for: silver_fyrefly, from: anonymous
[Note: This is a special fill from last year's round of Secret Santa. A kind Anonymous stepped forward to pinch-hit. Thanks, Anonymous!]
Author: Anonymous
For: silver_fyrefly
Title: After
Rating: G
Characters: Dan, Walter
Warnings: N/A
Summary: Post-Karnak AU. Walter and Dan travel across America.
The old, beat-up car pulls over gravel into an electric station. Earlier, Daniel muttered that he had to use the restroom, and anyway they were low on energy, so when the sign claimed that a station was only twelve miles away - with clean bathrooms! - he filled ten minutes with prattle about all the ways gas stations have changed, on and on. He’s quiet now as he unbuckles and shoves the door open with his shoulder. The smell of dust and oil hits Walter and he turns his face away from it. Cold air rushes into the car, haunting the tips of his ears.
“Wait here,” Daniel instructs.
Walter waits until Daniel’s inside the store, then unbuckles and shoulders his way out of the car. The bumper is gone; neither of them know what happened to it, only that one morning they checked out of their motel and found it gone. Casting the car a disdainful look, Walter stalks towards the wheat-colored grass behind the gas station. Daniel doesn’t quite know how cloying his presence is, doesn’t understand how difficult it can be. Watching him. His hands sure on the steering wheel. The winter wind cuts through Walter’s flimsy clothes.
He could go anywhere. Alone, free of regrets. Be who he should be, instead of who he is. Walter tips his chin back to stare at the washed silver clouds that hang like omens. A man on the radio told them that they’re headed for snow.
It would be so very easy to continue past the field into the forest beyond. To disappear. Never be found.
The bell tinkles; Dan calls, “Have a good one!”
Walter turns around again.
-
“How about that one?” Dan asks, pointing at a yellow billboard. Free continental breakfast! It promises. One hundred and fifteen miles away. Walter grunts. Fine, the grunt says, and it also says None of it matters, and You shouldn’t waste the money and, despite everything I trust your judgment, Nite Owl, a recurring theme in Rorschach’s life, one that has reconstituted itself as a habit in just a few weeks.
“Seems homey,” Daniel says. Drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “I just hope it’s cheap.”
Walter leans back in his chair, doing his best to ignore Daniel.
“That last one, I don’t know, that was pretty sleazy. Though I guess it’s better than nothing. I still want to know what that stain was, the one over the window?”
“Mold.”
Dan snorts - the closest he’s come to laughing lately, his mouth crooked in a tired line and eyes half-lit. “That’s no mold I’ve ever seen.”
“Daniel,” the two syllables a switchblade. Walter knows that he shouldn’t be curt. Daniel has always sought levity in situations, has always tried to gloss over reality with silly jokes and meaningless admonitions like It’s okay and I’m here, as if either of those mean anything, as if either have ever been true - but Walter knows he means well. He just wishes he wouldn’t.
The humor goes out of Daniel’s face. He looks withdrawn, tired again. The bleach in his hair only makes it worse. “Just making small talk…”
Walter flips on the radio.
-
They stop at a diner in a town that’s small enough to fit all of its inhabitants into a single apartment building. Daniel has spent the last two months cajoling, reassuring, bargaining, and, on rare occasions, snapping, all to convince Walter to let his guard down. He insists that no one will recognize him, that the shock of November 2nd has wiped the world before 1985 from everyone’s memories. Walter must admit that he does not know the face in the mirror. But he’s not so easy to assuage, and through their tired exodus across America, he’s refused to accept that they’re safe.
He has not told Daniel, but they were followed for two weeks, until Rorschach crawled out from his grave. He’s not convinced that their tail stopped there.
On occasion, someone will look into Walter’s face with something close to recognition - curious, as if the dour lines of his face are pulling them out of a stupor and into the past, where violent men openly cut each other down. Usually it fades back into a pleasant blankness, and Walter can almost hear their thoughts. That kind of man wouldn’t be here. He wouldn’t be side-by-side with a mild-mannered middle-aged gentleman, wouldn’t order pancakes with powdered sugar.
Their current waitress is either too sharp or too paranoid. Inflated ego, perhaps, if her carefully done-up hair and face is any indication. Clearly a frivolous, loose woman - and clearly a problem. She’s whispering to the other waitresses behind the bar, all of them pointedly not looking at their table. Walter kicks Daniel’s foot. When Daniel’s eyes flick up, he glances over - kicks again for good measure.
Daniel takes a bite of his sandwich. His free hand drifts to the black suitcase at his side.
One of the waitresses goes into the back; their waitress - Hello, my name is Meg - saunters back with a forced smile, carrying a pitcher of rootbeer. “You boys need topped?”
Daniel maneuvers his glass to her end of the table, touches a napkin to his mouth. “Thanks.”
She pours more into both glasses - Walter catches her glancing at him out of the corner of her eye and stares at her, unblinking. “So - where you headed?”
“Montana,” Dan replies calmly. “Funeral in the family.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. It sure is pretty country up there, though…” Her eyes flicker to Walter again.
“Actually,” Dan says, just a little louder, “I was wondering - do you have any ranch? For the fries.”
“Sure thing hun,” she says, all smiles, and hurries to the kitchen.
Walter scoots his hand closer to the center of the table - flips his palm up and crooks his index finger toward his head: She knows.
Daniel frowns, takes another bite. Mustard drips forlornly to the plate.
Gritting his teeth, Walter withdraws his hand. Someone peers out into the lobby. He hears it: Rorschach, whispered, awed.
Daniel stops chewing, meets Walter’s eyes.
The manager comes out with a bottle of ranch. “Here you go,” he’s saying, and he asks a question but Walter can’t hear it, his head spinning with adrenaline. They must have already called the police.
“Actually,” Dan says, “I’d really like that sundae - the caramel one? Could you maybe - “
And the manager’s looking at Walter, asking if he wants anything, but blood pounds in Walter’s ears and he doesn’t trust that Rorschach’s gravel won’t scrape from his throat.
“We’ll share,” Daniel says.
The manager backs away, reluctant. The police must already be on their way; perhaps the staff has been advised to keep them where they are.
“Need to use the restroom,” Walter says, meaning: I’ll be in the car.
Daniel nods. “I’ll save you some,” half-joking. (I’ll meet you there.)
From the bathroom, Walter forces the tiny, filthy window open and jimmies out, the window frame scraping his shoulders. Sirens bay down the road, just a faint echo for now, and something crawls over Walter’s skin. Daniel probably can’t hear the sirens yet. For a second, Walter can imagine Daniel’s expression when he hears it - taut, serious, not afraid. Nite Owl lurking in the corners of his eyes.
Walter waits behind the dumpster, not willing to run for the car if someone is watching out the windows. It’s a shame. The town seems pleasant enough, and the men who hunt him will be misguided, working for what they think is right - Walter begrudges them their naivete, but must admit he’ll regret if he has to kill one of them.
The wind nips at Walter’s ears; the sirens don’t crescendo but stay steady. There is a fishing shop down the road. Its sign swings slowly with the wind, the faded letters a beacon in the dreary suspension. Daniel is taking longer than he should. There - the sirens go around some distant curve, start to scream against the trees. Walter shudders.
A touch on his shoulder. Daniel leans to his ear, whispers, “Great. Want to chance it?”
The sirens echo horribly in Walter’s ears. Their few provisions are locked away in the backseat of the car, but the important things - money, maps, identification, their costumes - are either on Dan or in the suitcase at his side.
“Leave it.”
The brush line isn’t far - Walter starts for it, crouching. Daniel hesitates - but the flashing lights flicker against the trees and he turns, follows Walter into the wilderness.
-
The sirens fade as they push through the bramble, and then stop, abrupt as death. Walter doesn’t glance back; he thinks he can hear car doors - open, slam, open - and voices in the distance, but he ignores them and focuses instead on his brimming body. He is not used to fear, not after so long without it, and he almost takes his old face from his pocket. Almost. Daniel moves around him, traces his hand along his shoulder as he does, and takes the lead. He knows nature better than Walter ever could.
They hurry, silent as the prickly, agitated woods will allow. The faint light goes mute as the canopy closes in.
Daniel’s breath comes in sucking gasps. A rhythmic beat that settles in Walter’s stomach.
An hour later, they hear the dogs.
Daniel freezes, his hair frayed, the bangs jutting out like horns. His hand drifts to his pocket where the compass is - drifts away. He doesn’t need it. He belongs here, in the draping quiet of the forest, his reddened cheeks and breath crystallizing in the winter air, his senses stretching out across the forest. Walter feels incompetent, lumbering next to him. Without the city’s concrete crevices to camouflage him, he is dissected, vulnerable.
“There’s a creek nearby, if I’m remembering right,” Daniel says after a length. “If we follow it downstream that should hopefully throw the dogs off.”
Walter has his doubts, but he follows Daniel through the underbrush.
Fifteen minutes later, they reach the creek, Daniel winded from the hike but proud as he stands at the bank. Walter balls his hands into fists, listening to the howling dogs - they sound so close. They wade in, the cold water biting up to their flanks. The water is freezing, but Daniel doesn’t head for the bank, instead turning downstream and moving carefully across the rocky bed. Twilight settles in, pink and hazy, as they go, and Walter’s entire body is shaking by the time Daniel finally moves towards the opposite bank. When Walter reaches the other side, Daniel clasps his arm and helps him out.
“Let’s go just a little further.”
-
By Daniel’s judgment, they’ve gone two more miles before he asks Walter to find some dry wood to start a fire. They’re both shivering still from the creek and from the threat of being found. When Walter returns with some wood, Daniel is nursing a tiny flame with dry bits of leaves and twigs, the same look of concentration on his face as he once wore when working in the depths of his ship. Walter hates him for it. But Walter is not petty, and he merely kneels down and sets the wood beside Daniel.
They sit quietly together and listen for the sounds of man.
Author: Anonymous
For: silver_fyrefly
Title: After
Rating: G
Characters: Dan, Walter
Warnings: N/A
Summary: Post-Karnak AU. Walter and Dan travel across America.
The old, beat-up car pulls over gravel into an electric station. Earlier, Daniel muttered that he had to use the restroom, and anyway they were low on energy, so when the sign claimed that a station was only twelve miles away - with clean bathrooms! - he filled ten minutes with prattle about all the ways gas stations have changed, on and on. He’s quiet now as he unbuckles and shoves the door open with his shoulder. The smell of dust and oil hits Walter and he turns his face away from it. Cold air rushes into the car, haunting the tips of his ears.
“Wait here,” Daniel instructs.
Walter waits until Daniel’s inside the store, then unbuckles and shoulders his way out of the car. The bumper is gone; neither of them know what happened to it, only that one morning they checked out of their motel and found it gone. Casting the car a disdainful look, Walter stalks towards the wheat-colored grass behind the gas station. Daniel doesn’t quite know how cloying his presence is, doesn’t understand how difficult it can be. Watching him. His hands sure on the steering wheel. The winter wind cuts through Walter’s flimsy clothes.
He could go anywhere. Alone, free of regrets. Be who he should be, instead of who he is. Walter tips his chin back to stare at the washed silver clouds that hang like omens. A man on the radio told them that they’re headed for snow.
It would be so very easy to continue past the field into the forest beyond. To disappear. Never be found.
The bell tinkles; Dan calls, “Have a good one!”
Walter turns around again.
-
“How about that one?” Dan asks, pointing at a yellow billboard. Free continental breakfast! It promises. One hundred and fifteen miles away. Walter grunts. Fine, the grunt says, and it also says None of it matters, and You shouldn’t waste the money and, despite everything I trust your judgment, Nite Owl, a recurring theme in Rorschach’s life, one that has reconstituted itself as a habit in just a few weeks.
“Seems homey,” Daniel says. Drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “I just hope it’s cheap.”
Walter leans back in his chair, doing his best to ignore Daniel.
“That last one, I don’t know, that was pretty sleazy. Though I guess it’s better than nothing. I still want to know what that stain was, the one over the window?”
“Mold.”
Dan snorts - the closest he’s come to laughing lately, his mouth crooked in a tired line and eyes half-lit. “That’s no mold I’ve ever seen.”
“Daniel,” the two syllables a switchblade. Walter knows that he shouldn’t be curt. Daniel has always sought levity in situations, has always tried to gloss over reality with silly jokes and meaningless admonitions like It’s okay and I’m here, as if either of those mean anything, as if either have ever been true - but Walter knows he means well. He just wishes he wouldn’t.
The humor goes out of Daniel’s face. He looks withdrawn, tired again. The bleach in his hair only makes it worse. “Just making small talk…”
Walter flips on the radio.
-
They stop at a diner in a town that’s small enough to fit all of its inhabitants into a single apartment building. Daniel has spent the last two months cajoling, reassuring, bargaining, and, on rare occasions, snapping, all to convince Walter to let his guard down. He insists that no one will recognize him, that the shock of November 2nd has wiped the world before 1985 from everyone’s memories. Walter must admit that he does not know the face in the mirror. But he’s not so easy to assuage, and through their tired exodus across America, he’s refused to accept that they’re safe.
He has not told Daniel, but they were followed for two weeks, until Rorschach crawled out from his grave. He’s not convinced that their tail stopped there.
On occasion, someone will look into Walter’s face with something close to recognition - curious, as if the dour lines of his face are pulling them out of a stupor and into the past, where violent men openly cut each other down. Usually it fades back into a pleasant blankness, and Walter can almost hear their thoughts. That kind of man wouldn’t be here. He wouldn’t be side-by-side with a mild-mannered middle-aged gentleman, wouldn’t order pancakes with powdered sugar.
Their current waitress is either too sharp or too paranoid. Inflated ego, perhaps, if her carefully done-up hair and face is any indication. Clearly a frivolous, loose woman - and clearly a problem. She’s whispering to the other waitresses behind the bar, all of them pointedly not looking at their table. Walter kicks Daniel’s foot. When Daniel’s eyes flick up, he glances over - kicks again for good measure.
Daniel takes a bite of his sandwich. His free hand drifts to the black suitcase at his side.
One of the waitresses goes into the back; their waitress - Hello, my name is Meg - saunters back with a forced smile, carrying a pitcher of rootbeer. “You boys need topped?”
Daniel maneuvers his glass to her end of the table, touches a napkin to his mouth. “Thanks.”
She pours more into both glasses - Walter catches her glancing at him out of the corner of her eye and stares at her, unblinking. “So - where you headed?”
“Montana,” Dan replies calmly. “Funeral in the family.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. It sure is pretty country up there, though…” Her eyes flicker to Walter again.
“Actually,” Dan says, just a little louder, “I was wondering - do you have any ranch? For the fries.”
“Sure thing hun,” she says, all smiles, and hurries to the kitchen.
Walter scoots his hand closer to the center of the table - flips his palm up and crooks his index finger toward his head: She knows.
Daniel frowns, takes another bite. Mustard drips forlornly to the plate.
Gritting his teeth, Walter withdraws his hand. Someone peers out into the lobby. He hears it: Rorschach, whispered, awed.
Daniel stops chewing, meets Walter’s eyes.
The manager comes out with a bottle of ranch. “Here you go,” he’s saying, and he asks a question but Walter can’t hear it, his head spinning with adrenaline. They must have already called the police.
“Actually,” Dan says, “I’d really like that sundae - the caramel one? Could you maybe - “
And the manager’s looking at Walter, asking if he wants anything, but blood pounds in Walter’s ears and he doesn’t trust that Rorschach’s gravel won’t scrape from his throat.
“We’ll share,” Daniel says.
The manager backs away, reluctant. The police must already be on their way; perhaps the staff has been advised to keep them where they are.
“Need to use the restroom,” Walter says, meaning: I’ll be in the car.
Daniel nods. “I’ll save you some,” half-joking. (I’ll meet you there.)
From the bathroom, Walter forces the tiny, filthy window open and jimmies out, the window frame scraping his shoulders. Sirens bay down the road, just a faint echo for now, and something crawls over Walter’s skin. Daniel probably can’t hear the sirens yet. For a second, Walter can imagine Daniel’s expression when he hears it - taut, serious, not afraid. Nite Owl lurking in the corners of his eyes.
Walter waits behind the dumpster, not willing to run for the car if someone is watching out the windows. It’s a shame. The town seems pleasant enough, and the men who hunt him will be misguided, working for what they think is right - Walter begrudges them their naivete, but must admit he’ll regret if he has to kill one of them.
The wind nips at Walter’s ears; the sirens don’t crescendo but stay steady. There is a fishing shop down the road. Its sign swings slowly with the wind, the faded letters a beacon in the dreary suspension. Daniel is taking longer than he should. There - the sirens go around some distant curve, start to scream against the trees. Walter shudders.
A touch on his shoulder. Daniel leans to his ear, whispers, “Great. Want to chance it?”
The sirens echo horribly in Walter’s ears. Their few provisions are locked away in the backseat of the car, but the important things - money, maps, identification, their costumes - are either on Dan or in the suitcase at his side.
“Leave it.”
The brush line isn’t far - Walter starts for it, crouching. Daniel hesitates - but the flashing lights flicker against the trees and he turns, follows Walter into the wilderness.
-
The sirens fade as they push through the bramble, and then stop, abrupt as death. Walter doesn’t glance back; he thinks he can hear car doors - open, slam, open - and voices in the distance, but he ignores them and focuses instead on his brimming body. He is not used to fear, not after so long without it, and he almost takes his old face from his pocket. Almost. Daniel moves around him, traces his hand along his shoulder as he does, and takes the lead. He knows nature better than Walter ever could.
They hurry, silent as the prickly, agitated woods will allow. The faint light goes mute as the canopy closes in.
Daniel’s breath comes in sucking gasps. A rhythmic beat that settles in Walter’s stomach.
An hour later, they hear the dogs.
Daniel freezes, his hair frayed, the bangs jutting out like horns. His hand drifts to his pocket where the compass is - drifts away. He doesn’t need it. He belongs here, in the draping quiet of the forest, his reddened cheeks and breath crystallizing in the winter air, his senses stretching out across the forest. Walter feels incompetent, lumbering next to him. Without the city’s concrete crevices to camouflage him, he is dissected, vulnerable.
“There’s a creek nearby, if I’m remembering right,” Daniel says after a length. “If we follow it downstream that should hopefully throw the dogs off.”
Walter has his doubts, but he follows Daniel through the underbrush.
Fifteen minutes later, they reach the creek, Daniel winded from the hike but proud as he stands at the bank. Walter balls his hands into fists, listening to the howling dogs - they sound so close. They wade in, the cold water biting up to their flanks. The water is freezing, but Daniel doesn’t head for the bank, instead turning downstream and moving carefully across the rocky bed. Twilight settles in, pink and hazy, as they go, and Walter’s entire body is shaking by the time Daniel finally moves towards the opposite bank. When Walter reaches the other side, Daniel clasps his arm and helps him out.
“Let’s go just a little further.”
-
By Daniel’s judgment, they’ve gone two more miles before he asks Walter to find some dry wood to start a fire. They’re both shivering still from the creek and from the threat of being found. When Walter returns with some wood, Daniel is nursing a tiny flame with dry bits of leaves and twigs, the same look of concentration on his face as he once wore when working in the depths of his ship. Walter hates him for it. But Walter is not petty, and he merely kneels down and sets the wood beside Daniel.
They sit quietly together and listen for the sounds of man.