Yeah. So. My first Captcha fic. Just something I cracked up while in my climatology class. I'm still working on Realities, don't worry – just fighting a bit with how I want the chapters formatted. My prompts were "September" and "brother." Just a camaraderie fic – could be a bit more, if you squint and turn your head to the left and put your finger on your nose and hop up and down on your tiptoes.

Brothers in September.

Leaves in metro New York didn't change like they did farther north. Just a short trip up Metro North to the Beacon train station, right on the Hudson – the trees were swaddled in a riot of color. Oranges and yellows brighter than the sun and reds so vibrant they looked like they were painted lined both sides of the river, and on clear days, you could see from Peekskill to Poughkeepsie, from West Point to Marlboro. Throngs of weekenders – "cidiots" – would come to take pictures, oooo and aaaahhhh, then leave.

But inside city limits, the leaves did not enjoy the change of their country cousins. They went from sickly green to a day indeterminent brown.

Not that Daniel Dreiberg particularly cared. Pushing his way out of the Gunga Diner, he barely glanced at the crossing sign before ambling across the crosswalk. The mass of humanity before him lurched, and he resisted the childish urge to reach into his pocket, pluck out a few subway tokens, and start hucking them at people.

It was a humid Indian summer day in late September, and he regretted wearing long sleeves. He'd been feeling a little off all day, and the press of semi-washed bodies presented a new aspect of stench that made his toes curl and stomach clench.

By the time he got home, he felt even worse. His stomach was now in a full-fledged churn, his eyes felt gritty, and everything ached. He felt like he had spent his day stuck in traffic on the GSP. The leftovers from the diner were tossed carelessly in the fridge, and the faint smell that clings to the inside of every refrigerator is what did him in.

Hand over mouth, he bolted for the bathroom, making it just in time, thankful he had left the seat and lid up.

Hacking and retching, lunch and breakfast joined dinner in the bowl. The aroma made him ill all over again, as did the quick view he got after he wrenched his watering eyes open.

He pressed his forehead against the blessedly cool porcelain of the toilet and mustered everything he could in an aborted effort to stand. Just the thought of motion sent him over the precipice again, and everything he had even thought of eating over the last day made an unwanted reappearance.

Hours passed, and still he kept retching, coughing up phlegm and bile. So beyond the point of misery was he that he didn't even register the presence behind him until a gloved hand was placed on his shoulder.

At this point, it could have been Big Figure and the Underboss both, and he wouldn't have cared, as long as they put him out of his misery. He croaked, throat too dry and ravaged by bile to really speak. The hand left and reappeared, now gloveless, on his brow.

It hurt and he whimpered, uncaring of how manly he must sound, focusing only on how very cool it was. He nearly cried in relief, weakly pressing towards the welcome touch.

"Hurm," was the only sound he processed out of the presence's mumblings, but that single syllable put him at ease as no other could. If Rorschach had found him, odds are he wouldn't die from whatever he had. His partner might put him out of his misery, in fact, if he deemed him unsaveable. It was a notion that Daniel considered to be a valid option.

He must have blacked out, because next thing he knew, he was in bed, clad only in boxers, under a crisp sheet. A damp washcloth appeared on his forehead, and a cup appeared at his lips. He drank obediently, suddenly thirsty beyond belief. The cup pulled away, and he drifted back into the darkness.

He woke with a start. His room was bathed in sunlight, and a quick glance at his battered alarm clock indicated a time well into the afternoon. Had he slept all of the day before and through the night to this point? He must have, because he actually felt semi-human. The only sound in the room was the quiet tick from the clock, and the house had lost the mugginess of the day before.

He grabbed for his robe and pulled it tight, still feeling a bit woozy. Down the hallway and down the steps he padded, bare feet padding soundlessly against the hardwood of the floors. A flickering light came from the den, the only light in the otherwise dim downstairs. Padding down the hall, Dan stuck his head in.

And immediately suppressed a smile. Rorschach was sprawled in the recliner, mask up to his nose. His mouth hung open, red stubble showing on his chin. On the television, some conservative newscaster droned on in some mindless rant on how the Democrats were going to raise taxes and destroy the nation.

Pulling a throw from the sofa, Daniel draped it carefully across his partner, then padded back off to bed.

GSP – Garden State Parkway. One of the most evil roads on the eastern seaboard.

You might guess that I'm a New Yorker, just by the descriptions in the beginning. If you did, you're right. I live in the mid-Hudson Valley, and have the joy of driving the Taconic Parkway every day of my life. "Cidiots" – a local, bastardized word formed from "city" and "idiots" – are actually a major and legitimate hazard – especially in leaf season. Remember kids… it's NOT ok to stop on a major road, in traffic, because you saw a tree with pretty leaves.

Admittedly, this isn't my best work by far, but felt the need to post something while I work out Realities. I have roughly 2 chapters of that written, but figuring out how I want to lay it out is kicking my ass. That, and I'm carrying 17 credits this semester while working full time means I have no free time to live. 3 day holiday weekend - 11 hours doing homework Saturday, 14 yesterday, and another 8 today. And it's the first week of the term.