#niteschach

"Not a bad night's work," Nite Owl says, coming to stand next to Rorschach on the lip of the rooftop. City crawls beneath them, sluggish in the predawn.

Rorschach grunts, kicks one of the gang's discarded knives off the edge of the building.  "Effective." Neither of them feel the blows that landed yet. Will later, once the adrenaline's flushed out and new fight is between pain and sleep. "But could have been cleaner."

Nite Owl turns to look at him, goggles reflecting bright city lights, mouth smiling. "Always a glass half empty kind of guy." 

A criticism, but not said like one. Rorschach braces himself for Nite Owl's inevitable onslaught of camaraderie. Difficult to deflect when he's in this kind of mood, thrill of the fight still in his blood. Forgets the borders of this young partnership, overextends. Leaves himself open.

"See, I think that's why we work together so well. Half empty and half full makes a whole glass."

The camaraderie is wearying. The pontificating on the nature of their relationship is worse.

"Filled with cold, hard reality. Should get moving before authorities decide to do their job."

"Right," Nite Owl says, cape agitated by a rising breeze. He bumps Rorschach's shoulder with his. "But let’s just take a sec, yeah? Just breathe it in."

"Smells like smog and degeneration." 

Nite Owl laughs, claps him on the back as though it were a fine joke. 

Mask endows purpose, brings justice to the forefront and strikes terror into foes, but is hard to glare at someone through it. Rorschach glowers anyway, lets ink do the talking.

But the thing about inkblots—

Nite Owl stares a moment. Leans in, and Rorschach makes a sound that might have been a warning but strangled itself in shock. Press of warmth through the latex. Disproportionate backdraft of heat through his body. Muscles spasm in attempt to recoil, tremors of (terror, disgust, desire) anger.

Rorschach makes his hands into fists and Nite Owl steps back abruptly.

"Whoa, uh. What the hell was that?" He laughs again, reedy this time as he scrambles for words. "Sorry, I didn’t mean—I mean, I don't know what I was thinking." 

He takes another step back, hands raised. Surrender, yes. Also warding, self defense.

Rorschach remains still, his instinct to immediately punish this transgression giving way to a strange pause. Thoughts loop in circles, a slipped gear. This is straightforward. The silence stretches uncomfortably while he tells himself he will not patrol with Nite Owl again. Shiny penny? No. Tarnished.

"Unexpected," he finally says. No need to burn bridges.

"Yeah... unexpected," Nite Owl echoes, colored with inexplicable relief. "Uh, forget it."