Chapter Text
Stupid.
It is stupid to get split up like this.
Rorschach hits the pavement at a dead sprint, his breath condensing on the inside of his mask. A rookie mistake, no more forgivable and a hundred times more dangerous for the fact that they are rookies. The impact of his feet on asphalt jars his knees and shins, and he can feel the cold sweat under his uniform as he whips through the alleyways.
Stupid. Stupid. Where are you?
He's not panicking, has a tight control on himself, but there is a critical urgency spurring him on, setting his punishing pace.
Too easily goaded, lured away from his partner's back by juvenile insults. Should have kept his guard up, kept one eye on Nite Owl. He could have floored the punks quickly, but their taunts had touched a nerve he didn't know was exposed and he wanted to make them pay for it. Should have taken them down fast, because Nite Owl had his hands full, and they are both green enough that--
Left here, left again. Past the dilapidated doorway with peeling red paint, splashing through inky puddles, fans of broken glass crunching under the soles of his boots. He knows these streets like he knows his own face; here's where they were separated. Only one way, straight on here, past the abandoned tenements, then right. They can't have gone much further—
They—
Rorschach stops abruptly, ducks back into the shadows at the mouth of the alleyway. His knees and lungs scream in protest, he doubles over just to—
Just to catch his breath. He swallows, hard, straightens up. Makes himself look.
His legs feel like water. He galvanizes himself and surges into the throng of Knot Tops circling Nite Owl, takes out two of them before the rest scatter, discarding their weapons in their wake.
Rorschach takes a tentative step towards his partner, already bracing himself for the worst, already fighting the swell of grief. Outnumbered and alone, they did this to him.
He clenches his fists, cold fury prickling over his skin, displacing the despair.
Nite Owl hangs, hoisted from a fire escape by his cape. It's a grotesque parody of flight, not at all like that of the birds he is so fond of. His goggles are on the ground below him, crushed. There's blood on them, and as Rorschach watches, a patter of droplets fall from Nite Owl's suspended body.
He looks like a human punching-bag.
Rorschach forces himself forward, stripping a glove off. They did not have Nite Owl to play with for long, but he will not let himself hope. Not until--
He curls his fingers around Nite Owl's wrist, and swallows down on the wave of relief when he detects a stuttering pulse. No time for that, now. Priority is to get him down, and get him safe. Dawn is close, graying out the sky.
He knows where Nite Owl lives, has been invited back after patrol on many occasions. He took the man up on his offer once; he knows he's too far away to get them back before the city begins to stir. His apartment is closer. The idea makes his skin crawl with discomfort, but he is out of options.
Working swiftly at the cape, he tears the seams and carefully lowers his partner to slump over his shoulder. His legs almost buckle under his weight, body drained from physical and emotional exertion, adrenaline and relief leaving him shaky and weak.
*
Getting him up the fire escape is a trial, and Rorschach is increasingly concerned that he will be spotted in the dawn light, halfway up a fire escape with a mask in haul. He hauls Nite Owl onto his sill, climbs over him to drag him the rest of the way through. His heart is pounding hard in his chest. Tonight has been a very bad night.
He sets Nite Owl down on his cot, lamenting briefly the scant comfort of the mattress. It's the floor for him this morning, if he bothers sleeping at all.
The denizens of his tenement building are waking, already a dawn chorus of slamming and screaming, resonating through the walls. He pays them no heed, relegates them to insignificant background noise. He needs to listen to his partner.
Nite Owl's breathing is shallow; expected, considering the circumstances. Steady, though, and not wet. No punctured lung. Good. There's a rainbow of bruises developing, visible through the shredded spandex of his uniform. It looks like he was hit with a baseball bat. Likely has at least one cracked rib
A lot of blood. Not all his, Rorschach notes with some satisfaction.
Two fingers broken on his left hand, one on his right. Left ankle swelling up. Several deep gashes on his arms; defensive wounds. Rorschach continues his assessment with as much detachment as he can, a clinical litany to quell his anger.
Nite Owl's face is bruised and lacerated and ingrained with gravel.
Wrath threatens to melt Rorschach's dispassion, roiling in his gut. He clenches his fists, has to stand and pace around his room just to bear it. There will be vengeance tonight.
Rorschach grabs at his clothes, flings aside his fedora and trench and pinstripe jacket. He hesitates over his mask. He feels unsafe wearing it in this building, but would likely feel worse bare-faced, with it possible that Nite Owl could wake at any point. It must stay on. He rolls it up over his nose instead.
Grabbing a washcloth and bowl of water, he kneels at his partner's side. His meager cache of medical supplies are under his bed; he fishes them out.
Time becomes transient as he fixes Nite Owl, the shadows traveling across his floor in Fibonacci squares the only measure of time. He carefully cuts away the spandex that's stuck to his skin, teases the sheared fibers out of his wounds, bathes them with his facecloth. Splints his fingers, wraps them tightly with gauze. Sinks stitches into his arm.
He is as hesitant to remove Nite Owl's cowl as he was his own mask, but he needs to suture his chin. Rorschach takes care to make the stitches neat. He doesn't want it to scar. He doesn't stop to consider why.
Nite Owl almost surfaces as Rorschach tends to his battered ribs, briefly roused by the pain. His eyes remain closed, jitter behind the lids. A low groan escapes his split lips and Rorschach sucks in a breath, but he doesn't wake.
Rorschach smooths the sweaty hair back from Nite Owl's forehead, then pauses, surprised at his own gesture. Borne of guilt, or shame?
Tired. Just tired.
Hauling his only chair over to the bedside, Rorschach naps, shoulders hunched and hands tucked firmly under his arms.
*
Rorschach passes the next night a frenzied blur of fists and bones, retribution meted unflinchingly. Vengeance has form and he is etched in black and white, and he will make the city scream.
*
When he returns to his apartment, Nite Owl is sitting on the cot, running his fingers over the tidy row of stitches in his arm. The rising sun traces golden contours around his shoulders and ignites filaments of his hair. He looks up, and the depth of gratitude on his face is horrifying.