already found its way into his attacker's hand - but Rorschach stilled himself.

His pride kept him tethered for, during his turn, he'd recognized the set of those shoulders. Rorschach's own shoulder's relaxed. He was confident that he too would be recognized before the executioner's axe came down.

The shard hesitated right under his chin.

"For fuck's sake – Rorschach!"

Rorschach plucked up the shard, which Daniel gladly relinquished to run both hands through his hair. His partner may have now been unarmed but his glare was as sharp as the pottery.

"What are you doing here, Ror? I thought you were a burglar!"

"Hm," he mused. "One that burglars your kitchen?"

"Well-"

"Knows your habits? Leaves the lights on? Wears the coat and hat of your partner?" Rorschach gestured to his clothes, recognizable in their stains and their stink.

"All right!" Daniel huffed, shaking like a dog. "If you must know it's pouring out there. I'm damn near blind with my glasses soaked like this." He pulled off the specs to demonstrate, frowning when his sweater only smudged the lenses further. "I saw the door-" another glare, less threatening when it came from beady, unfocused eyes "- heard the noise, saw your silhouette," Daniel shrugged, unapologetic. "You know. Our line of work, hesitation is deadly."

"You mean in your previous line of work."

Whatever camaraderie they'd been rebuilding in those brief moments plummeted to a nasty death.

Bit like the Comedian, Rorschach thought. Same could happen to Daniel; out of practice and mediocre locks won't help him against a killer of masks. No help at all. And yet, the swipe Daniel had taken at his head had been far from docile and he'd had been fully prepared to tear out his throat with the remnants of a plate. Whatever he had to say about his partner's choices, Rorschach had to admit that he'd had a fight on his hands. Nite Owl wasn't dead yet.

He looked up but there was only Daniel, fidgeting under the weight of his accusation. He tugged at the hem of his jacket, spreading bits of rain everywhere, and opened his mouth to say – something. Apologize maybe. Or preach more about the benefits of "leaving it all behind." Or maybe he'd finally reached his limit for the opinions of a right wing extremist, continually drowning in the shit of this great city. Enough with broken doors and hard, moral judgments. Maybe Daniel was finally telling him to get out.

He'd never know, because in that moment Daniel got his newly cleaned glasses back on his face and caught his first, clear glimpse of the dismantled kitchen.

Rorschach was expecting another shout. He got one.

"Rorschach!" Daniel gestured wildly to a banana that had... exploded, for lack of a more accurate term, all over the counter. He may have been a tad hasty while throwing food here and there, some of the more messy substances having ended up on the floor instead of in the sink. Daniel scuffed a toe violently against what looked suspiciously like peanut butter. Hard to tell, now that he'd trekked so much water in.

"What. Did you. Do."

There it was. That was Nite Owl's voice. He might be getting the boot after all.

"Hm. No need for dramatics, Daniel."

"Rorschach-"

"Home early. Why is that?"

"Don't even THINK about distracting me!" Even as he said it though Daniel gestured towards the window, where sheets of rain were now coming down in earnest. There was a slight gap between the ledge and the rubber bottom of the windowpane; one of those forgetful annoyances that just never got around to being fixed. That gap provided cool air for Daniel's kiwi and chicken cutlets but now a tiny puddle was inching around the foodstuffs. Daniel eyed the drowning poultry accusingly.

"Storm, Rorschach. A storm. Power outage. Cancelled film. Rescheduled for next Sunday." He ground out each word, clenching and unclenching his fists. "Your turn, 'buddy'."

Rorschach shrugged, maneuvering himself to face the silverware drawer. He didn't really think Daniel would attack him again, nevertheless…

"Practicing," he offered.

"For?"

"Mm..."

"Rorschach, I swear-"

"Moloch."

"Mol-?" All at once Daniel deflated against the kitchen counter and then just as quickly recoiled tight, like a spring. "Oh for fuck's sake. I need a drink."

Wasting no time he want to the cabinet and took his "hidden" bottle from the top shelf. If he noticed that the liquid line was dipped a little lower than before (laceration to his palm, the top of an iron fence sliced right throw the leather of his gloves) he chose not to mention it. Rorschach massaged the wound against the glass Daniel handed him.

"Alright," he said. "Sit."

"Don't drink, Daniel."

"Sit."

Rorschach sat. And though he placed his glass carefully on the table, Daniel only poured the amber liquid into one. Messily. Watching his partner stopper the bottle with one massive push, Rorschach pulled his face up past his lips. He could at least play at tasting the nightcap, if only to – hopefully – calm his partner. "Mad?" he questioned.

"Mad? No, no, no, I'm furious." Daniel toasted the wreckage around them. "But I'm also tired, and I'm not stupid, Rorschach. If you say this has something to do with Moloch then by god, I'm sure you have some warped justification for mutilating my kitchen. Never compromise, right? Even if the enemy is a pathetic old man who's been out of commission for the last fifteen years. At least. Is it fifteen? Maybe a little longer. I've lost count. Guess that's just another failure of mine, huh?"

Rorschach bristled… and chose to ignore that last part. "Manson also retired, Daniel. Also old. Going to underestimate him?"

"Don't you dare bring Hollis into this."

"Already involved. All of us."

"Not me. Not anymore."

"Always. You're trying to back away from that, coward."

For a moment it looked as if he really would renew their fight but Daniel only slammed down his glass. What little was left of the alcohol splattered the table, forming blemishes against the linoleum. Like so many other things in his life, they were just another series of inkblots. Rorschach looked and saw blood, birds, and the possibility that he may be mistaken. Whether his mistakes lay in his trust or his accusations, he couldn't say.

"There's a link," he growled, hands gripping the table's edge. "Moloch and Pyramid Transnational-"

"No." Daniel stood quickly, marching to the fridge. He began stuffing things back in without care - the peas, steak, a half eaten cup of yogurt - only to throw them all back out when he got a look at the shelving. With a curse he forced it back into its original position, leaving more scratches over the ones Rorschach had made. "I don't want to hear it," he said. "I'm done. So very, very done. If you haven't gotten that by now then-" he swallowed hard, leaning against the open fridge. The cool air rippled over his burning face. "Jesus, Rorschach. Who do you think you are?"

Just as quickly he too was on his feet, a step away from Daniel's back.

"A fighter," he hissed. "Protector. Truthful."

"Pro- no. Of course you are. Just – I've had enough, Rorschach."

"Not all of us are blind, Daniel,"

"I said enough."

"If you would see-"

"See?!" Daniel whirled, his face an inch from the shifting mask. His breath battered against the latex so the ink rippled outwards, endlessly. They were so close, but neither moved for the fear that if they did, something irreplaceable would warp. Not break, they were too far gone for that, but become distorted beyond recognition. It was balanced precariously between Daniel's right leg, freed of weight for a vicious kick, and the knotting of Rorschach's fist.

"Do you know what I see, Rorschach?" Daniel finally whispered. "Hm? Take a guess. Because it's the same damn thing you come into contact with every night. This world is burning, so high up on its pyre that it can't see the bottom and it doesn't realize that its the fuel, feeding its own flames. It's burning, Rorschach, and we can't stop it. That's a fact."

He grinned something horrible. "Depressing, right? It gets better. Amongst all this fire and ash there' a man. I'd like to think I know him. Pretty well at least. See, this idiot has costs me thousands in repair bills. Damn near eats me out of house and home. Does he ever throw out a 'thank you' here and there? Ha! Please. But really, all that? I could care less. Those are petty, material concerns. What really gets me is that this idiot, after so many years, is still the same, disloyal bastard I first met in that alley."

Rorschach, experiencing a shock he'd never been prepared for, reacted on instinct. He lunged, howling, but Daniel was there, swinging him until his front hit the edge of the fridge, pinning him there like something fragile.

"Disloyal!" Daniel screamed. "Because after all this time he still doesn't trust me!" He leaned in close, pressed against the stinking trench coat. Rorschach attempted a kick but felt his legs blocked. "To have his back?" Daniel continued, ragged with every word. "Yes. To patch his wound? Sure. But does he trust me to live my life in a manner that is both rewarding and honorable? Oh no. Apparently I haven't earned that kind of trust. Not yet. He judges me, ceaselessly, on all my moral values. For leaving the fight, for giving up... You think fighting is all about this?" Daniel seized one of Rorschach's fists, holding on as it bucked in his hand. "That throwing punches is the only way to combat this war? That didn't work!" He shoved his partner, backing quickly out of his reach. The two men stood, heaving and thrumming, while outside the storm raged its assent.

"We tried that, Rorschach! I went out every night and I beat up all the knot tops, all the Molochs I could get my hands on. It barely made a dent. So now I'm trying something different." Taking a deep, deliberate breath that was held nice and long, Daniel snatched up his orange juice and tossed it into the fridge. He took another moment, just breathing.

"I'm the example, all right?" he said. "Living my life. In this city. In a manner we want others to strive for. I AM what we've been fighting for. Why can't we have that for ourselves?" Daniel slumped, his body liquifying in its exhaustion. Every joint edged towards the floor with the same desire: to curl up and rest. Even if just for one moment. It was a slow tiredness, one that only grew in those who who'd taken on too much life in too short a time. The heroes.

"I'm even doing a little extra, you know." Daniel said. "Humbly speaking. Apparently, it's a one man war against crime now." Smiling for the first time in hours, he looked up at Rorschach. "This man, he's still fighting the literal fight, with fists and a crazy level of determination. I wish him the best. Really, I do. But he can't do it without help and the relief he's being offered isn't a kind he recognizes. He needs a place to retreat to. Somewhere where there's food, quiet, and company that understands the meaning of empathy. I provide him with a lot of these things, when I can, and other stuff he doesn't even realize he needs. That's okay. I'm willing to give it all." Daniel shrugged, finding his partner's eyes under the mask. "I'll even play scapegoat to his bent ideas of loyalty. That's my fight." Bending, he grabbed another bottle of juice. "You helping me clean this up or not?"

There was no hesitation. Rorschach's hands shook but he dipped to pick up the nearest article. It was a carton of eggs that had tipped off the windowsill during their scuffle. The yokes ran sticky against his fingers but there, nestled against the edge, were two that were impossibly whole. Hesitantly, he handed them to Daniel.

"Well whaddya know," he said, "only two remain," but for all the sarcasm soaking those words he cradled the eggs and tucked them onto the top shelf, between the wall and the cream cheese. The rest of their work was done in total silence. The salvageable went back inside while everything else - the broken, those dipped in condensation; threatening sickness - were tossed. In ten minutes time Rorschach peered again into the fridge, thinking that his little trick would go off much easier if Moloch's appliance was as empty as this one. Practical though the observation was, it left his lower back aching and an itchiness running through his eyes.

Daniel stood behind him, their two coats brushing together. When he sighed Rorschach felt the exhale sinking into his bones.

"Looks like I'll be going shopping," he said.

"Want me to leave, Daniel?"

"…No. Not really."

Rorschach breathed.

Daniel stretched, wandering heavy over to the table. He eyed his bottled but resolutely put it away, choosing a glass of water instead. "I'm heading to bed," he said. "The extra blankets are in the cedar closet now, I really hate moths, and you know where the food is," he chuckled, shaking his head. Daniel let out a heavy sigh. "Should I leave the door open next Sunday? When I'm out again? If you're planning to come back and..." he gestured helplessly towards the fridge, "do whatever it is you've been doing."

Oddly enough, Rorschach felt his body curling in on itself. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, deliberately pressing against the cut on his palm. "No need for that, Daniel" he said.

"Because you'll just be breaking down my door again, regardless?"

"No. Not what I meant-"

"I know what you meant." Daniel nudged one soaked boot against the doorframe, wincing at the appalling squeak it produced. "Listen," he said. "I'll have another key made and stick it behind the loose brick, okay?"

They both knew which brick he meant. Years ago the respected Daniel Dreiberg, innocently, and with a nimble wrist, slipped bits of paper into that hiding place. 'No moon tonight - reschedule,' they read. Or, 'testing - watch step when coming down.' And when their enemies complicated their schemes the notes evolved into equal complexity; tiny rolls scribbled with runes only they could decipher. For a man who didn't own a phone and another whose conversations might always be overheard, these notes became essential.

"I kinda enjoyed those, you know," Daniel said. He shrugged and as his shoulders rose a light blush rose along with them. "Everything we did was sort of exciting. Important, of course, but exciting too. Leaving the notes always made me feel a bit like a spy." A tired but familiarly sheepish smile broke through.

Rorschach was silent.

"Right, I get it." Daniel sighed. "Blankets. Couch. Bed for me. I'll have an extra key made. You know, just because I want to." He turned towards the stairs.

"Everything we do," he heard, a soft murmur at his back.

"What?"

"Everything we do," Rorschach repeated, louder this time. "It's important," he paused, "exciting too, I guess. Hurm. We're not finished though. And..." the pause this time was more of a chasm. "Sorry about the door, Daniel," he finally said.

"It was never about the stupid door." His eyes flicked towards the fridge. "I don't know what the hell it is you're up to and I don't want any part of it – you got that, right?"

"Hm."

"but keep safe and… give Moloch hell for us, yeah?"

Rorschach nodded.

A moment later Daniel's voice drifted down from the top of the steps:

"And you'd better come back!"

He did come back, two nights later, with a light step and the rustle of plastic against concrete. Daniel, bleary eyed and dressed in flannel, opened his door Tuesday morning and found the bag of groceries. It contained simple things: butter (one stick), strawberries, eggs, and a miniature bag of flour probably found in a dollar store. Daniel put them reverently away. He then proceeded to accomplish a great deal in the week following.

The extra key was made and slipped raggedly against brick (never to be found by Rorschach, never to be touched again by Daniel. When he and Laurie moved images filled his head of little boys stumbling across the hiding place years later, fingering the rusted key, and themselves imagining that it opened a door far more magical than his.) He opened his home that Sunday but Rorschach never showed. So instead of awkwardly puttering around his partner all night Daniel ate the strawberries with cream. He sat in the kitchen and, against his better judgment, entertained himself with the possibilities of Rorschach's activities, each more elaborate and violent than the last.

What in the world was he doing to Moloch that involved his fridge?

But he wasn't a part of that fight anymore. Not the way Rorschach was. And besides, the answer to that question was as unfathomable as his partner's face or his true name…

Until such a time that they weren't.

For just days later the grimy mug shot of a redhead appeared on his TV screen, accompanied by the incompatible words: "Walter Kovacs." He ate the eggs that day. Scrambled four, fried two for a sandwich at lunch, three were shirred at dinner, and one went in a brownie batter. He ate all but two.

Daniel wrapped the remaining ones in plastic, placed them on the top shelf, and solemnly shut the door of his fridge.