Disclaimer: I don't own the Watchmen or any of its characters. Wishful thinking aside.

Warnings: This is a story that connects to the movie-verse version of Watchmen. It is meant to connect to the universe of this fandom before the Keene Act (Cannon 1977). *I see this fiction as a sort of snapshot moment in both characters lives. One of those normal, relatively everyday moments that I figured might make an interesting character study. This is a Daniel centric-fic, with light Nite Owl II/Rorschach slash. Not your cup of tea? I suggest you pass it by. Still with me? Fabulous!

Authors Note #1: Please read and review. I am excited to see what you all think. I am open to comments, advice, and constructive criticism.

The Aisles in Between

Chapter 1

He managed to make it into the store just before the heavens opened, with the first few dappling drops all but chasing him inside as he slipped through the Pharmacy's front doors. Entering with an ominous flare of flickering power and the distant rumbling of far off thunder as the doors hushed closed behind him.

Too caught up in the close victory, he barely registered the somewhat scandalized noise coming from the cashier closest to the door when his entrance let in a powerful gust of wind and rain. Instead, somewhat fastidiously, he adjusted the hang of his coat, smoothing down his collar and running a hand through his wind mussed curls as he thoroughly enjoyed the sudden reprieve from the muggy spring weather.

It looked like they were in for it alright.

Ignoring the jarring, day glow coloured advertising, he crossed directly towards the stack of hand carts, fingers already slipping off his fogged up glasses, wiping them unobtrusively on a free shirt sleeve as he went. Inwardly cursing when his fingers slipped across the slick, rain beaded surface, nearly dropping them completely on the unforgiving laminate below.

It was both the lingering soreness in his chest and the depressingly empty nature of his medical cabinet that had brought him here. He could tell that the injury was already well on the mend, with the acute pain of only a few hours previous having subsided into an angry maw of vicious looking bruises and muscle sprains. It was a condition that had only been aggravated by the fact that his ribs were still sporting a few unwanted souvenirs from a particularly nasty fight the night before. When a gang of would be street thugs had not taken kindly to the fact that both Rorschach and himself had caught them all red handed, breaking into a bank on initiation night. It just figured that one of the stupid sons of bitches would manage to land blow with a crowbar that scored across the entirety of his damaged rib cage, further inflaming the tender, but healing injury.

Cocked up little bastards.

Though since Rorschach had all but round house kicked the little unmentionable into a trash bin on his behalf, he figured that at the end of things, the offence had been properly rectified. With the man circling around to help him up before they dove right back into the fray. Side by side and fists-a-flying..

It was funny, but before he had even heard of Watchmen and civilian costume crime fighting, he had always figured that First Aid kits and well stocked medical cabinets were simply metaphors for the well prepared den mother. Something that you generally always forgot you had, and thus never found the opportunity to use. Like those little fire extinguishers one often keeps under the kitchen sink. Mouldering into relative obscurity under a thick layer of dust and grime until a year or two goes flying by and just when you manage to somehow set the Christmas roast on fire, and remember that you actually have it, you realize that the damn thing is close to five years expired.

It was a fact that he ironically knew from personal experience..

But now, what with the rather violent nature of his newly adopted profession, such things had come to hold all the necessity and precedence as the sole life preserver aboard a doomed passenger liner. They had literally everything a busy Watchman needed, save for the occasional dose of morphine or anaesthetic. Of course, that was an effect that Rorschach, ever the unconventional problem solver, seemed to prefer solving with a swift blow to the back of the head rather then bandying about with the real thing.

Again something that he unfortunately knew from personal experience.

He grimaced at the mere memory. Recalling the hot rush of warm crimson streaming down from the torn flesh of his thigh, the sight of sliced open Kevlar peeling away like a second skin, the melding colors stark and horrible as static suddenly overtook his vision. And the last thing he knew before the lights went out was the sensation of Rorschach's harsh pants ghosting along the span of his cheek, his voice pitching strangely, all based tones and discomforted inflections as they echoed in his greedy ears.

The gash had only just missed the femoral artery. And once he had recovered, it had taken them a few tense days, ripe with a bit too much overly familiar man-handling before they were eventually able to get over it. Admittedly, it had definitely been a close call. A bit too close if he was being honest.

But he shook the errant thought away, suddenly all too aware of the brush of his trousers as they rubbed across the lightly raised scar tissue, the earthy brown fabric crowning the outline of the close row of impeccably neat stitching from through the thin cloth. He had never realized that Rorschach's hands, hands that had caused such carnage and destruction could be channelled into something gentle, and almost painfully delicate..

'Enough.' He told himself sternly. Clearing his throat pointedly, and glaring over at the display of hypoallergenic wound cream with notable determination. No sense in thinking thoughts like that. God knows nothing good ever came out of them… He coughed into his collar, neck flushing a brilliant shade of near puce as his irritation and confusion rose.

….Besides, with the way they had both being going lately, he knew it never hurt to be prepared….

He headed straight towards the medical treatments aisle and soon attracted the attention of the rather nosey cashier from the front. Who was now eying his quickly growing mound of purchases with a distinctly suspicious air. Though, in the woman's defence, he supposed that it wasn't every day that a fully grown man walks in from the street and proceeds to practically buy out the store's entire selection of gauze strips and medical tape.

Apparently the old adage still held true, different strokes for different folks..

He arched a surprised brow when the sound of the rain pinging off the stores tin shingled roof suddenly increased into an audible downpour. Perfect. But even that term didn't quite seem to do the sound justice. This was a veritable monsoon! With the metallic clackity-clack morphing into a brazened roar, drowning out the radio entirely as the sound seemed to only grow and grow.

God he hated spring.

He was just musing over the rather overwhelming selection of antiseptic brands when out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of a sopping wet blur of fire red and forest green looming just outside the store's wall length windows. And after he pushed his glasses further up against the bridge of his nose, he turned just in time to watch as the homeless man from the newspaper stand across the street slipped through the stores automatic doors..

The man slumped in with muted fan fair, stubbornly walking with the same, evenly measured pace as men and women alike pushed briskly past him, holding sodden newspapers above their heads and complaining loudly about the sudden downpour as they edged carefully around him.

Almost as if he carried some sort of disease that they desperately didn't want to catch…

He wasn't sure exactly which side to take however, when he realized that even from the distance the man smelt remarkably reminiscent of a wet dog. ..With mange. In fact he acted like one as well, doing absolutely nothing to belay the impression as he shook the moisture out of his hair and threadbare brown suit like a stray mutt coming in from out of the rain. His olive shirt darkened to a near coal black hue as crooked fingers raked through his short neon red hair, the strands sticking up like unruly arrows from his freckled scalp. Not even so much as twitching in discomfort when his soaked sneakers made an atrocious, and completely offensive squelching noise as he stalked down the store's main aisle.

And much like dominoes, the man's rather unseemly entrance and indeed likely his appearance as well, gained him the attention of the cashier at the register. Now too busy with giving the other man the stink eye as he dripped all across the pristine, overly waxed floors, then to pay his somewhat questionable purchasing habits any more mind.

The unexpected reprieve from the near constant scrutiny was almost akin to a physical sort of release. He'd never quite been comfortable with the scrutiny of others. Regardless of if was merited or not.

But if the man noticed, or even cared he gave no outward sign. His brilliant, but still inscrutable blue eyes doing a quick circuit of the place before crossing immediately towards the aisle closest to his position by the door. Almost as if it were a conscious, tactical decision rather then an off hand personal choice. And wasn't that just a thought?

When he caught sight of him next, in between crossing over to the next aisle to linger over choices of anti fungal wound fillers and packing gauze, he found the man deeply immersed in the hair coloring section, his lips twisted in a disquieted expression that could have meant anything from outright horror to unmediated consideration.

Indeed the man was gazing at the hair dyes with such focus and sincerely that he was half tempted to actually believe him, despite knowing full well that the man was likely only looking for a reprieve from the increasingly foul weather. Privately he felt strangely appeased by that fact. After all, in his book, anyone sporting that degree of unique natural color had full merit to flaunt it.

How would one even go about classifying that color anyway? Red? Orange? Sunset crimson under a smothering band of high flung pollution and fog? It was nearly impossible to tell. It was almost as if, much like everything else surrounding the mysterious man, that the definition itself was being deliberately elusive..and indeed quite indefinable.

He smiled internally at the thought before turning back towards his quarry, throwing in two packages a piece of antiseptic cream and isopropyl alcohol for good measure, recalling the time when Rorschach had sliced the back of his calf open on that rusty pipe along the south alley of 193rd and Saint Nicholas Avenue. He had had to practically sit on the man in order to get him to stay still long enough to dab on a splotch of antiseptic and stitch up the wound.

Oh right..That reminded him, he needed a new suture kit as well..

He worked his way through a quick mental checklist, ticking off the items with a few unconscious flicks of his fingers as he went. It was actually surprisingly lengthily this time. Even Hollis had mentioned something about a Sea Salt soak on his last visit, recommending it as the cure all for sore muscles and persistent bruises.

The older man apparently swore by it. But privately he was somewhat less then convinced. For one, he could count on both hands the number of baths he had actually head after moving into the Brownstone… But inevitably he figured that it couldn't hurt to indulge the older man.

After all, Hollis had never steered him wrong before.

He was just arching his neck to read the aisle sign above his head as he retrieved his buggy, weaving his way aimlessly through the sparse afternoon crowds on his way to the aisle the next one over, when like an angel falling clear from heaven, that was when he finally saw her…

A/N #1: Please let me know what you think, and indeed if I should continue? This is much less of an action based story then I am used to writing, and it is my first Daniel-centric story to boot, so I am unsure about the response. Thus, if there is interest I will most definitely continue it! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love!

Glossary:

*Isopropyl Alcohol: Is rubbing alcohol for cleaning and sterilizing wounds. A basic must in self wound care.