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MAN OF HIS WORD

Summary:

Rorschach always comes back to him.

Rorschach is a man of his word.

Chapter 1: SOLITARY

Chapter Text

      The man he’d given a grease bath earlier that morning lies dying in the ICU when Rorschach is dragged out of therapy and into the maximum security ward.

      Guard’s hands are rougher on his wrists than they are with most prisoners. Their jaws are set. Faces pale. Won’t look at the small man set between them, who won’t look at them. First thing Freddy notices is that they’re scared. Second thing he notices, staring long down the hallway, is that one of them is talking.

      He got good at reading lips, after Kathryn was born.

      “Real creep,” promises a man in uniform. “Twenty kids.” Freddy’d be more bothered by it if Rorschach seemed to be listening. He didn’t, save for the subtle standing of the hairs on the back of his neck, the prickle of distrust.

      Confinement here was meant to be solitary, but the prison squirms with inmates like rats in a box, overstuffed and twisted by state of emergency. Freddy’s door opens. They throw Rorschach in with him like they expect a dogfight. Linger to watch.

      Nothing.

      Rorschach stands in the center of the cell for a very long time, trying to out-stare the wall. Then, quietly, he sits on the edge of the toilet seat. Freddy’s bright green eyes flicker up from the seventy-sixth page of The Anti-Christ, scan once, drop down again. His glasses are cracked. Rubber stoppers glued to the ends of the thin wire arms, as if it’d make things any safer for him in here.

      He scans the same passage four times, then finally lifts the lenses into his hair, folding the book shut around a candy-bar wrapper.

      “Was wondering when they were gonna lock you up tighter,” he chimes, like a bet-on-it. Rorschach’s empty eyes have narrowed their focus. Now it’s the ceiling that suffers his wrath, analyzing cracks like he could crumble concrete with his concentration. Maybe he could.

      Eyes turn down on Freddy, blue as ice, and apprehension curls in his gut.

      The way Rorschach’s body is coiled reminds Freddy of a nature documentary Kathryn had forced him to watch with her – the tiger’s shoulders stiff in the shadow of a larger cat, eyes huge, swallowed in the darkness of a pupil that swallowed everything it could see. He doesn’t know which one of them counts as prey. A bellow from down the corridor urges Freddy to FUCK HIM RAW! PEEL HIS SKIN!

      Freddy shudders.

      Rorschach looks at the ground again, rigid but apparently bored.

      “You learn to ignore it,” offers Freddy.

      “Ignore what?”

      “… Nevermind.”

      Childhood taught Freddy that numbness keeps you sane enough to pretend. Maybe Rorschach’s offered the same lessons – or maybe he really didn’t hear it. Freddy can’t decide which option’s the one that makes his skin crawl most.

      “You know me,” comes the growl, interrupting a stretch of silence Freddy hadn’t realized he’d fallen into. “Don’t know you.”

      “Krueger,” suddenly breathless. “Freddy.”

      “Freddy.” Nod. Licking the thin line of his lips. Curling, knees to chest, shirt-tail dipping into the toilet water. He looks cold. “Rorschach.”

      “Rorschach,” Freddy answers.

      “Freddy,” affirmed.

      Krueger rolls onto his side on the cot, helping himself to a longer look. Chubby cheek cradled in his hand. Elbow propped up, digging into the paper sheets. “You pop a guard in the mouth, or what?”

      “Broke glass in buffet line.”

      “That all?”

      “Gave fat man last shower will ever have. Water was too hot,” rolling his shoulders. “Should call plumber.”

      Freddy’s lips stretch into a smile with too many broad, yellow teeth. “I like you,” nose twitching like a hare. “You’re a real joker.”

      “Wasn’t joking.”

      Freddy’s smile only broadens.

      “I know.”