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Tonight was born and christened in the Comedian’s blood.
The man had been a true jackass, but also a mentor that Rorschach could appreciate.
They both lived and breathed violence, something the other masked heroes never understood.
The Comedian had been no saint, but at the end of the day could anything be said differently about the rest of them?
Rorschach’s standing in the doorway, waiting for Kotsya to invite him in. She knows he’s there, the door gave an ungodly screech when he’d opened it and Dogmeat had howled in reply without moving from her bedroom, but she’s lost in the soft song coming from the record player that lives under the sofa. There’s a book open on her lap and her head is resting against the back of the sofa, eyes closed as she quietly sings along.
It’s like forgetting the words to your favorite song.
The journal is heavy in his pocket and Kotsya hits a false note, the pitch too high for her low, warm voice.
You can’t believe it, you were always singing along.
There are only a handful of entries, all written in his clumsy, childish scrawl.
It was so easy, and the words so sweet.
He hopes that if Kotsya reads them, she’ll understand why he’s doing this. One person to know both of his faces and remember him. It means more to him then it ought to, but he can’t bring himself to care.
It’s more than the Comedian had.
The song ends.
“I didn’t think you’d stop by for a while yet,” she says. Her hair is dark with water from the shower, brushed back and braided. When she leans forward to lift the needle off the record he can see there’s a water spot across the back of her shirt, bleeding out from the wet braid like a bloodstain.
“Hadn’t planned on it.”
“There’s food in the fridge if you’re hungry. Had Indian a few days ago, should still be good.” Her eyes are already back on her book, but he doesn’t take offense. There’s something screwy with door of the small refrigerator, requiring him to put more effort than should be necessary into the opening of it. There are two cartons of orange juice, something that’s mostly mold in a plastic bottle, and a box of takeout. Rorschach leaves the mold alone and takes a carton of juice and the takeout. It’s heavier than it should be, but the last time he’d told Kotsya to eat more, she’d just leveled a glare at him. This time he doesn’t comment, just shovels spicy noodles into his mouth. Kotsya picks up her book and continues reading. They don’t talk until Rorschach is done eating and they’re passing the carton back and forth between them.
“How was jail?”
“Shitty.”
“How’s the leg?”
If he was the Comedian, he’d offer to drop his pants so she can see for herself. Instead he just shifts in his chair and says, “Fine. Healed nice.”
She nods and folds over a corner of the book to mark the page, trading it for the mason jar that lives on the window sill. A solid little glass pipe gets pulled out from between couch cushions (Rorschach is almost sitting on it) and he passes her the carton before she has a chance to open the jar. Just because he likes her doesn’t mean he’s suddenly okay with drugs. When she takes the juice from him Rorschach can see her hands starting to tremble and wonders how long she’s held off stuffing her head full of smoke. He wonders why she’d do that. When he takes the proffered carton back, his fingers accidentally brush hers and he watches her swallow down a yelp. She’s not able to stop the violent flinch at the touch though Rorschach is about to break her nose. He doesn’t comment on it, neither does Kotsya. They’re still those two battered children, sitting on a sofa and not saying a damn thing, and Kotsya finishes tamping down the shredded plant matter into the pipe. The she gets up to sit on the window ledge where she can blow smoke out into open air instead of in Rorschach’s breathing space. She tells him about the book she’s reading, Animal Farm. She says he’d probably like it, offers to read him a few pages when he tells her he doesn’t like to read. He says maybe next time and Kotsya shrugs, smiles. A cloud of smoke joins the ever-present smog of the city. Somewhere out in the night a child cries and Dogmeat comes trotting in from the bedroom.
“I’ve got a friend, lives up in Vermont. She’s coming to get him tomorrow.”
“You’ll miss him.”
“I can barely take care of myself, half the time I go hungry because I can’t make myself leave this apartment. Be better for him, up there. Sarah’ll take good care of him.”
Dogmeat rests his scarred, burly head on her knee and Kotsya scratches him behind the ears, a soft smile pulling at her lips. She will miss the beast, Rorschach can already see it swimming in her eyes when she looks up.
“You came to say something.”
He doesn’t ask how she knows.
“The Comedian is dead. We’re hunting down his killer.”
“You’ve got the Watchmen in on this?”
“Yeah.”
“So deal me in.”
She means loop her in. She’d told him that sometimes words get all scrambled in her head, one too many knocks as a child. Then she’d laughed and said, “At least I still remember the whole alphabet.” Like that even matters.
He tells her what he thinks is going to happen, up there in Ozymandias’ ice palace. He presses the journal into her hands, tells her to take the journal to a paper, get it out there so at least something will go right. He tells her to be careful, and then he turns to leave.
The last time Rorschach sees Kotsya she’s clutching his journal so tightly her knuckles are bleached white. Her eyes are wide, searching, like she’s committing him to memory. Then he turns his back on her, preparing for what he has to do. His hand is on the doorknob when she grabs him, a warmth on his back that radiates to his core. He can feel her face pressing into his back as she mutters, “I’m never going to see you again, am I?”
“Dunno.”
Her arms tighten around him, and for a second Rorschach wonders if he’s going to have to push her away from him. He doesn’t want to. Then she lets go and he wants her back, filling in the cold spot she’d left on his back, in his chest.
The door opens and Rorschach steps through, pulling it closed behind him.
She says, “I love you” quietly, almost inaudible over the click of the door, but he hears it.
It’s the last thing Rorschach ever hears Kotsya say.