Fic: Solidarity 6/14 (Watchmen)

[anactoria]

Title: Solidarity
Author: anactoria
Fandom: Watchmen
Characters/Pairing: Dan/Adrian
Rating: R overall, PG-13 for this part.
Disclaimer: Nope, still don't own them.
Summary: It's 1992 and this isn't Utopia.
Notes: Betaed by muse_of_graphia. Thanks!
Chapter 1 Chapter 4
Chapter 2 Chapter 5
Chapter 3



May 1992

"You seen Adrian?"

"Huh?" Maria glances up from the Xeroxed newssheet she's reading. "Oh, he came by looking for you about half an hour ago. Try your room."

"Thanks."

The room's empty. No sign of Adrian; just the unmade bunk and Dan's books scattered across it, just where he left them this morning.

All except one. Dan's heart sinks when he sees it on the windowsill, neatly closed. The pamphlet, the one whose pages he dug out of back copies of the New Frontiersman and stapled together himself. Rorschach's journal.

Shit.

He hadn't even been reading it -- he doesn't do that so much, now he's got Adrian to talk to when he's awake late into the night -- he just moved the books after losing his glasses down the side of the bunk, then promptly got dragged away by Judith before he had time to replace them. He didn't even think about the possibility of Adrian finding it.

Okay, sure, Adrian must have known it existed; he's probably read it all before. But Dan's pretty sure a reminder of Karnak, of the fact Dan lost a friend and partner to his plan, isn't exactly what he needs right now. It probably isn't what Dan needs, either.

Because for the past few weeks, since that whole awful incident with Morgan, things have been different. Nothing major, but Adrian seems... well, if not happier, then more open around him. They talk more naturally. When Adrian smiles his eyes aren't always hollow. And Dan -- well, he's started to feel like maybe it's okay that he cares about this man, that he can't seem to blame him for everything that's happened since '85, that he honestly doesn't believe he deserves to suffer. The little voices in the back of his head that sound like Laurie and Rorschach aren't happy about it, but he can usually bring himself to tell them that they aren't here, they don't know, and he just has to make his own mind up about this, thanks. Mostly that shuts them up.

He's started to think that maybe they can just get on with being friends. For real, this time.

Bringing up the past isn't going to help anyone. Sure, Adrian seems to have come out of himself a little, but Dan knows he's still pretty damn far from being okay. And if he closes himself off again, if he won't let Dan help him -- well, Dan decides he'd rather not even think about that. He needs to make this better. Before it screws everything up. Before this new, fragile, hopeful thing between them gets shattered.

He doesn't know how, or what the hell he's going to say to Adrian, just that he needs to find him. Preferably now.

As he's hurrying down the corridor he almost walks into Maria, leaving the kitchen with her face still hidden behind the headlines. Something about dissent in the party ranks, the government collapsing from within, the kind of thing the underground press is printing all the time. They live in hope, even if it's mostly misguided.

"Look where you're going!" Maria snaps, glaring at him over the top of the paper. Then she catches sight of his expression, and her annoyed frown fades, her eyes widening in sympathy. "Dan, you look worried as shit. What's up?"

"Huh? Oh, no, nothing's up. Still looking for Adrian, that's all."

"You guys have a fight or something?"

Something of an odd question, but Dan doesn't have time to wonder about that right now. He shakes his head. "No. No, nothing like that. I'm just worried he may have -- gotten the wrong idea about something, I guess. It's not important."

Maria raises an eyebrow, and gives him what he thinks is meant to be an understanding smile. "I just heard someone go out the side entrance. Might have been him."

"Great. Thanks." Dan rushes off, and he's already halfway down the corridor when she calls after him.

"Dan?" she says. "Don't worry. Everyone argues. You'll be fine."

"Um. Sure," he replies, wishing he were, or that he knew why Maria was so interested all of a sudden. "Thanks."

It's not until he's out of the door and standing in the bright afternoon that it dawns on him. She's assumed-- she thinks that they're-- well, that there's something going on between them. Him and Adrian.

That probably ought to startle him more than it does. But when he thinks about it for a moment, Dan can kind of see how it might look that way, what with all the sleeping in the same room, and the hours they spend together, and the fact he no longer spends every spare minute worrying over Laurie now that Adrian's around. And while Adrian doesn't exactly go around loudly proclaiming the fact he prefers guys, he doesn't exactly do anything to hide it, either. But--

Dan shakes himself. He'll set Maria straight later, he guesses, though he's sort of surprised at how little it bothers him. He's got more important things to worry about right now.

He turns out of the alley and threads his way through the streets, walking as quickly as he can without risking undue attention. It isn't long before he catches sight of Adrian, a hundred yards or so in front of him, heading in the direction of his apartment. He hurries closer. Adrian must recognize his footsteps, because his shoulders tense and he sort of pulls himself a little more upright, but while he doesn't slow down to let himself be caught, he doesn't pick up his pace either. That's something.

Dan catches up, and stops Adrian with a hand on his shoulder. He's not sure what he's been expecting -- awkward questions, maybe, or annoyance -- but when Adrian turns round the expression in his eyes is just bruised and resigned. Dan thinks that might be worse.

"Hey," he says, "Where are you going?" He steps to the side of the busy sidewalk; they might be able to talk without being jostled or shoved there. Adrian doesn't join him.

"My apartment," Adrian replies, perfectly reasonably. "I have a few things to attend to."

"Since when? It's not like you're ever there, anyway."

"I must confess, I'm a little puzzled by your sudden interest in my domestic affairs."

"You don't have any domestic affairs." Dan sighs. "Look, I know you saw the journal. And I can see you're upset." Adrian blinks at him. "So come back with me. Let's talk about this."

"HQ is hardly the ideal place for a private conversation, Dan."

Dan thinks for a second. He takes a deep breath, and then looks squarely at Adrian. "So let's go to your place," he challenges. "You can invite a friend over for coffee, right?"

Adrian's eyes betray nothing, but after a moment he gives Dan a small nod, and starts walking again. "I suppose I can," he says. "Come on, then."

Dan races to catch up with him. His heart's still pounding, but he feels a little more hopeful than he did five minutes ago. A little.

*

Functionally, the apartment is little more than a storage space. Adrian can count the number of times he has slept there since arriving in Boston on his fingers, and the cupboards are almost bare. There is, therefore, no coffee. He does, however, have a small packet of loose green tea, given to him by Mr. and Mrs. Chong on the ground floor, for taking the time to help mend their radio. He hadn't wanted to accept anything for the favour, of course, but refusal would have been rude. He passes them unofficial newssheets and pamphlets from HQ, too, when he gets the opportunity. Their daughter Jennie, an investigative reporter, vanished three months ago, and he knows they are hoping to see some code, some hidden message, some name or phrase that they will recognize. They are like so many others -- and he will never be able to assist them all, never even know them all --

He shakes the thought off. He will not burden Dan with his brooding. There will be time enough for it later.

The kitchen chairs are hard and uncomfortable, so they sit on the bed, instead. The blankets are pulled up neatly, with barely a wrinkle. Adrian folds his legs up underneath him and sits very still, watching Dan blow nervously at the hot surface of his tea.

The curtains are drawn, and Adrian does not move to open them. He has had enough of clarity for one afternoon.

He has read Rorschach's journal before, of course, but finding it on Dan's bed, in the room where he has slept so many nights of late, has thrown the present into sharp relief. The reminder, he knows, is a necessary one. Dan has called him a friend, has shown him concern, has offered him compassion -- and he has allowed himself to behave as though it were possible for him to accept. He has begun to forget himself.

In honesty, Adrian cannot say that he has regretted Rorschach any more than any of the others. There was no love lost between them. But he was Dan's partner -- a bond deeper, perhaps, than that of friendship -- and he is dead now, sacrificed to the grand plan that turned out to be no more than a grand folly. However good, however generous Dan is, he may never forgive that. There is no reason that he should.

Of course they are not friends. Dan's affection is just a kindness of which he is not -- can never be -- deserving. And the truth should not disturb him. If anything, he should be grateful. At least he has been brought back to reality before losing touch with it completely.

He resigned himself to his guilt, and to his solitude, years ago. He needs to remind himself of that fact, to distance himself. He needs to stop being so ridiculous.

And that is what he should be doing, not sitting opposite this man who stubbornly refuses him the contempt that is his due, whose earnest decency makes him feel a hundred times more unworthy, waiting for him to speak.

And yet, and yet. There is some awful hope in him that simply will not die.

"He was my friend," Dan says, suddenly and quietly.

Adrian waits for him to elaborate, and the brief moment of silence that follows threatens to suffocate him. He cannot quite meet Dan's eyes.

"He was a good friend," Dan goes on, at last. "Or as good as he knew how to be, anyway."

Adrian sips the last of his tea and listens, unsure quite where this is leading. It would be right to speak, to offer some condolence, but he cannot think of a single fitting word to say. He is not even sure that there are any.

"I couldn't tell you what was going on in his head most of the time. But for some reason, he cared about me. That's why I keep it. The journal. It was all he left behind. I owe him that, at least."

"Of course," Adrian manages, nodding. "In any case, you're not obliged to explain to me. It was among your personal things. I should never have opened it. I apologize."

"That's not what I'm getting at." Dan sighs, closes his eyes, opens them again. Then he shuffles a little closer, gently pries the empty teacup out of Adrian's hands and places it on the floor, next to his own. Adrian realizes he has been staring down into it, as though the wet clumps of tea-leaf in the bottom might offer him a solution. He looks up, blinking, then back down in surprise, as Dan takes hold of his empty hands, running a thumb gently over one palm. The gesture, he realises, is intended to be soothing, and it tears at him.

"We knew each other for years," Dan goes on. "And I wish I'd been able to get through to him, I really do. There was a good guy in there, underneath it all, I think. Some part of him that was still... him. But that doesn't mean-- well, it's not like we agreed on everything."

"Dan-- "

"He was wrong about you, for one thing. I was wrong about you."

"Wrong?" Of course, Dan was wrong about him, for years. He accepted him as a friend, a compatriot, somebody on the side of right. But somehow Adrian doesn't think that is what he means. "I don't-- "

"I didn't think you cared. About people. Not really. I mean, I know the way you worked things out made sense, from one point of view, but -- well, I didn't understand how you saw the world. I probably never will. I just knew there wasn't room for individuals in it."

"It sounds rather as though you were perfectly right."

"Maybe. But I just thought you'd carry on the same way, you know? Be the next president, run the world, carry on looking down on the rest of us because you knew best and nobody else was smart enough to get a say. I certainly never expected to see you again. Except maybe on TV."

"I can't imagine you were devastated at the idea." Adrian tries for quiet amusement to cover up the tremor in his voice. It doesn't quite work.

"Yeah, well. Things change." Dan looks him in the eyes. "You sure did."

Adrian blinks at him, startled. There is no response to that that he can think of -- or that he dares to say aloud -- so he just inclines his head questioningly, instead.

Dan is still holding his hands. His touch is light -- so light a single breath might blow them apart -- but constant. He breathes in deeply and looks down at them before continuing. "You're not -- you're not up there in the clouds, or the ivory tower, or wherever, any more. You're just a person trying to help, same as the rest of us. And you're good at it."

"Hardly. I simply do what I can. We both know people who have given far more than I."

"Adrian." Dan glances back up at him, and, for the first time today, a tiny smile appears on his face. "You spent an hour and a half listening to Serk talk about his grandmother last night. That goes above and beyond the call of duty. And anyway, it's not the helping I was talking about. It's the being a person."

Adrian raises an eyebrow, cautiously. He does not quite have the courage to smile back. "I wasn't aware the human condition was an acquired skill."

Abruptly, Dan's expression becomes serious again. "Listen," he says. "You screwed up pretty fucking hugely. I won't deny that. But you're not the only reason Steele was voted in. It isn't because of you that what's left of Congress passes everything he puts his name to without a second's protest, or that so many ordinary people just stand there peeking through the curtains while their neighbours get arrested. It's not Jon those people are scared of. It's not big blue energy bombs. It's the Party. Yeah, you did something -- well, something I can't even begin to understand. But it doesn't make you the devil."

Adrian looks down. "One might say worse, because real."

"Will you shut up?" The words are tinged with exasperation, but Adrian can still feel Dan's eyes on his face, intent and soft. "Just listen to what I'm trying to say, okay? That's not all there is to you. I can see that. I just wish you could, too."

"It certainly seems like the most important thing."

"No." Dan's voice is savagely emphatic, and Adrian does shut up then, shocked into silence. "Jesus, Adrian. It's like you don't even see yourself. You're not in a boardroom full of executives anymore, you don't have to be polite, but you ask people how they are anyway. And not just the important ones. And you listen to the answers. And you make great coffee, and you go all gooey-eyed over mangy alley-cats, and you hum "Lady Stardust" under your breath when you don't realize anyone's listening. Judith comes to talk to you when she's feeling shitty because she says you're good at calming her down. And I -- well. I just like being around you."

Adrian looks back up in amazement. It is Dan who is staring down at the bedsheets now, almost as though he is embarrassed.

"You're too kind," Adrian says, softly.

"I'm not being kind." The exasperation is sharper this time, but Dan still does not let go of his hands. "I don't care about you because I feel like I should. I just do. I -- oh, God." The resignation of those last words is tempered with something else, something warm and earnest.

So Adrian is not surprised, exactly, when Dan leans in and presses a chaste and careful kiss to his lips. The kiss is a question, not a demand. There is no force in it.

It floors him anyway, and he gasps, wide-eyed, against Dan's mouth.

"Shit." Dan pulls back, disentangling his hands from Adrian's, turning red. "Oh, shit. I'm sorry. I don't know what I was-- "

"No. Don't be sorry." The words escape Adrian before he has time to think about them, and then he is clutching Dan, his mind whirling desperately, and he still knows that he can never deserve this, that he should not even hope, but he is also quite certain that if Dan lets go of him in this moment he will fall from the edge of the world and die in space, miles above its surface. He cannot let that happen, even if he should. "Please," he whispers.

For a moment he does not dare speak or blink or even breathe. Then Dan looks wonderingly up at him, and then they are holding onto one another like drowning souls, and Adrian cannot even bring himself to care that he is trembling. Inside his head, a million voices scream at him -- you have no right, no right, no right -- but he does not let go.


Chapter 7