1973

It was one thing to see him without his mask, but another to see Rorschach up close. Some part of him -- some nasty, schoolyard part Dan didn't even know he still had -- thought of Alfred E. Neuman. A harsh, reddened, flattened face, saturated with freckles -- he's seen his hands before, the square close-clipped nails and the broad fingers, in the one instance Rorschach had removed a glove in order to bandage a knife wound. There had been freckles on the backs of his hands, too, and fine red-blond hairs, visible in the moment he'd held it under Dan's workshop lamp to extract any stray grit. Even with the blood running down it was the kind of thing you noticed, and it was endearing. Rorschach's face was not endearing.

Crushed lump of a nose, mashed cheekbones, a long upper lip. A week or two's beard growth, bristling aggressively on a funny-looking chin. There was a clear line visible just under his jaw where the mask and cravat didn't quite meet of solid grime, and his hair was matted to his head with sweat, a dull rust-red. And sure, Daniel couldn't have looked too good in the queer halogen light of the workshop's dangling bulb, his costume half-off and half-on, but Rorschach didn't look dirty after a hard night's work beating up crooks, he looked like someone who just never got the chance to really bathe. And that wasn't his fault, he certainly wasn't rich, but the homely creases of his face were pressed with grime, his discolored chipped teeth visible between his parted lips, grotesquely delicate.

Daniel didn't expect him to be handsome under there, but he hadn't expected him to be quite this ugly.

"Daniel."

What was he doing here? The skinned latex mask hung in his hand, like a forlorn condom; he wasn't sure whether to hand it back to Rorschach with sincerest condolences on his physical appearance, or to reach up and put the thing back on. Dan had been about to kiss him.

"Daniel."

He couldn't do this, he really couldn't. They were just the same as they'd been before, just the same men, comrades. Friends, perhaps with different ideologies, but they were teammates. This had been simmering for years now, always there, always present, but somehow even in heady visions of sweaty freckled backs and leather gloves and hard rasping breathing this particular variable had never factored. (He probably couldn't breathe any other way under that thing.)

The passion had evaporated, the heady pounding of the night's exploits had silenced, desire had shriveled up and died. He'd been about to kiss him.

"Something the matter?" Rorschach wasn't a talkative type. His tone was reproachful, and Daniel realized too late that his own expression was frankly and embarrassingly aghast.

"Never mind, it's nothing. Just seeing spots without my glasses." Oh God, what kind of thing was that to say to Rorschach? Maybe those weren't even freckles, but some kind of premature liver spots. Poor bastard. Something wrenched inside of him and Dan drew back on his heel a little, managing to smile. He gave the shorter man's shoulder an uncomfortable pat, and found it stiff under his hand, unyielding.

"It's rude to stare."