Watchmen and all its characters belong to Alan Moore, Dave Gibbons, DC Comics, and Warner Bros. Pictures. I make no profit from this story and it is a work of pure fiction.

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God help him, he couldn't even look at her, and here she was wanting the most physically intimate thing that they as human beings could possibly engage in. His mind was completely focused on the television screen and the face that glared from inside it, colors and light warped by the glow and by the cameras on the other side. That face filled every crevice of his mind.

Dan couldn't help but steal glances at the television even as he unbuttoned her blouse and revealed a white lacy bra, something that would have stirred his imagination if they were some twelve years in the past. He reached under her and unhooked the piece of lingerie, trying to hide the immense discomfort from his face and trying even harder not to look at the TV screen. Fuck. "…took his name after the Rorschach ink blot tests given by psychologists…" the reporter said.

"Anything yet?" Laurie asked him, bringing his attention momentarily back to her as he fondled her left breast. It was large and soft and feminine and utterly uninteresting to him. He was wailing inside his own brain, beating against the myelin sheath to tell it to send blood down to his groin or so help him God he was going to break something. His brain, in a moment of unprecedented cruelty, laughed in return and filled itself with crude images of a man wearing a white mask adorned with mirrored black ink blots. The mask was pushed up to the bridge of his nose, revealing lips pulled taut past teeth that were just a little bit too large, and the visible skin was flushed even despite colorless dark stubble lining the jaw and upper lip.

"Damn it, I'm sorry," he gushed, completely humiliated and frustrated with himself. He pulled back from her and sat upright on the couch, feeling that his pants seemed no tighter than when she had first grabbed him into an (unwelcome) unexpected kiss. Against his will, he turned his gaze toward the television where the picture still remained on screen, a mug shot of a pale man with copper hair sticking up from his bruised face. His partner.

She smiled gently and for a fraction of a second, Dan was filled with pure, blinding hatred for her pity and her condescension. It subsided when she said, "It's okay, really. Don't worry about it. Here, let's just sleep now."

And she turned the television volume low but kept it powered on, but when Dan disrobed and lay down beside her on the couch and faced away from the screen, all he could see was that pale face and those brown eyes staring right through the glass and into the living room. "With a whore, Daniel."

It was exactly what Rorschach would say to him, and Dan knew that he wouldn't raise his voice in protest. He put an arm around Laurie's waist and held her close, apologizing in his thoughts until he fell asleep. He prayed that she heard him.

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Life was good for Daniel Dreiberg. He was twenty-six years old in New York City, spending his days at home or in the library reading up on ornithology and ancient myths. And once the sun went down and the streets began to ooze with the malignant cancer that hid in the gutters by day, he was Nite Owl II, the famed vigilante whose crusades were detailed in the daily papers.

And right beside him, every night, was Rorschach. Dan admitted that the smaller man was just slightly unhinged, and more than a little pessimistic about New York and humanity in general. But no matter how many times Dan asked Rorschach what had caused his bitterness, what had happened to him earlier in life, the masked man only grunted and said, "I'll tell you someday."

They worked as the perfect team, bounding up fire escapes and across rooftops, through open windows and over dumpsters in their pursuit for the next mugger or child molester. Rorschach, for his brilliant logic in urgent situations, was not the greatest when it came to straight-up practicality. His physical strength was surprising, especially considering he was around five feet eight inches tall, and he had a tendency to beat criminals too cruelly, even after they confessed to whatever it was they'd done. Nite Owl acted as Rorschach's conscience, or at least as a physical restraint when he lost his temper. He was the problem solver and even put up a great fight when needed, but he didn't enjoy the wet crunch of noses underneath his knuckles. Nite Owl preferred to be a pacifist if at all possible.

Early June. The sky was streaked with stark oranges, violets, and reds ahead of the rising sun, and Dan lifted his goggles up onto his sweaty forehead. He and his partner were perched on top of one of the anonymous apartment buildings in the metropolis, resting after a long but satisfying night of serving justice to those who deserved it. Rorschach sat with his feet dangling over the edge of the building, munching idly on a churro he had purchased from a wary early-morning vendor. Dan stood a few feet next to him, bent over with his hands resting on the short wall that served as a perimeter around the roof.

"How's that churro?" Dan asked lightheartedly as his partner popped the rest of the snack in his mouth.

Rorschach grunted and wiped his gloved fingers on his purple pinstriped pants. "Not bad. I haven't had one in years, and I didn't know they made them in strawberry."

"Mmm, just like a breakfast pastry," Dan said, feeling the first pangs of morning hunger. "I'll have to remember to get one the next time we see that guy."

The half-masked vigilante turned and looked at Dan, the inkblots swirling lazily in the rising sunlight. "I could have bought you one."

Dan was flattered at the offer and raised a hand up. "No, it's okay. At least now I know they're worth it."

Rorschach studied his partner for a moment more, and then nodded and returned his gaze to the glowing horizon. Dan smiled, more to himself than anyone else, and felt content with things just the way they were. There was something strangely satisfying and yet terribly sad about the fact that he was the only person Rorschach could stand, and vice versa. He felt the glares and the looks filled with both pity and disdain that the other Watchmen aimed at Rorschach, and he didn't like it at all. They preached about protecting children and civilians, no matter who they were, and yet they looked at him like vermin because he didn't shower every day and he was brutally honest with anyone who asked his opinion.

Laurie/Silk Spectre II was the worst in the group. She blatantly sent Rorschach the most stuck-up sneers of distaste that Dan had witnessed, enough to make his own gut clench when he saw them. Rorschach ignored her just as openly, keeping his back to her when he could and refusing to acknowledge her voice. She was lovely, but cruel.

Dan stood up and stretched in the morning light, savoring the relieving crack in his spine. "Well, it's about time I head back to the Owlship. You want a ride, Rorschach?"

The trenchcoat-clad man shook his head, pulling his mask down over his chin once again. "No, I'm fine walking. Thanks for the offer."

Smiling, Dan patted his partner on the shoulder. "All right, man. I'll see you later tonight."

"Goodbye, Daniel."

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A.N.: Well, here's another Watchmen fanfic for everyone. I've basically rewritten Dan's relationships with both Laurie and Rorschach/Walter, because it just seemed awkward and a little fake in the book and the movie. Plus, I'm just selfish like that. So a fair warning, anyone who doesn't like slash shouldn't follow this.