Work Text:
It's raining out. It batters against the brownstone windows, greys the skies and brings a preternatural darkness to the August evening that is not easily banished by the warmth of your kitchen.
You're propped up at the table, nursing a rapidly cooling cup of coffee. There's a paper in front of you, the newsprint smudged and grey where a damp-gloved hand had splayed over it. The headline stares up at you accusingly.
He'd been so angry.
Furious.
You'd never seen him like that before. He'd been getting stranger these past couple of years, more unpredictable and solitary, but always controlled. Always knew what he was doing, even if you could no longer anticipate him.
And you hadn't anticipated this. Not the way he had shaken bodily, the way his mouth had twisted under the rucked-up mask. The vicious, unguarded words, usually reserved for other people – people who are less good – raining down on you, because of your decision. He'd raved at you, each fragmented sentence crumbling into barely-connected words, coherence and eloquence shattered into useless splinters. You had just sat there, bearing it silently, and that had only spurred him into a harsher and more impassioned tirade, ranting like a scorned lover.
He was never a good negotiator.
You'd asked him if he wanted you to change your mind. Disregard what you believed was the right thing to do. Compromise. For him.
You would never have believed your friendship could be destroyed in so few words. He'd been so angry.
The rain pelts down.
Your clock is ticking too loudly.
The owl on your coffee mug is damning you. Turning it around doesn't help.
–
You find him with ease, he is still working the rape case from last week. He's got your suspect up against the wall, fingers clawed around his neck, and the man is gurgling and twitching in a way you don't like. Rorschach's mask is shifting in a way you like even less.
You pull him away, and he's shaking hard, rain-soaked and strung out. You aren't surprised when he hits you, an open hand stinging across your face.
You smile, despite the tang of blood on your lips. You deserve it, for thinking you could walk away from this.
From him.
Even for a moment.