Laurie was waiting for him at a corner table. Dan suspected that she had Jon teleport her around the city, since she was always early, but at the end of every evening, she always called a cab, so Dan liked to imagine that Jon had no idea where she was when she was with Dan. Just as no one knew where he was - not the real him, not Nite Owl.
Was it just him or did her eyes light up when she saw him across the room? She waved at him and he came over to join her. She had already ordered him a cocktail, and it sat expectantly on the table at his place at their table for two. Three olives, extra dirty. "How've you been, Dan?" she asked, eagerly. She always seemed genuinely interested in his response.
"Good as usual," he replied. "How are things?"
She rolled her eyes and smiled. "Jon's working too much, as always. I wish we could get away, take a vacation or something. But knowing Jon he'd always have one part of him behind in the lab."
Dan hoped she meant that figuratively, but he could never tell. Jon seemed capable of anything.
Conversation was easy between them, as it always had been. Dan wasn't really sure how things had evolved this way, he and Laurie. He supposed that she was his closest friend. Really, it should be Rorschach; there was no one else with whom he spent so much time, but Rorschach spoke so little. He was so hard to read, and lately, he was becoming more and more opaque. Fading? Or getting stronger?
Laurie, on the other hand, had matured before his eyes these last dozen or so years, growing from a confused child into a thoughtful, powerful woman worthy of respect in her own right. And as beautiful as the sun. Dan felt a twinge of guilt when he looked across the table at her. It was hard not to feel attracted to her, his friend, but it was really just physical. She belonged to Jon, he reminded himself; she was also a carbon copy of her mother, the first Silk Spectre, the object of his teenage devotion, and that seemed somehow Oedipal and awkward.
As if she were reading his thoughts, Laurie asked, "How's Rorschach? Do you see much of him these days?"
"We're out every night," Dan said. "But I don't know how much of him I see. He's, I don't know, changed somehow." She nodded, as if she understood. She studied his face for a long while in silence. "I guess maybe I've changed, too. I guess we all have - we all do. I don't know."
"Everything that seems so sturdy when we're young just gets ... complicated. Thin," Laurie said, though he wasn't sure if she was talking about the same thing he was. It didn't matter. She seemed about to say something, then changed her mind. "Well, anyway, Dan. What's for dinner?"
Dan looked at the menu. There were oysters Rockefeller, calamari, pasta frutti del mare ... he hadn't even noticed until now that it was a seafood restaurant. He hadn't been here before, so everything looked appealing. Laurie always liked such nice places; he wondered if she got out as rarely as he did, but didn't ask. In fact, he wanted to know as little as possible about her life with Jon.
Eventually, Dan decided on a plank-grilled salmon with mixed vegetables. It was the kind of thing he would never make at home - Rorschach wouldn't touch it, he was sure, and what was the point of cooking for one? He looked at Laurie over the tops of his glasses; blurred, she looked like she did at night, her hair soft and her green eyes the only clearly discernible part of her face. He rarely took off his glasses anymore; not only was his vision crap without them, but he felt so exposed with nothing between himself and the world.
"Madame?" the waiter asked. "What may I get for you?"
Laurie opened her menu again to check the name of the dish. "Plank-grilled salmon. And I'd like the mixed vegetables with it, please. And could we have some wine? Maybe a pinot noir?"
"Sir?"
"Uh," Dan fumbled. What now? He flipped open the menu and picked the first thing that he saw. "Gambi fra diavolo," he read. He knew enough Italian to figure out what that meant, but only after the waiter had already left.
"I didn't think you liked spicy foods, Dan," Laurie said with a grin. "I guess you have changed, huh?" He smiled back at her, sheepishly. When their meals arrived, Dan was grateful for the dinner rolls and water to quell the burning. When he had drained his water glass, he turned to the wine she'd ordered. Eventually, it was just the two of them and an empty bottle. Laurie sighed.
"Listen, Dan. I can't hold off on this anymore." Dan's heart skipped a beat. There was something ... dark in her voice that made him panic for just a moment. "There's new legislation going through. It's not out in the press yet, but you know Jon's never wrong about this stuff. Dan," she paused and Dan forgot to breathe. "They're going to outlaw vigilantism again. We're out of a job."
The Comedian had been talking about that just the other night, but Dan had dismissed it. After all, the Comedian said a lot of things that Dan could neither agree with nor believe. Dan looked down at his place setting, feeling his stomach sinking into the chair, unable to take it in, wishing he weren't tipsy from all that wine. "I think I've heard about that. I ... " He wasn't even sure what to say to that.
"That's not all, Dan. They're moving Jon, and me. We're getting new quarters out of the city so he can work without distractions. I'm going with him, and, well, it might be a long while till we cross paths again. I'm not really sure how it's all going to work out."
Dan couldn't believe his ears. Moving away? Didn't know when they'd see each other again?
"All my life," Laurie was saying, "I've been a tool in someone else's project. First it was my mother's dreams, and now it's the government keeping me as a toy for Jon. Just a canvas for other people's dreams. I hope this move means I can change all that. But not with you, Dan. You've always been a real friend to me, and I will always love you for that."
Suddenly, the answers to all of Dan's questions snapped into place: why he came whenever she called, why he looked forward to their visits without ever knowing when they would be. Why he had maintained this silly relationship with an essentially married woman. Why he could remember every conversation they'd ever had. Why he hadn't been on a date in the ten years he'd known her. How had Dan not noticed Laurie creeping under his skin, into his heart?
He had had this conversation perhaps a dozen times before. He had had women wanting him before - or rather, wanting his money, or wanting his attention to alarm their boyfriends, but none had ever wanted him. The women that he wanted always saw him as a friend, a big brother. And this one was no different.
But he'd never loved a woman before. Never been sure that he would always care about her, always worry about her, always wonder how she was when she was far away. He realized that he'd been holding his breath; he breathed a shuddering sigh and prayed that Laurie hadn't noticed.
How was it possible that he had never known how much he loved her until she was going away? It might be a long while till we cross paths again. He had never allowed himself to think of it, to imagine holding her in his arms or hearing her tell him she loved him. And now ... she was moving away. And he was out of a job. Confirmed on both counts. It was the end of the world. Her words echoed in his mind like a pinball machine.
I will always love you for that.
"I'm sorry to hear that, Laurie, but I'm sure you must be pleased for Jon," he heard himself say.
"Yeah, I'm really proud of what he's doing for the country, and for the world, and I'm looking forward to starting over." Could she tell that mourning was already crashing over him as she spoke? "I'll give you a call once we're all settled, you know?"
I will always love you.