Fanfic: Happy Father's Day.
Series: Watchmen
Characters: Little Walter, Adult Walter, Rorschach
Pairings: -
Rating: PG13 for mention of whoring, violence, and child abuse.
Summary: When you've never had a dad, what is this holiday supposed to mean?
Caution: You are reading an unbeta'd version.
This fic was meant for the holiday, but wasn't finished on time. Therefore it's a rough draft of a WIP, and I'll be posting more as I go~
Edited: July 1
----+----
Walter Kovacs could not imagine what his father looked like. He had tried, on countless occasions, to picture a face, a build, a demeanor. He though of all kinds of hair and eye color combinations, face types, manner of dress, on and on and on. But all the ever really came to mind were the faces of the Johns; the daily influx of America's clones of the 'Average Joe'. All the men the his mother would cajole into her room with widening hips and scowling lips.
Surely non of these could possibly be his father. None of these shameless middle class nobodys, who came in smelling like one woman's perfume, and left smelling like his mother. Not the man who read the papers while he waited in the hall. Not the man who tousled Walter's hair as he left the yellowing apartment.
Walter would not have hated his father the way he hated these men.
Still. Every face he tried to picture only looked like them; only looked like every man he'd ever seen. But Walter knew his father was different, so much better than them. He had to be.
So he stopped trying to imagine his father's face, settled instead for the idea that he'd see it someday. The prospect was good enough for him, for a while. He would tell himself wasn't- still isn't -one of the men who comes in, seeking refuge from monogamy. He tells himself that when his father finally comes, his mother will serve coffee instead of sex. They'll sit together and talk, and the hall won't have a line of waiting Johns ever again. His hair will be tousled by a big hand, and he won't resent the man who does it.
No need to picture a face.
No face could ever really live up to the ideal.
~~
He knew his father's name; it was Charlie. That was short for Charles, and Walter felt very clever that he knew so.
Sometimes Walter wondered if he didn't have a secret middle name. A second middle name, there in honor of his father, and his mother just hadn't told him about it.
Walter Joseph Charles Kovaks.
He liked how it sounded.
Sometimes, he'd write letters to his father. They were simple, short. Mostly he wrote things like 'mother misses you', and 'I just can't wait until you come home!' There wasn't much more to say than that. He didn't want to tell his father about days spent in the apartment, or about the men. Father would be upset, and maybe he'd just stay away forever if he knew.
Walter would carefully fold up these letters, lining the edges of the paper together very meticulously before making a crease. He didn't have an address to send them to, so he'd simply write TO: Charlie (my dad) on the outside. Then he'd leave them places. When he went to the store, or to school; he'd leave them where he thought Charlie might find them.
Nights after he'd leave a letter, Walter would lie awake in anticipation, completely sure that tomorrow, yes, tomorrow, his father would knock on the door, holding one of those letters in his hand, thankful that he'd found a papertrail back to his family.
Too many nights were spent like that.
And there were too many mornings- far too many -in which Walter would spring out of bed, run down the hall in his bare feet. He'd fling open the apartment door, all smiles and bed-ruffled hair, and...
...and...
...And there were just too many mornings when Walter would simply stop smiling, shut the door, and shuffle into the kitchen for breakfast.
~
At eight years old, Walter was sure that no matter how terrible things were, no matter what names his mother called him, things would be better if his father would just come home. Then mother wouldn't be so uspet all the time, and she wouldn't need those other men in the apartment. They wouldn't stay in her room every day, and she wouldn't make those horrible sounds.
Most of all, he hated the noises she made.
Every day was another one in which Charlie never came home, but plenty of other men did.
And even they never stayed.
Sometimes, even though he hated them, Walter wished one of them would say. He always got angry at himself when he thought it, but every now and again he still wished it were true. Even if their name wasn't Charlie, and they weren't really his father... Maybe he could just pretend.
Walter would grit his teeth and shake his head fiercely when he thought like that, until he was dizzy and red in the face and his hair stuck up in tufts.
No, no, no, NO! None of them! Not these men! Charlie would come home; he would!
~
Sometimes he didn't think anyone ever picked up his letters. Not his father, not anyone. His father was probably busy. He was probably so busy that he couldn't come home even if he wanted to. There were bad things happening in the world, so his father was probably out helping everyone. Sometimes it hurt, thinking that, but mostly, Walter was proud.
~
At ten, Walter hurt two boys. He hadn't really been thinking when he did it. He just knew that they were mean, and he had felt angry, and they shouldn't have said the things they did, and no one was making them stop, and they looked just like the men in his mother's room and if his father were here he'd clap both those boys on their ears but his father wasn't there and now they were calling him names and he hated them!
He didn't feel sorry that he hurt them.
A lot of things happened after that, but Walter really only remembered feeling angry. Some police talked to his mother, and tried to talk to him, but he grit his teeth and kept his lips pressed tight.
Eventually they took him away. He thought he was probably going to jail. Instead, he was brought to Charlton Home.
~
At first, Walter thought he missed his mother, and his eyes burned with tears that he refused to cry. Charlton Home was sudden and different and full of too many boys that he didn't like. He wanted to go back to the apartment. That's what he thought at first.
But the longer he was away from home, the more he realized he didn't really want to go back at all. He had dreams about going home, and they frightened him. He had nightmares that he was already there, and that his mother and a man had melted together into something horrible. They made terrible sounds, and threatened to hit him. He always woke up in a cold sweat.
After a while, he didn't miss his mother anymore.
Walter spent a lot of time studying, and writing, and forgetting the nightmares he had. His grades at Charlton Home were very good, and his teachers seemed to like this. Some of them were nice to him, and some of them looked at him like he might bite them in the face, but mostly they all just let him be. He liked it better that way; adults leaving him alone. He wished the other boys would leave him alone, too.
Instead, they teased him about his hair, and his freckles, and sometimes they called him ugly or stupid. Walter knew he wasn't stupid. He didn't know if he was ugly or not.
Most of the time he just ignored the other boys. Sometimes he hit them. Whenever Walter hit another boy, both of them would always get in trouble, and be put alone in a room, or given extra homework, or a chore. He didn't like this, so he tried not to hit the other boys. It was difficult.
On the days he got in trouble, Walter found himself wishing that his father would come to Charlton Home and take him away. He kept waiting for it to happen. He couldn't leave letters in places anymore, because he wasn't allowed outside the Home's grounds... But Walter had written an essay about his father once, and he thought maybe, just maybe, if it was extra good, one of his teachers might decide to try and find Charlie so he could read it, and come to get his son.
Walter waited. His father would come.
~
At eighteen, he was allowed to leave Charlton Home.
Actually, it was a little different than just that. He was allowed to leave, but only because he wasn't allowed to stay. He was too old to live there anymore, and just old enough to fend for himself, or so they said. Walter didn't really want to stay anyway; that place was only filled with vile children and disappointment.
He stepped out of the gates that lead from the grounds, and didn't look back. There were too few good memories, here. He could count them on one hand. One: eventually the other boys left him alone. And that was only because he had broken one of their arms, and they were afraid of him. Two: his mother had died while he lived here. He wasn't surprised when he realized he was glad to hear the news. Three, and the most recent happy memory: he was leaving.
Even his happy memories of this place were a far cry from happy.
He left Charlton Home, feeling nothing but a slight bitterness at Charlie. His father had never come to take him away.
The thought was fleeting; his father was a good man. His father was probably a hero. He was fighting in the war, saving people. He had to rely on Walter to be strong, and wait. Other people needed his help right now.
Walter waited. He would be strong.
~
He had a job. It yielded little fulfillment, but it paid the rent, and it bought his food. It wasn't the kind of job he had ever imagined himself having, but he couldn't think of anywhere else he'd be working. A job was a job, money was money. In the end, sewing dresses was boring and repulsive, but it didn't define him as a person.
At the very least, it wasn't the Charlton Home.
Walter's boss was a loud, abrasive person. He liked to clap all of his employees hard on the shoulder when he talked to them, and sometimes it made Walter's skin crawl. He couldn't say he disliked the man, per se. He just didn't want to be touched. Not by his boss, not by his coworkers. How was he even supposed to respond to that kind of contact?
He realized he was really only familiar with hitting people, or being hit by them. A friendly clap on the shoulder just didn't translate. It that what friends did? Or was it a more paternal gesture?
Anyway, he wasn't here to make friends. He was here to work.
Eventually he'd have enough money to...
To do what?
Sometimes he thought he'd go find his father. Hire a private detective and track down the figure that had only ever been a name and a vague human blur in Walter's mind. What kind of reunion would it be when they finally found each other? Would he be a son that Charlie could be proud of?
~
Kitty Genovese.
Apparently he was making a dress for her. Custom-order. She was an actress or a singer, or something, so she had money. Money enough that when she decided she wanted a dress with a pattern that reacted to pressure and heat, that's what she got. Walter didn't really have a taste for fashion, but he found himself nodding in approval at the idea. He liked it even more when the dress was finished. It was beautiful, really. Not the dress itself so much as the fabric; how the black patterns shifted under his touch, symmetrical. They were stark, mesmerizing.
In the end, no one ever came for the dress. Walter saved it from the trash.
Kitty Genovese.
She died alone, with a building's worth of people just watching. No one had done anything for her. Not the people in their homes, listening to her screams, not the police, not the masks. No one was doing their job. If his father had been there... she might have lived. Charlie would have stopped that murder, and saved Kitty Genovese. This is what Walter wanted to believe. His father would have saved that woman, because he was a hero, and people needed him. That was why he never came for his son. People needed him.
Kitty Genovese.
She had needed someone that night, and no one came. Walter wouldn't admit to himself that he understood the feeling on an uncomfortable level. Aknowledging that no one had ever come to save him, that no one was ever going to...that would have placed a blame on his father that made Walter feel strangely sick. His father was a good man. His father would have helped Genovese. His father would want a son who would do the same.
And there were other people out there who needed help.
Walter would help them. He would be a good man. He would save people like Kitty Genovese, and somehow, somewhere, his father would be proud of him.
~
The other masks all have their ideals and their reasons. Some are doing it for fun, some are doing it for fame. Some do it because they're good people. Maybe the reasons don't really matter. Looked at from afar, the end result is the same; people are being helped. Isn't that the one thing they've all got in common? They want to make a difference, want to make this city better. Walter has to believe this, because for him, there is nothing else.
Despite their collective good deeds, Walter doesn't like most of them. He respects a few, yes. He approves of what they're working to accomplish. But he doesn't have to like them.
The Comedian is brash, a verbal assault on morals and decency. But he fights for what he believes in, and never yields. Walter isn't sure if he admires the man, or despises him.
Ozymandias is egotistical, self-assured, and aloof. He's also very clever, and very powerful. Walter does not like him.
The Silk Specter is far too young, her clothing is too tight. She knows what the masks are doing for the city, but she doesn't understand it. Walter stands as far away from her as he can get.
Dr. Manhatten. He is wrong. Just wrong. A god made of man. Sharing the air with him is uncomfortable and electric.
Nite Owl is a good man. Walter doesn't think he's ever met anyone so genuinely nice in all his life. Beneath his mask, Walter scowls.
~
Walter is under the impression that the Comedian must have know his father. The man fought in the war, just as Walter knows his father must have. And it would make sense that a good deal of soldiers would want to get a chance at meeting one of America's masked heroes; surely they'd all be trying to shake his hand, fight beside him.
Walter is still uncertain where he stands when it comes to the Comedian, but the need to know about his father urges him along. Eventually, hands shoved in his pockets, Rorschach approaches the fellow mask.
“Heya, inky,” the Comedian says. He sits in front of a low table, halfway through checking and cleaning a gun. He doesn't bother to look up from what he's doing.
“Comedian,” Rorschach starts, hesitating when he realizes he's not sure how to phrase the question. He doesn't want to give away too much about himself, can't let the Comedian know he's asking about family. But he needs to know. Just a scrap of information. Anything.
“Question about the war.”
A clip slides into place, the Comedian cocks back the barrel of the gun, chamber loaded. He sets the gun on the table and reaches up to take the cigar from his mouth.
“Okay,” he says, “Shoot.” He grins at his own cheap pun.
Rorschach doesn't laugh. In fact, the humor is lost on him entirely. He shifts where he stands, from one foot to the other. The dark symmetry of his mask blots and whorls indifferently, but beneath it, Walter frowns.
Ask.
“..Was wondering. Did you know a man named Charlie?”
“Charlie?” the Comedian barks a laugh that's completely unexpected. Rorschach's shoulders go a little rigid.
The Comedian is chuckling, cigar between his teeth again, and he stands. “ 'Charlie', hah! That's good, kid. Hilarious.” And he's shaking his head, clapping Rorschach on the shoulder as he walks past. “Hell yeah I knew Charlie; Charlie was everywhere. Especially after Manhattan showed up.”
Another loud round of laughter follows the Comedian out, leaving Walter feeling humiliated for reasons he can't quite place. He doesn't know what's so funny.
The whole thing is explained to him later, by Nite Owl, who tells him that 'Charlie' was a code name for the opposition during the wars. He can't explain why they used that name, and is surprised Rorschach hadn't heard it before.
Later, no one can understand why Rorschach starts acting more standoffish than usual towards the Comedian.
~*Update*
Sometimes it isn't always about the drug busts or the crime syndicates. Sometimes there aren't always would-be rapists or late-night muggings. Sometimes there are incidents that Walter can barely stomach, and he ends his night feeling uncontrollably violent and queasy.
Tonight, it isn't someone's screaming that draws he and his partner into the apartment building. Tonight, it's a man's shouts, and a child's frantic sobbing.
When they break in, the man's fist is poised in the air, ready to swing down with sloppy, drunken force. In the path of that fist; his son. The boy can't be older than eleven.
His hair isn't the same color as Walter's, and he doesn't have the same awkward, humble features, but Walter can see freckles spattering his cheeks beneath the livid bruising, and something inside him starts clawing its way to the surface.
Rorschach clenches his fists as Walter remembers his mother's hand coming down at his face. He rememberes that being hit did not hurt nearly as much as the feeling of betrayal.
Parents should not hit their children.
It shakes him more that it's the boy's father committing this crime. His father.
In Walter's mind, this man is supposed to be a stable, admirable role model for his child. Yes, men were vile, and hurt people, and Rorschach punished them for what they did. But a man that was a parent should not be this way. Should be exempt from the pattern of cruelty.
And yet here he was. No better than Sylvia.
It takes a long time for Nite Owl to calm his partner down, but by then Walter has made sure the boy's father will never use his hands again.
Characters: Little Walter, Adult Walter, Rorschach
Pairings: -
Rating: PG13 for mention of whoring, violence, and child abuse.
Summary: When you've never had a dad, what is this holiday supposed to mean?
Caution: You are reading an unbeta'd version.
This fic was meant for the holiday, but wasn't finished on time. Therefore it's a rough draft of a WIP, and I'll be posting more as I go~
Edited: July 1
----+----
Walter Kovacs could not imagine what his father looked like. He had tried, on countless occasions, to picture a face, a build, a demeanor. He though of all kinds of hair and eye color combinations, face types, manner of dress, on and on and on. But all the ever really came to mind were the faces of the Johns; the daily influx of America's clones of the 'Average Joe'. All the men the his mother would cajole into her room with widening hips and scowling lips.
Surely non of these could possibly be his father. None of these shameless middle class nobodys, who came in smelling like one woman's perfume, and left smelling like his mother. Not the man who read the papers while he waited in the hall. Not the man who tousled Walter's hair as he left the yellowing apartment.
Walter would not have hated his father the way he hated these men.
Still. Every face he tried to picture only looked like them; only looked like every man he'd ever seen. But Walter knew his father was different, so much better than them. He had to be.
So he stopped trying to imagine his father's face, settled instead for the idea that he'd see it someday. The prospect was good enough for him, for a while. He would tell himself wasn't- still isn't -one of the men who comes in, seeking refuge from monogamy. He tells himself that when his father finally comes, his mother will serve coffee instead of sex. They'll sit together and talk, and the hall won't have a line of waiting Johns ever again. His hair will be tousled by a big hand, and he won't resent the man who does it.
No need to picture a face.
No face could ever really live up to the ideal.
~~
He knew his father's name; it was Charlie. That was short for Charles, and Walter felt very clever that he knew so.
Sometimes Walter wondered if he didn't have a secret middle name. A second middle name, there in honor of his father, and his mother just hadn't told him about it.
Walter Joseph Charles Kovaks.
He liked how it sounded.
Sometimes, he'd write letters to his father. They were simple, short. Mostly he wrote things like 'mother misses you', and 'I just can't wait until you come home!' There wasn't much more to say than that. He didn't want to tell his father about days spent in the apartment, or about the men. Father would be upset, and maybe he'd just stay away forever if he knew.
Walter would carefully fold up these letters, lining the edges of the paper together very meticulously before making a crease. He didn't have an address to send them to, so he'd simply write TO: Charlie (my dad) on the outside. Then he'd leave them places. When he went to the store, or to school; he'd leave them where he thought Charlie might find them.
Nights after he'd leave a letter, Walter would lie awake in anticipation, completely sure that tomorrow, yes, tomorrow, his father would knock on the door, holding one of those letters in his hand, thankful that he'd found a papertrail back to his family.
Too many nights were spent like that.
And there were too many mornings- far too many -in which Walter would spring out of bed, run down the hall in his bare feet. He'd fling open the apartment door, all smiles and bed-ruffled hair, and...
...and...
...And there were just too many mornings when Walter would simply stop smiling, shut the door, and shuffle into the kitchen for breakfast.
~
At eight years old, Walter was sure that no matter how terrible things were, no matter what names his mother called him, things would be better if his father would just come home. Then mother wouldn't be so uspet all the time, and she wouldn't need those other men in the apartment. They wouldn't stay in her room every day, and she wouldn't make those horrible sounds.
Most of all, he hated the noises she made.
Every day was another one in which Charlie never came home, but plenty of other men did.
And even they never stayed.
Sometimes, even though he hated them, Walter wished one of them would say. He always got angry at himself when he thought it, but every now and again he still wished it were true. Even if their name wasn't Charlie, and they weren't really his father... Maybe he could just pretend.
Walter would grit his teeth and shake his head fiercely when he thought like that, until he was dizzy and red in the face and his hair stuck up in tufts.
No, no, no, NO! None of them! Not these men! Charlie would come home; he would!
~
Sometimes he didn't think anyone ever picked up his letters. Not his father, not anyone. His father was probably busy. He was probably so busy that he couldn't come home even if he wanted to. There were bad things happening in the world, so his father was probably out helping everyone. Sometimes it hurt, thinking that, but mostly, Walter was proud.
~
At ten, Walter hurt two boys. He hadn't really been thinking when he did it. He just knew that they were mean, and he had felt angry, and they shouldn't have said the things they did, and no one was making them stop, and they looked just like the men in his mother's room and if his father were here he'd clap both those boys on their ears but his father wasn't there and now they were calling him names and he hated them!
He didn't feel sorry that he hurt them.
A lot of things happened after that, but Walter really only remembered feeling angry. Some police talked to his mother, and tried to talk to him, but he grit his teeth and kept his lips pressed tight.
Eventually they took him away. He thought he was probably going to jail. Instead, he was brought to Charlton Home.
~
At first, Walter thought he missed his mother, and his eyes burned with tears that he refused to cry. Charlton Home was sudden and different and full of too many boys that he didn't like. He wanted to go back to the apartment. That's what he thought at first.
But the longer he was away from home, the more he realized he didn't really want to go back at all. He had dreams about going home, and they frightened him. He had nightmares that he was already there, and that his mother and a man had melted together into something horrible. They made terrible sounds, and threatened to hit him. He always woke up in a cold sweat.
After a while, he didn't miss his mother anymore.
Walter spent a lot of time studying, and writing, and forgetting the nightmares he had. His grades at Charlton Home were very good, and his teachers seemed to like this. Some of them were nice to him, and some of them looked at him like he might bite them in the face, but mostly they all just let him be. He liked it better that way; adults leaving him alone. He wished the other boys would leave him alone, too.
Instead, they teased him about his hair, and his freckles, and sometimes they called him ugly or stupid. Walter knew he wasn't stupid. He didn't know if he was ugly or not.
Most of the time he just ignored the other boys. Sometimes he hit them. Whenever Walter hit another boy, both of them would always get in trouble, and be put alone in a room, or given extra homework, or a chore. He didn't like this, so he tried not to hit the other boys. It was difficult.
On the days he got in trouble, Walter found himself wishing that his father would come to Charlton Home and take him away. He kept waiting for it to happen. He couldn't leave letters in places anymore, because he wasn't allowed outside the Home's grounds... But Walter had written an essay about his father once, and he thought maybe, just maybe, if it was extra good, one of his teachers might decide to try and find Charlie so he could read it, and come to get his son.
Walter waited. His father would come.
~
At eighteen, he was allowed to leave Charlton Home.
Actually, it was a little different than just that. He was allowed to leave, but only because he wasn't allowed to stay. He was too old to live there anymore, and just old enough to fend for himself, or so they said. Walter didn't really want to stay anyway; that place was only filled with vile children and disappointment.
He stepped out of the gates that lead from the grounds, and didn't look back. There were too few good memories, here. He could count them on one hand. One: eventually the other boys left him alone. And that was only because he had broken one of their arms, and they were afraid of him. Two: his mother had died while he lived here. He wasn't surprised when he realized he was glad to hear the news. Three, and the most recent happy memory: he was leaving.
Even his happy memories of this place were a far cry from happy.
He left Charlton Home, feeling nothing but a slight bitterness at Charlie. His father had never come to take him away.
The thought was fleeting; his father was a good man. His father was probably a hero. He was fighting in the war, saving people. He had to rely on Walter to be strong, and wait. Other people needed his help right now.
Walter waited. He would be strong.
~
He had a job. It yielded little fulfillment, but it paid the rent, and it bought his food. It wasn't the kind of job he had ever imagined himself having, but he couldn't think of anywhere else he'd be working. A job was a job, money was money. In the end, sewing dresses was boring and repulsive, but it didn't define him as a person.
At the very least, it wasn't the Charlton Home.
Walter's boss was a loud, abrasive person. He liked to clap all of his employees hard on the shoulder when he talked to them, and sometimes it made Walter's skin crawl. He couldn't say he disliked the man, per se. He just didn't want to be touched. Not by his boss, not by his coworkers. How was he even supposed to respond to that kind of contact?
He realized he was really only familiar with hitting people, or being hit by them. A friendly clap on the shoulder just didn't translate. It that what friends did? Or was it a more paternal gesture?
Anyway, he wasn't here to make friends. He was here to work.
Eventually he'd have enough money to...
To do what?
Sometimes he thought he'd go find his father. Hire a private detective and track down the figure that had only ever been a name and a vague human blur in Walter's mind. What kind of reunion would it be when they finally found each other? Would he be a son that Charlie could be proud of?
~
Kitty Genovese.
Apparently he was making a dress for her. Custom-order. She was an actress or a singer, or something, so she had money. Money enough that when she decided she wanted a dress with a pattern that reacted to pressure and heat, that's what she got. Walter didn't really have a taste for fashion, but he found himself nodding in approval at the idea. He liked it even more when the dress was finished. It was beautiful, really. Not the dress itself so much as the fabric; how the black patterns shifted under his touch, symmetrical. They were stark, mesmerizing.
In the end, no one ever came for the dress. Walter saved it from the trash.
Kitty Genovese.
She died alone, with a building's worth of people just watching. No one had done anything for her. Not the people in their homes, listening to her screams, not the police, not the masks. No one was doing their job. If his father had been there... she might have lived. Charlie would have stopped that murder, and saved Kitty Genovese. This is what Walter wanted to believe. His father would have saved that woman, because he was a hero, and people needed him. That was why he never came for his son. People needed him.
Kitty Genovese.
She had needed someone that night, and no one came. Walter wouldn't admit to himself that he understood the feeling on an uncomfortable level. Aknowledging that no one had ever come to save him, that no one was ever going to...that would have placed a blame on his father that made Walter feel strangely sick. His father was a good man. His father would have helped Genovese. His father would want a son who would do the same.
And there were other people out there who needed help.
Walter would help them. He would be a good man. He would save people like Kitty Genovese, and somehow, somewhere, his father would be proud of him.
~
The other masks all have their ideals and their reasons. Some are doing it for fun, some are doing it for fame. Some do it because they're good people. Maybe the reasons don't really matter. Looked at from afar, the end result is the same; people are being helped. Isn't that the one thing they've all got in common? They want to make a difference, want to make this city better. Walter has to believe this, because for him, there is nothing else.
Despite their collective good deeds, Walter doesn't like most of them. He respects a few, yes. He approves of what they're working to accomplish. But he doesn't have to like them.
The Comedian is brash, a verbal assault on morals and decency. But he fights for what he believes in, and never yields. Walter isn't sure if he admires the man, or despises him.
Ozymandias is egotistical, self-assured, and aloof. He's also very clever, and very powerful. Walter does not like him.
The Silk Specter is far too young, her clothing is too tight. She knows what the masks are doing for the city, but she doesn't understand it. Walter stands as far away from her as he can get.
Dr. Manhatten. He is wrong. Just wrong. A god made of man. Sharing the air with him is uncomfortable and electric.
Nite Owl is a good man. Walter doesn't think he's ever met anyone so genuinely nice in all his life. Beneath his mask, Walter scowls.
~
Walter is under the impression that the Comedian must have know his father. The man fought in the war, just as Walter knows his father must have. And it would make sense that a good deal of soldiers would want to get a chance at meeting one of America's masked heroes; surely they'd all be trying to shake his hand, fight beside him.
Walter is still uncertain where he stands when it comes to the Comedian, but the need to know about his father urges him along. Eventually, hands shoved in his pockets, Rorschach approaches the fellow mask.
“Heya, inky,” the Comedian says. He sits in front of a low table, halfway through checking and cleaning a gun. He doesn't bother to look up from what he's doing.
“Comedian,” Rorschach starts, hesitating when he realizes he's not sure how to phrase the question. He doesn't want to give away too much about himself, can't let the Comedian know he's asking about family. But he needs to know. Just a scrap of information. Anything.
“Question about the war.”
A clip slides into place, the Comedian cocks back the barrel of the gun, chamber loaded. He sets the gun on the table and reaches up to take the cigar from his mouth.
“Okay,” he says, “Shoot.” He grins at his own cheap pun.
Rorschach doesn't laugh. In fact, the humor is lost on him entirely. He shifts where he stands, from one foot to the other. The dark symmetry of his mask blots and whorls indifferently, but beneath it, Walter frowns.
Ask.
“..Was wondering. Did you know a man named Charlie?”
“Charlie?” the Comedian barks a laugh that's completely unexpected. Rorschach's shoulders go a little rigid.
The Comedian is chuckling, cigar between his teeth again, and he stands. “ 'Charlie', hah! That's good, kid. Hilarious.” And he's shaking his head, clapping Rorschach on the shoulder as he walks past. “Hell yeah I knew Charlie; Charlie was everywhere. Especially after Manhattan showed up.”
Another loud round of laughter follows the Comedian out, leaving Walter feeling humiliated for reasons he can't quite place. He doesn't know what's so funny.
The whole thing is explained to him later, by Nite Owl, who tells him that 'Charlie' was a code name for the opposition during the wars. He can't explain why they used that name, and is surprised Rorschach hadn't heard it before.
Later, no one can understand why Rorschach starts acting more standoffish than usual towards the Comedian.
~*Update*
Sometimes it isn't always about the drug busts or the crime syndicates. Sometimes there aren't always would-be rapists or late-night muggings. Sometimes there are incidents that Walter can barely stomach, and he ends his night feeling uncontrollably violent and queasy.
Tonight, it isn't someone's screaming that draws he and his partner into the apartment building. Tonight, it's a man's shouts, and a child's frantic sobbing.
When they break in, the man's fist is poised in the air, ready to swing down with sloppy, drunken force. In the path of that fist; his son. The boy can't be older than eleven.
His hair isn't the same color as Walter's, and he doesn't have the same awkward, humble features, but Walter can see freckles spattering his cheeks beneath the livid bruising, and something inside him starts clawing its way to the surface.
Rorschach clenches his fists as Walter remembers his mother's hand coming down at his face. He rememberes that being hit did not hurt nearly as much as the feeling of betrayal.
Parents should not hit their children.
It shakes him more that it's the boy's father committing this crime. His father.
In Walter's mind, this man is supposed to be a stable, admirable role model for his child. Yes, men were vile, and hurt people, and Rorschach punished them for what they did. But a man that was a parent should not be this way. Should be exempt from the pattern of cruelty.
And yet here he was. No better than Sylvia.
It takes a long time for Nite Owl to calm his partner down, but by then Walter has made sure the boy's father will never use his hands again.