FIC: Night of the Living Street Pizza
Jul. 26th, 2012 08:13 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
etheratiTitle: Night of the Living Street Pizza
Fandom: Watchmen
Characters/Pairings: Rorschach, Dan, from the Possumschach AU
Date Written: 2012
Summary: Why am I using a full formal header for this crap? It's just possumschach being a zombie, idk idk.
Rating/Warnings: PG-13 for disgustingness and ridiculousness.
Notes: KM AU-mashup. Possumschach AU belongs to the anon who writes it (who may not be anon anymore, but I'm playing it safe here). This fic is completely pointless.
*
Oh god, he looks like roadkill.
Which makes complete sense because he is roadkill, of course. But when it'd actually happened a week ago--a bad fright on a rooftop enough to trigger Rorschach's fainting reflex, and Dan doesn't think he'll ever forget the graceless arc his partner's body had made as the thug had hurled him into the street below, sinking sinking disappearing gone--he'd only been able to think of him as a tragically felled partner, cut down in the line of duty. A hero. If he hasn't been visibly mourning the loss nonstop ever since, it's only because owls don't have tear ducts.
Now though-- now Rorschach really looks like something scraped off of the shoulder, errant tufts of blood-gummed fur standing up in the breeze. He'd been knocked clear by the semi truck he'd fallen into the path of, so there's nothing pancake-like about him, but there's a whole strip of skin and fur missing from the side of his head down to his belly--the truck took that bit with it, rambling on down the road--and his jaw doesn't looked like it's hinged right.
More teeth in its jaw than any other mammal, he remembers Rorschach stating proudly, and Dan can see a few of them now; takes a fumbling step back, talons catching on the edge of a paving stone.
The possum's mangled head cocks to one side, puzzled.
Dan wonders, inanely, where the remains of the mask went.
"Dnnn," his ex-partner tries. No, not ex-partner, not like walked away from--just ex-everything, ex-person, ex-living-fucking-creature. "Dnnniel."
Ex-Rorschach. Oh, god.
The grief wells up again, fresh and not tempered at all, not even a little. It's only been a week, for god's sake.
Rorschach takes a step toward him. It's a little stiff but not shambling, not like in movies, and his hands are in the pockets of what's left of his coat. And they don't know anything about this new horror yet--like the first Change wasn't bad enough, now they have this--but it's only been a week and damn his stupidity but this time Dan stands his ground.
A few more steps. Over the skyline, the sun's coming up, and Dan thinks of horrible things baking in the sun for days, broken apart by it.
Step. Pause.
Dan can feel his heart in his throat, beating against his feathered breast.
"Daniel," his partner finally gets out, with no small effort and concentration. It sounds satisfied, they way he always did after a good bust--the way he always does, no past tense, because--
"Good to see you," Rorschach grits out, through missing teeth and dislocated jaw, and it's the finest thing Dan thinks he has ever heard, and it's nothing then to take the last step between them and wrap his stinking, bloodied mess of a partner in his wings; hold him there in the warmth of his feathers until the sun's fully up and both of their grief-stricken shakes have stilled.
Because owls can't cry, and sure, that had made him miserable for a week, overflowing with rage and sorrow that had no outlet, but.
But owls can't smell, either.
*
Fandom: Watchmen
Characters/Pairings: Rorschach, Dan, from the Possumschach AU
Date Written: 2012
Summary: Why am I using a full formal header for this crap? It's just possumschach being a zombie, idk idk.
Rating/Warnings: PG-13 for disgustingness and ridiculousness.
Notes: KM AU-mashup. Possumschach AU belongs to the anon who writes it (who may not be anon anymore, but I'm playing it safe here). This fic is completely pointless.
*
Oh god, he looks like roadkill.
Which makes complete sense because he is roadkill, of course. But when it'd actually happened a week ago--a bad fright on a rooftop enough to trigger Rorschach's fainting reflex, and Dan doesn't think he'll ever forget the graceless arc his partner's body had made as the thug had hurled him into the street below, sinking sinking disappearing gone--he'd only been able to think of him as a tragically felled partner, cut down in the line of duty. A hero. If he hasn't been visibly mourning the loss nonstop ever since, it's only because owls don't have tear ducts.
Now though-- now Rorschach really looks like something scraped off of the shoulder, errant tufts of blood-gummed fur standing up in the breeze. He'd been knocked clear by the semi truck he'd fallen into the path of, so there's nothing pancake-like about him, but there's a whole strip of skin and fur missing from the side of his head down to his belly--the truck took that bit with it, rambling on down the road--and his jaw doesn't looked like it's hinged right.
More teeth in its jaw than any other mammal, he remembers Rorschach stating proudly, and Dan can see a few of them now; takes a fumbling step back, talons catching on the edge of a paving stone.
The possum's mangled head cocks to one side, puzzled.
Dan wonders, inanely, where the remains of the mask went.
"Dnnn," his ex-partner tries. No, not ex-partner, not like walked away from--just ex-everything, ex-person, ex-living-fucking-creature. "Dnnniel."
Ex-Rorschach. Oh, god.
The grief wells up again, fresh and not tempered at all, not even a little. It's only been a week, for god's sake.
Rorschach takes a step toward him. It's a little stiff but not shambling, not like in movies, and his hands are in the pockets of what's left of his coat. And they don't know anything about this new horror yet--like the first Change wasn't bad enough, now they have this--but it's only been a week and damn his stupidity but this time Dan stands his ground.
A few more steps. Over the skyline, the sun's coming up, and Dan thinks of horrible things baking in the sun for days, broken apart by it.
Step. Pause.
Dan can feel his heart in his throat, beating against his feathered breast.
"Daniel," his partner finally gets out, with no small effort and concentration. It sounds satisfied, they way he always did after a good bust--the way he always does, no past tense, because--
"Good to see you," Rorschach grits out, through missing teeth and dislocated jaw, and it's the finest thing Dan thinks he has ever heard, and it's nothing then to take the last step between them and wrap his stinking, bloodied mess of a partner in his wings; hold him there in the warmth of his feathers until the sun's fully up and both of their grief-stricken shakes have stilled.
Because owls can't cry, and sure, that had made him miserable for a week, overflowing with rage and sorrow that had no outlet, but.
But owls can't smell, either.
*
