Heaven Has Nothing Misery
Fandom: Watchmen
Title: Heaven Has Nothing
Characters/Pairings: Dan/Rorschach
Summary: Memories and misery; putting things in perspective.
Ratings/Warnings: R for imagery. Mentions of child abuse, violence, murder. Non-consequential OCs. Character death inextricably involved.
Notes: Weird and contrived style, for which I apologize.
Misery: We’re All Right
He cries a good deal longer than he thinks should be possible. Of course, with everything considered, maybe it’s not that bad. The entire time, he feels Rorschach’s eyes on him, but the other man doesn’t say a word.
For what it’s worth, Daniel isn’t sure there’s anything to say.
This place is miserable and that’s probably intentional, but he’s not sure it’s supposed to affect him quite as strongly as it does. The whole situation, really, seems specifically designed to drain. Every visit leaves him shaken, but he’s never made what they might call a ‘break through’ until now. Now he’s not even sure he can get the respite of leaving this little pocket of hell.
Adding to his sickening distress: he’s not sure he wants too. A masochistic streak has always lurked in him on some level, but to actually want to stay here…
He supposes, if pressed, he could justify it as wanting to stay by Rorschach’s side, a desire to press forward and see if he can shock further reaction from the man. It’s not just a feeling of having earned this misery, or feeling that he belongs here. He wants to stay because he’s the only one they think stands a chance of pulling his friend out of this.
From what he understands, no one else comes here. Rorschach is alone when he’s gone, with nothing but his own thoughts… and considering where those thoughts had brought him in the end, Dan imagines that’s not pleasant. Of course, that’s the point, he knows it is, but it seems so stupidly cruel. And cruel too that he can come here.
All of them require some level of special care. You mustn’t worry about why you can visit him, and you mustn’t allow the… environment to push on you. Just remember that you can and that you are the only thing that can free him from his prison.
Right. He tries to push his doubts away, but they linger on the edge of his mind like a stubborn blind spot. When he sits up again, his breath hitches in his chest, giving his exhale a shuddering, watery quality that destroys his attempt to look composed again. And he’s not composed; he feels hollowed and empty but for sadness and hurt, and looking into those eyes only echoes more of it back into him.
He always imagined his friend to have green eyes. He knows it’s a stereotype, but he’d seen enough errant red hair escaping the edge of Rorschach’s mask, enough gingery stubble, to make the connection. Having stitched closed wounds on nearly every part of the man’s body, the knowledge of all those freckles certainly didn’t hinder his imagination. The eyes he imagined were deep and intense, too bright to be a forest green but too dark to be jade; unique and powerful to match the man.
Brown eyes - and he knows the sectoral heterochromia isn’t real, he remembers that much from the mug shots pasted all over the television - just never added up for him. Flat and muddy and doing no justice to the quick witted mind working away behind them. He wonders, sitting here trying to stop weeping, if the mind behind them is still working away, or if his thoughts have gone as blankly depressing as the world around them.
Just the thought seems like a slight, and guilt resonates through him. He can’t stand thinking of Rorschach in terms that weaken him, even here. So of course his mind is still sharp as ever, and he’s probably getting sick of hearing Daniel snivel.
Another deep breath, exhaled as a sigh. Something about that familiar draw does something for him, something to soothe - not much, but enough, and he smiles weakly at the other man. The splotch of blue has shifted, which is impossible, and is maybe a little greener than it was initially, which is also impossible. Rorschach stares at him seriously, his mouth a thin line that is neither reassuring nor irritated. He looks like he’s simply been patiently waiting for the conversation to continue, his expression every bit asking ‘are you done?’
Without thinking about it, Dan places his hand on the other man’s shoulder and squeezes lightly, earning a slow blink - eyes squeezing shut with a downward twist of the mouth, either displeasure or pain resulting from the gesture. He relaxes his fingers but leaves his hand where it is.
The words feel stupid when they fall from his lips, stupid and false, but he doesn’t try to retract them.
“We’re going to be all right, buddy,” he says. “We’re all right.”
Better a lie than more of the agonizing truth.