A Brief Acceptance 2/?
Daniel sits up rigidly, hands clenching his knees. His eyes are locked on Rorschach; is he awake now? It’s impossible to tell; that damned mask prevents him from seeing whether Rorschach’s eyes are open. The blots of black shift sluggishly across their white background and Dan relaxes, ascertaining from them that Rorschach is still asleep.
“Watching me while I sleep Daniel. Why?” Dan jumps at his partner’s rough monotone voice, a deer in the headlights.
“R-Rorschach,” He splutters, pushing his glasses tighter against the bridge of his nose, “I um, thought you were asleep?”
Rorschach sits up with a hurm and cracks his neck. “Was.” He says simply. Daniel licks his lips, remembering the single word Rorschach had uttered in his slumber; “Daniel.” His name… But why?
“So um…” Rorschach’s head turns towards Daniel, and Dan assumes that this means he’s looking at him. He shifts uncomfortably under the other man’s gaze. “Look, can you just take that off?” He gestures at the mask. As if in response, the blots shift. “I mean, I’ve known what you look like since you got arrested so…”
“My face Daniel. Why?” Rorschach sits stiff as a mannequin, fingers digging into his knees. Dan sighs, ruffles his hair absentmindedly.
“Because it’s goddamned unnerving. Like staring into the fucking abyss.” He says in frustration, slumping deeper into the recliner. For a long moment, Rorschach is silent, staring at Dan. Dan turns his head away nervously, closes his eyes.
“Hurm.” Rorschach hooks a finger under his mask slowly, slides it of. “If you would rather look at lie, fine. Better?” Dan’s eyes open in surprise, and he looks over at Rorschach.
Immediately, he regrets his request.
Dark bags sag under Rorschach’s dead brown eyes; unblinking, they stare at, (or possibly through,) Dan. The sharp angles of his jaw poke harshly against pale sickly skin, and stubble grows unchecked. Dan’s stomach sinks and he winces; his friend’s appearance, never amazing in the first place, has deteriorated to that of one who’s been to hell and back, seen the world’s evils in perfectly grotesque detail.
Dan reminds himself it was because Rorschach had. In the halls of Karnak he had solved his case, had listened as Veidt rationalized the murder of millions, and had been prevented from avenging them. Had been told that if he revealed the soul wrenching truth then he would be responsible for mankind’s downfall. Had been forced to go against everything his instincts, his morals, his way of life had told him. Daniel remembers the look on Rorschach’s face the days they volunteered to clean up the wreckage created by the monster. He had looked as if he believed himself guilty, guilty for every body they carted away, for every horror contorted face they found beneath the rolling masses of tentacles. Guilty for failing to stop Veidt, or at least to expose the truth about New York’s supposed messiah.
And maybe he was guilty; maybe they all were. But now the only familiar parts of Rorschach that remained unchanged were the freckles, the tufts of red hair.
“Um, yeah… Yeah that’s better.” He says even as he yearns for Rorschach’s haunted visage to be covered one more. “So uh…” He licks his lips again, shifts uncomfortably. “What were you dreaming about?” He looks for a response carefully, out of the corners of his eyes.
Rorschach tenses up, muscles rolling under his wife beater, jaw tightening in seeming irritation. “Don’t dream Daniel.” He grunts, fingers digging into his knees.
“But… You said my name. And you were moving oddly, I mean… You sure?”
Rorschach clenches so tightly his knuckles turn white and his wrist makes a sickening crack.
“…Said name?” He asks, ears nearly as red as his hair now. He stares into his lap contemptuously, and Dan squints his eyes and gets the impression that Rorschach is actually embarrassed.
“Um, yeah… You said ‘Daniel.’ Twice, actually.”
Rorschach stands up abruptly, hands balled into fists. “Leaving.” He states, snatching up his jacket and gloves. Dan notes that Rorschach had actually slept in his shoes. He pulls his mask back on and starts to walk away, and Dan’s stomach sinks.
“Rorschach!” He pleads, getting to his feet. “Look, if something’s wrong…” Rorschach freezes in the door frame, slides on his jacket and Dan steals one last look at the toned arms spattered with freckles, feels his heart skip a beat like a schoolgirl with a crush. He hates himself for it.
“World’s a nightmare. Dreams betray me.” Rorschach turns his head slightly, and Dan takes another step towards him, face betraying both his pity and his longing. “That’s what is wrong Daniel.” And then he walks away again, stops in the kitchen to grab his hat and scarf while Dan stands there dumbly, mouth agape. He hears his door open and he runs forward, until he can see Rorschach’s back, pausing in the doorway almost as if he wants to be stopped.
“Walter!” The name slips past Daniel’s lips before he can stop it. Rorschach steps out, closing the door behind him, and just as the narrowing gap disappears he replies. “Walter is dead.”
And he’s gone, and Daniel is alone in the kitchen with an empty can of beans as the only proof that he didn’t imagine the visit. He collapses in a chair, slams his fist on the table in frustration, repulsed by the traitorous thoughts that invade his head at night about whispers of freckled skin and the ghosts of calloused hands. Repulsed by an internal wish he has that Rorschach had said his name while asleep for the same reason Daniel stocks up on beans and sugar cubes even though he hates beans and has taken his coffee black since Karnak. The same reason he touches himself in the dead of night. The same reason why his mind is a mess of freckles, of stubbled jaws, of shifting black on white.
Daniel closes his eyes, lets his head fall back. He’s so alone. So pathetic. Laurie went with Jon; didn’t even look back. Hollis is dead; killed by knotheads, bludgeoned with his own trophy. Rorschach slips further into madness each day; lets the deaths of millions weigh him down.
Who does Daniel truly have left but himself?
Nobody. Just him, a middle aged man, muscles turning to flab, who once dressed up like an owl and tried to save the world.
Who failed.