I wrote something!
Impending moviedom really gets the creativity out.
The fic is, again, my personal OT3 of DOOM, Laurie/Dan/Rorschach (you know you're curious).
Props (or blame, as the case may be) must go to my twinspirations, i_am_your_spy and orangesparks. I stole their ideas and made a mutant clone idea of my own, which is what fanfic is all about, innit?
Also, much love and respect to quietprofanity, for a lightning round beta in which she clipped, neatened and corrected (no, I don't know the damn difference between the Arctic and Antarctica, and I'm not sure how everyone else does).
Concrit will be hugged.
Life or its reverse
One year to the day after a giant alien squid lands on New York, a uniformed policeman knocks on the door of a small house in a regular town in a mid-western state.
This is a coincidence.
The two events, however, are not unrelated.
The sex is weird. Of courseif Laurie had put any thought into it (if she had thought at all), it would have been obvious. Sex done right is emotional and physical intimacy of the highest sort, a revealing, tender, joyous event; an affirmation of life and a reminder of death. The closest two (or three) people can get.
Now try that with a couple of intense, neurotic, repressed, violent, affection-starved individuals, and Rorschach.
Sometimes they form a perfect feedback loop of pleasure and desire and pain. She can sink like she never wants to breathe again. Sometimes she wants just Dan to herself, his focused hunger and gentle hands. Sometimes she wants to wrap herself around Rorschach, hold him down until he explains all his nightmares. Sometimes all the goddamn limbs just get annoying and she wants the bed to herself. Sometimes they make her feel like she can touch the sky.
She doesn’t clearly remember the first time. The memory is blurred by shock and tears and the sound of snow.
The stench of death and blood, the scent of sweat and nostalgia.
A sharp cry that may or may not have been hers.
Fingernails dug deep into flesh, dull bruises all over. (Some things never change.)
What she remembers with clarity is what happened before and after. After was the flight out of Karnak. She woke (she didn’t remember falling asleep) from a nightmare. She then realised how much of it was true.
Those were Dan’s warm arms, though, not tentacles, and the floor of the Owlship was pressing against the side of her face, not a slab of bloodied concrete.
She can see the man steering them home. His face is lit by the console and angled Antarctic sun, a constellation of blood and freckles and bruises, tear tracks frozen in stark reflective relief.
She waits for them at the little kitchen table (linoleum), with a cup of coffee (black) with plenty of sugar (they buy in bulk).
Her boys arrive together. They are still in costume, which makes the discussion she wants to have slightly ridiculous. She waits until they’ve finished dinner, when they’ve relaxed. Rorschach stacks the last dish. Dan starts stripping off for bed.
She stands in the middle of the living room and announces, “A cop came ‘round earlier.” They walk in, from either side, Dan in pyjama pants and Rorschach with his uniform jumpsuit tied around his waist.
These are the costumes: chubby, blond, genial Sam Hollis, tinkerer and hardware store clerk, a good natured man who can tell you everything about a bird from its song; his slim blond wife, Sally, hard-working and only occasionally sad-eyed waitress; and finally, her brother, William.
William, whose wife and children (“Beautiful little girls,” says Sally quietly) were in New York. He was out of town (“On business,” but no-one’s ever asked what business), won’t forgive himself. Hasn’t said a word since.
“You need to act damaged,” Dan had said, as he washed dye out over a bathroom sink.
Rorschach straightened, reached for a towel and muttered. Dan didn’t hear it, but Laurie, perched on the toilet, hair wrapped in peroxide and plastic, did.
“Will manage.”
She very nearly laughed at that.
His monotonic growl had always been the most distinctive thing, aside from the mask (which is probably still frozen into the snow). With dark hair, no voice and a pair of thick-framed non-prescription glasses, the local hospital has a new janitor.
Not exactly a social fella, but never shies away from a job.
They make a slightly normal family, friendly enough, keep to themselves. They don’t entertain; Sally cites William’s condition, but it’s just so people don’t ask why there’s no TV and only one bed.
Strictly speaking, they don’t all need jobs. They’ve lived on less, could do it again (though Laurie never wants to see another can of beans). It just makes them look normal while keeping them occupied. They can hide in stereotypes, in plain sight.
“What did he want?” Dan asks. His voice is quiet.
“One of our neighbours, Michael Every, is dead. Murdered, in his garage, as he was getting out of his car. They think it might have been that motorcycle gang that passed through.”
Dan nods, Rorschach doesn’t move. Laurie looks down at her hands, gloved by light from the setting sun singing through the front window.
Their first place had no windows. It was a one-bedroom walk-up in Brooklyn. They paid a pittance for it because nobody wanted to be so close to the thing, and because they had to deal with the blood stains.
They had only been there ten days when Rorschach put his foot through the television and stormed out. It made her glad there was no window; he probably would have smashed it on principle.
Dan chased after him as Laurie assured the landlord that they would pay for a replacement. They were gone for almost thirty hours. Laurie cursed all men and smoked like a chimney and ate nothing but graham crackers until they came back, scuffled and sweating and stinking. Dan looked apologetic and Rorschach looked like he might be smiling. She slapped the pair of them and took them to bed. It was thick fingers and whispered words and copper stubble and the grind of a broken rib (which she used to extract the promise to never never do that again).
Back then, they didn’t have enough money to go anywhere; only Laurie’s tips kept them in food. She got them both underpaid jobs as dishwashers through charm and flirting. By the time they left New York state, the diner manager had eight broken fingers.
“He was skimming from the till,” Dan said.
“Stealing still a crime,” Rorschach said.
Laurie didn’t complain, she had wanted to move on anyway.
“The cop wanted to know if we heard anything, particularly between 10 and 11 last night. I told him I was asleep, but my brother,” she stressed the word sarcastically, looking from her hands to his eyes, “And my husband were listening to the radio.”
She stares at Dan, who looks at Rorschach, who blinks. Her fists clench.
“You fucking idiot.” She advances on him. “You fucking,” she grabs him by the shoulders, “fucking,” pushes him into the wall, “selfish,” slams his head back, he slumps to the skirting board, “stupid,” she gasps, looking down. “Why aren’t you fighting. Bastard. Fight me.”
He looks up at her and she misses the mask, just for a moment. Dan is right up behind her, and she just knows his hand is hovering over her shoulder.
“He had children,” she spits.
“He raped children,” replies Dan.
There is no response to that, so she turns to Dan, who stares at her like Sam Hollis never existed. She sits, abruptly, like a toddler. “You sure?”
“At the hospital,” Rorschach says in his barely used voice. “Little girls always said it was him. He plays poker with police chief.”
She leans backward to rest her head on his outstretched leg. He puts a strangely chaste hand on her shoulder, like he’s Dan all of a sudden. She takes a deep breath.
“We should move.”
“Yeah,” Dan agrees as he sits down next to them, slowly.
“Not immediately,” Rorschach says, “too soon, draw suspicion.”
“Right.” Laurie sighs, puts her hand over his, and reaches for Dan. “You broke his neck?”
Rorschach nods.
“It's cleaner that way,” Dan concurs, stroking her palm with his thumb.
“Look. Guys, next time, just,” she bites her lip. “Just tell me.”
In the beginning, it was just a moment. An impulse. She really is her father’s daughter.
“Joking, of course.” Like the world is that simple. Like it’s black and white.
Jon looks at Rorschach just like he looks at everything, and maybe some of those tachyons have rubbed off, because she can see with perfect clarity, with crystal clear foresight, what will happen next. Honestly, she’s seen enough death to last her until the end of this or any other universe, and she’ll be damned if she’ll let one more person die, and he hasn’t seen New York, and she is so sick of that maddening mask, and no-one else pronounces “Ms. Juspeczyk” correctly, so she cold cocks him.
He crumples, like the tiny man he is. She crouches, pulls away the mask, and whispers in his ear, “The Comedian is dead. There is no more joking.” His eyelids flutter, but he’s not awake.
Veidt is talking, but she stopped caring. Dan runs one hand down her arm, one across Rorschach’s chest.
“We will look after him,” she whispers, to him, to herself.
“We’ll look after him,” Dan echoes, louder.
“I trust you will,” Veidt says calmly, walking out of the room.
BUT WAIT, THERE'S MORE
The three things sequel
The fic is, again, my personal OT3 of DOOM, Laurie/Dan/Rorschach (you know you're curious).
Props (or blame, as the case may be) must go to my twinspirations, i_am_your_spy and orangesparks. I stole their ideas and made a mutant clone idea of my own, which is what fanfic is all about, innit?
Also, much love and respect to quietprofanity, for a lightning round beta in which she clipped, neatened and corrected (no, I don't know the damn difference between the Arctic and Antarctica, and I'm not sure how everyone else does).
Concrit will be hugged.
Life or its reverse
One year to the day after a giant alien squid lands on New York, a uniformed policeman knocks on the door of a small house in a regular town in a mid-western state.
This is a coincidence.
The two events, however, are not unrelated.
The sex is weird. Of courseif Laurie had put any thought into it (if she had thought at all), it would have been obvious. Sex done right is emotional and physical intimacy of the highest sort, a revealing, tender, joyous event; an affirmation of life and a reminder of death. The closest two (or three) people can get.
Now try that with a couple of intense, neurotic, repressed, violent, affection-starved individuals, and Rorschach.
Sometimes they form a perfect feedback loop of pleasure and desire and pain. She can sink like she never wants to breathe again. Sometimes she wants just Dan to herself, his focused hunger and gentle hands. Sometimes she wants to wrap herself around Rorschach, hold him down until he explains all his nightmares. Sometimes all the goddamn limbs just get annoying and she wants the bed to herself. Sometimes they make her feel like she can touch the sky.
She doesn’t clearly remember the first time. The memory is blurred by shock and tears and the sound of snow.
The stench of death and blood, the scent of sweat and nostalgia.
A sharp cry that may or may not have been hers.
Fingernails dug deep into flesh, dull bruises all over. (Some things never change.)
What she remembers with clarity is what happened before and after. After was the flight out of Karnak. She woke (she didn’t remember falling asleep) from a nightmare. She then realised how much of it was true.
Those were Dan’s warm arms, though, not tentacles, and the floor of the Owlship was pressing against the side of her face, not a slab of bloodied concrete.
She can see the man steering them home. His face is lit by the console and angled Antarctic sun, a constellation of blood and freckles and bruises, tear tracks frozen in stark reflective relief.
She waits for them at the little kitchen table (linoleum), with a cup of coffee (black) with plenty of sugar (they buy in bulk).
Her boys arrive together. They are still in costume, which makes the discussion she wants to have slightly ridiculous. She waits until they’ve finished dinner, when they’ve relaxed. Rorschach stacks the last dish. Dan starts stripping off for bed.
She stands in the middle of the living room and announces, “A cop came ‘round earlier.” They walk in, from either side, Dan in pyjama pants and Rorschach with his uniform jumpsuit tied around his waist.
These are the costumes: chubby, blond, genial Sam Hollis, tinkerer and hardware store clerk, a good natured man who can tell you everything about a bird from its song; his slim blond wife, Sally, hard-working and only occasionally sad-eyed waitress; and finally, her brother, William.
William, whose wife and children (“Beautiful little girls,” says Sally quietly) were in New York. He was out of town (“On business,” but no-one’s ever asked what business), won’t forgive himself. Hasn’t said a word since.
“You need to act damaged,” Dan had said, as he washed dye out over a bathroom sink.
Rorschach straightened, reached for a towel and muttered. Dan didn’t hear it, but Laurie, perched on the toilet, hair wrapped in peroxide and plastic, did.
“Will manage.”
She very nearly laughed at that.
His monotonic growl had always been the most distinctive thing, aside from the mask (which is probably still frozen into the snow). With dark hair, no voice and a pair of thick-framed non-prescription glasses, the local hospital has a new janitor.
Not exactly a social fella, but never shies away from a job.
They make a slightly normal family, friendly enough, keep to themselves. They don’t entertain; Sally cites William’s condition, but it’s just so people don’t ask why there’s no TV and only one bed.
Strictly speaking, they don’t all need jobs. They’ve lived on less, could do it again (though Laurie never wants to see another can of beans). It just makes them look normal while keeping them occupied. They can hide in stereotypes, in plain sight.
“What did he want?” Dan asks. His voice is quiet.
“One of our neighbours, Michael Every, is dead. Murdered, in his garage, as he was getting out of his car. They think it might have been that motorcycle gang that passed through.”
Dan nods, Rorschach doesn’t move. Laurie looks down at her hands, gloved by light from the setting sun singing through the front window.
Their first place had no windows. It was a one-bedroom walk-up in Brooklyn. They paid a pittance for it because nobody wanted to be so close to the thing, and because they had to deal with the blood stains.
They had only been there ten days when Rorschach put his foot through the television and stormed out. It made her glad there was no window; he probably would have smashed it on principle.
Dan chased after him as Laurie assured the landlord that they would pay for a replacement. They were gone for almost thirty hours. Laurie cursed all men and smoked like a chimney and ate nothing but graham crackers until they came back, scuffled and sweating and stinking. Dan looked apologetic and Rorschach looked like he might be smiling. She slapped the pair of them and took them to bed. It was thick fingers and whispered words and copper stubble and the grind of a broken rib (which she used to extract the promise to never never do that again).
Back then, they didn’t have enough money to go anywhere; only Laurie’s tips kept them in food. She got them both underpaid jobs as dishwashers through charm and flirting. By the time they left New York state, the diner manager had eight broken fingers.
“He was skimming from the till,” Dan said.
“Stealing still a crime,” Rorschach said.
Laurie didn’t complain, she had wanted to move on anyway.
“The cop wanted to know if we heard anything, particularly between 10 and 11 last night. I told him I was asleep, but my brother,” she stressed the word sarcastically, looking from her hands to his eyes, “And my husband were listening to the radio.”
She stares at Dan, who looks at Rorschach, who blinks. Her fists clench.
“You fucking idiot.” She advances on him. “You fucking,” she grabs him by the shoulders, “fucking,” pushes him into the wall, “selfish,” slams his head back, he slumps to the skirting board, “stupid,” she gasps, looking down. “Why aren’t you fighting. Bastard. Fight me.”
He looks up at her and she misses the mask, just for a moment. Dan is right up behind her, and she just knows his hand is hovering over her shoulder.
“He had children,” she spits.
“He raped children,” replies Dan.
There is no response to that, so she turns to Dan, who stares at her like Sam Hollis never existed. She sits, abruptly, like a toddler. “You sure?”
“At the hospital,” Rorschach says in his barely used voice. “Little girls always said it was him. He plays poker with police chief.”
She leans backward to rest her head on his outstretched leg. He puts a strangely chaste hand on her shoulder, like he’s Dan all of a sudden. She takes a deep breath.
“We should move.”
“Yeah,” Dan agrees as he sits down next to them, slowly.
“Not immediately,” Rorschach says, “too soon, draw suspicion.”
“Right.” Laurie sighs, puts her hand over his, and reaches for Dan. “You broke his neck?”
Rorschach nods.
“It's cleaner that way,” Dan concurs, stroking her palm with his thumb.
“Look. Guys, next time, just,” she bites her lip. “Just tell me.”
In the beginning, it was just a moment. An impulse. She really is her father’s daughter.
“Joking, of course.” Like the world is that simple. Like it’s black and white.
Jon looks at Rorschach just like he looks at everything, and maybe some of those tachyons have rubbed off, because she can see with perfect clarity, with crystal clear foresight, what will happen next. Honestly, she’s seen enough death to last her until the end of this or any other universe, and she’ll be damned if she’ll let one more person die, and he hasn’t seen New York, and she is so sick of that maddening mask, and no-one else pronounces “Ms. Juspeczyk” correctly, so she cold cocks him.
He crumples, like the tiny man he is. She crouches, pulls away the mask, and whispers in his ear, “The Comedian is dead. There is no more joking.” His eyelids flutter, but he’s not awake.
Veidt is talking, but she stopped caring. Dan runs one hand down her arm, one across Rorschach’s chest.
“We will look after him,” she whispers, to him, to herself.
“We’ll look after him,” Dan echoes, louder.
“I trust you will,” Veidt says calmly, walking out of the room.
BUT WAIT, THERE'S MORE
The three things sequel