Title: What's In a Name?

Fandom: Watchmen

Characters: Nite Owl, Rorschach, Ozymandias

Word Count: 2,357

Summary: An unexpected meeting with Ozymandias drags up old memories for Rorschach.

February 1977, 2:08 a.m.

He used to let them live. Back when he was soft.

Once, just months before the Keene Act passed, Rorschach encountered Ozymandias on what would be his second to last patrol. It was the smell that gave him away; a subtle hint of lavender over an otherwise masculine scent.

"Not your route," he said and Ozymandias dropped from the shadows. "Should be more careful about what you put on in the mornings." The two trudge along into the alley, Rorschach curling his body away from the creature beside him.

"Perhaps. You have an excellent nose, Rorschach." The world's smartest man stretched like a newly woken cat. "Do you like it?" he asked, stroking his own neck. "I'm thinking of marketing it soon. Nostalgia. A cologne for the man among animals."

The significance of these words weren't lost on either party. In a few short sentences Ozymandias had handed Rorschach multiple keys to his identity and simultaneously announced their worthlessness. Apparently, Rorschach would get to know the face of his masked companion soon. He'd just have to keep an eye on the latest mens' magazines and their selection of colognes.

"You're quitting," he said, the words sharp and oddly resigned. "Not surprising. Can't even keep your route straight." Now that he'd become accustomed to Ozymandias's scent Rorschach noted another, denser smell. It emanated from the ally in waves that churned his stomach.

"I get the hint, Rorschach. No need to be rude."

"Then leave."

"This isn't really your route either," Ozymandias said, thoughtfully tapping a finger against his lips. "But then again, you can't afford to be running into Nite Owl Jr., now can you?"

There was no noticeable change in the vigilante. Except, perhaps, that the ink blots of his mask shifted just a little bit faster. Pulling in towards his mouth they blossomed out in a chaotic spray of black ink and creases.

"I wouldn't want him down here anyway," he continued. "Nite Owl... he is self-sufficient, I'll give him that. All those pretty toys. Not very hard hearted though. Not enough for this line of work. Not like us."

Silence. The smell worked its way into their lungs.

"Certainly not like you." Ozymandias blurred and appeared five steps forward, well out in front of Rorschach. He turned and began walking backwards, keeping his companion in view.

"I know about Roche," he said and Rorschach tensed. He kept moving though. The smell thickened. "We all had some idea - even the Comedian noticed your sudden change - but I know, Rorschach. Poor little Blair. Poor Grice too. Fire is a terrible way to go, though I admit, I'm surprised that you gave him a way out." Ozymandias lifted his left hand, drawing a line across his wrist. "Were you aware that he tried? Broke through the skin at least. But a hacksaw really isn't the best for getting through bone. Tell me, would you have killed him if he'd escaped the house? Beaten him with your bare hands?"

Rorschach grunted; a vibration in the back of his throat. Through the mask he caught Ozymandia's eye and held his gaze. The vigilante still strolled backwards, easily dodging a can he couldn't see.

"Why now?" Rorschach asked. "Two years since that night."

"Well it's like you said, I'm retiring. Need to ask my questions now, don't I?"

"Hurm. Then why? Why do you care?"

It was foolish to ask the question when he did. The conversation, Ozymandias's body blocking the view of the alley - they succeeded in distracting Rorschach just enough for the scene to be a surprise. They rounded a corner and Ozymandias dodged to the left, giving him a clear view. The smell originated here - urine, feces, and gunpowder overlaid with the choking warmth of blood - and Rorschach couldn't help but gag, turning from the mountain of bodies before him. He moved to lean against the wall, fully aware that it was just as much to remove himself from Ozymandias as from the corpses.

"They had guns," the vigilante murmured, looking not at his kills but at Rorschach. "Normally I'd have been happy to leave them for the police but, as they say in the movies, they left me with little choice." He lazily trailed a purple boot through the blood. "You were right to disassociate yourself from Nite Owl, Rorschach. He wouldn't have been able to handle something like this. Although, you don't look too well yourself. The ink blots are slowing down. Have you gone pale, Rorschach?"

"Why?" he croaked, not entirely sure what the question was.

"Because of Grice, Rorschach. Your very first kill. That moment... it showed me how alike we are. Wouldn't you agree?"

April 1968, 3:54 a.m.

Rorschach and Nite Owl pushed their way forward across a decaying rooftop. The mortar beneath their feet felt just as unsteady as the rest of the warehouse, crumbling and hinging beneath them. When Rorschach dodged a punch he heard a chunk of the adhesive come away, falling to the pavement below. However, this sudden drop registered only as a brief sense of loss: he could have used that stone to break his attacker's leg.

As Rorschach worked his way wildly to the left, Nite Owl engaged in a more fluid dance to the right. He lunged suddenly and tumbled into a roll; suit allowing for more maneuverability than his assailants expected. Their hesitation was enough. Nite Owl slashed the achilles tendon of one man so that he fell with a gurgled scream. The brute directly behind him took the brunt of his companion's weight, giving Nite Owl the space to attach a clip to his belt. He then stood again, lazily inputing a code from his glove that spoke directly with Archie's controls. The rope attached to that clip - attached to that man - hauled backwards, dragging a startled criminal with it. He skittered off balance, drew breath for a scream, and was promptly punched in the larynx. The man's head dropped and Nite Owl disabled the rope, gently settling the man back on the rooftop.

"How you doin,' Rorschach?" he asked. The other guy on the ground was still screaming. Nite Owl casually aimed a kick to shut him up.

"Done," Rorschach replied. His own opponent went down hard on his knees, expression slack and wrists at odd angles.

This was their normalcy. Rorschach was hyper aware of it that night; that they had established a routine. He could picture the rest of their evening mapped out before him: ropes and cuffs to detain their prey. The slow, agonizing climb down the steps. Each of them would carry a victim and they'd both go back for the third ("Easier to drop them." He would say. "We're not throwing them off a roof, Rorschach!" "Hm.") His arms would carry a delightful burn the next morning, as would his throat from the scalding coffee he's take in gulps, huddled in Daniel's kitchen. Rorschach imagined the rest of their night with certainty and, perhaps, a bit of expectancy.

Nite Owl obliged.

"We should start lugging these massive fools down the steps," he sighed.

"Heh. Emphasis on 'massive.'"

Nite Owl nudged the protruding belly of one attacker. Rorschach knew there was a grimace under that mask.

"Too right. Listen, I'll grab-"

But what Nite Owl ended up grabbing - grabbing at - was the knife situated in his belt as the door behind him slammed open. He was too slow. One more thug, somehow missed, had crept up the stairs and ruthlessly flung himself at the nearest enemy. In Nite Owl's defense, there was little he could have done. Back to the door, off balance due to his playful nudging of the unconscious man's stomach... Nite Owl quickly succumbed to the attacker's choke hold. If anything, Rorschach counted himself responsible. Who knows what a timely yell could have changed.

"Nite Owl!"

As it was, it came too late.

The fourth man pulled his partner's head backwards, down against his chest, and Nite Owl's hands were doing little at such an awkward angle. He went for a kick but the man only grunted under the impact. He was a mountain of muscle where his comrades had let themselves go. Rorschach could see the pressure being applied to his partner's wind pipe and imagined the dark bruises that would form there; a strip of pain that would impede his voice for days. Rorschach took all this in as he feet sped forward and the thug's own legs bent back. Rorschach thought he intended to throw Nite Owl to the ground. That wasn't his intention at all.

Rorschach watched as the man bent back, kicked into Nite Owl's spine, and sent his partner tumbling over the roof's edge.

"Daniel!"

The name was ripped from his throat without intention or thought. In the similar vein of reckless, unconscious decisions, Rorschach pounded towards the spot where Nite Owl was thrown; despite knowing, of course, that he'd already fallen. The thug only tsk'ed at the display, grabbing a key off his friend's unconscious form before pounding back down the stairs. Rorschach, for the first time in his career, let a criminal escape. He didn't hear the sound of boots on steps, or the heavy labor of breath as the man made his way out. He only noted the absence of his own heartbeat as he peered over the edge.

Rorschach fully expected to see a body.

He hadn't expected to see it hanging from a rope.

"Rorschach!"

The breathe Nite Owl expelled in saying his name forced him to slip a few inches down. Despite his squawk and scrambling, Rorschach was glad for that breath. "Ro-o-o-or! A little help!"

"Humph."

Rorschach huffed what might have been a relieved laugh. No one was close enough to tell. "Fine."

Really, the limited experience Rorschach had with physics told him that the feat shouldn't have been possible. In the seconds before impact - unbalanced, aching from the kick, desperately fighting the instinct to panic - Nite Owl had managed to input another code into his glove, calling down the same cable to save him that had spelt defeat for his opponent. However, as Rorschach hauled him back onto the roof, Nite Owl's whimper told him that a great deal of damage had been done. His left arm hung loosely, so limp that the shoulder was surely dislocated, possibly separated. Rorschach's own arms, in turn, didn't know what to do. Normally after such a close encounter he'd simply pat that same shoulder and they'd move on. That wasn't an option now. He settled for kneeling.

"Nite Owl-"

He groaned, a deep whine emanating from his chest.

"Call Archie. We'll-"

"No. Ah fuck, Ror." Nite Owl groaned again, though not, Rorschach realized, entirely from pain. "My name. God dammit. He heard didn't he?"

Rorschach peered low, searching the visible parts of his partner's face. There was no accusation there; nothing condemning. If anything, his mouth twisted with an emotion reminiscent of self-disgust. Though why, when the name had come from Rorschach's lips, he couldn't say. Nite Owl only gazed back steadily, genuinely wanting an answer. It was that honest gaze that gave Rorschach the strength to say,

"Yes."

"Well, shit."

Yes. Shit.

Nite Owl lifted himself to his feet, left arm cradled protectively. He tried to smile.

"I'm sure it's nothing," he managed. "Guy probably wasn't even paying attention. Too focused on getting out of there, yeah?"

"And the key," Rorschach murmured, doing his best impression of someone hopeful. At Nite Owl's puzzled look he explained, "took it from him," he pointed at the man to their right. "It was larger than normal. Thicker. For a storage container?" He nodded at his own suggestion. "Filled with what though?"

"More weapons, if the downstairs of this rotting place is anything to go by." Nite Owl winced. "I'm sure it's nothing," he repeated. "Really, how much can you get from a first name anyway?"

A lot, they both thought.

"Well," Nite Owl straightened fully, trying to put on a smile. "What's done is done. Really, Ror, it's fine." It wasn't fine. It was a rookie mistake. Neither of them said it. "Anyway, it's looking like I'm down for the count! You've got your work cut out for you." Nite Owl's eyes drifted from the three men to the open door that lead to the staircase.

He did indeed. Rorschach spent the next hour hauling each man down to street level, knocking their heads against banisters when they tried to wake. Nite Owl spent the time in Archie, calling the police and nursing his wound. By this time the pain had begun to truly set in and every once in a while Rorschach would catch a glimpse of his silhouette through the windshield, hunched in unnatural positions. This image - stark against Archie's lights - solidified Rorschach's resolve; what he'd decided the moment he's said the word, "Daniel." He'd gotten a good look: large, muscled, brown floppy hair, a tattooed dagger on his hip that unsheathed during his struggle with Nite Owl. The thug was recognizable. Rorschach needed far less than that to find him.

And when he found him? What then?

He knew.

February 1977, 2:22 a.m.

'No. You and I are nothing alike.' he could have said.

Or even, 'That wasn't my first kill, Ozymandias.'

That would have been a satisfactorily damaging blow - to his network of information and, ultimately, his intelligence. But Rorschach didn't say either of those things. He only grunted noncommittally and leaned further away from the bodies.

"You'll need more of that kind of resolve," Ozymandias cautioned him, gesturing to his own massacre. "Things are about to change, Rorschach. I wouldn't see you brought down by the coming events." He turned, a little spin that allowed the killer to melt away and be replaced by a gentleman.

"You should try Nostalgia." he said, walking back down the alley. "When it's out. I think you'd enjoy it."

Rorschach leaned his head against the brick wall. He inhaled, trying desperately to catch a whiff Ozymandias's cologne, but all he could smell was blood.