So this is where it all ends up.
Dan runs his hand over the dark five-o-clock shadow on his chin, scowling at his reflection. I look like a delusional rock star, he thinks. Should've never bleached the hair.
This is where the quest for justice takes him. Hiding in a dingy apartment, washing his face in yellow tap water, inhaling the smell of weeks-old blood and feeling it on his hands. Pushing his fingers in between his ribs. Sharing a mattress with a broken vigilante clinging to the ideals that Adrian Veidt crushed like a cockroach. Rorschach hasn't been sleeping well (Dan wonders with a pang if he's /ever/ slept well), he spends nights turning over and over and hissing through his teeth like an animal. Dan spends nights running his fingers through Rorschach's unnaturally dark hair, or across his chest, back, jutting cheekbones. (Sometimes Rorschach wakes up and they stare at each other, mumble, and sleep facing the walls.)
Dan is staring blindly at himself when smoke leaks into the bathroom.
No answer. Across the apartment, Rorschach is crouched over a seldom-used camping stove. White shells litter the floor around his feet. "What are you doing?"
"Good breakfast," Rorschach states simply. "Deserve it."
Dan stares at the eggs burning in the skillet. "Oh." They haven't eaten anything but canned goods for weeks. He doesn't ask where Rorschach got them. "You have to push them around, or they burn."
Rorschach pokes a lump of egg with his finger. He grunts in surprise and jerks his hand to his mouth, sucking on the burn irritably.
Dan snorts, in spite of everything. "With a spatula-- or, well, I guess a fork would work."
Rorschach grabs a fork and turns the eggs over in the skillet, revealing their dark undersides. He almost looks upset.
Dan pulls two mostly-clean plates and sets them on the small table. They will eat the eggs and look through the windows at the wreckage of the city. Then they will climb on the metro with other lost survivors. Rorschach will spend the morning cutting up tentacles and Dan will pick through the rubble and pray over the bloated bodies of New York City's children.