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tamingthemuseFandom: Watchmen
Title: Mystery
Characters: Rorschach/Walter Kovacs, Sylvia Kovacs
Prompt:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
tamingthemuse 138 filch
Word Count: 896
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Young Walter is desperate for clues to his father's identity. His mother's a whore, so there's some sexual content, but it's not graphic at all. Ahhh, my first Watchmen fic! I'm half-excited, half-terrified about posting this.
Sounds were coming from his mother’s bedroom again.
Walter burrowed further beneath his covers and placed a lumpy pillow over his head, but he knew that wouldn’t shut out the noises. Not entirely. First there would be low murmurs, perhaps a laugh from his mother if the man cracked a joke. Then it would be quiet for a minute or two, maybe another laugh if someone stumbled on the way to the bed. Later, the other noises would come, the ones that Walter hated hearing most of all – the rhythmic squeaking of the mattress, his mother’s gasps, the stranger’s moans. Finally, the sounds of the bedroom door opening and, quickly after that, the front door closing would signal that the man had left.
Then the apartment would be silent once more, or as quiet as it could be. His mother snored. Dogs barked. Cars backfired. Cabbies honked their horns. And, sometimes, the sound of a gun pierced the night.
Walter didn’t mind those noises; he only minded the ones coming from down the hallway right now, the ones that branded his mother a whore, just like the kids at school said. He could hear her giggling in the next room, even with the pillow pressed against his ears. Her latest customer must be hilarious. A real comedian.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to sleep, but that was impossible. The sounds from the room next to his, muffled as they were by his tightly-clenched pillow, kept him awake.
To stop himself from dwelling too much about what was happening, Walter thought about the book that he had filched from his teacher today, a biography on President Truman. He’d felt guilty for nicking the book, but only for a moment. He’d taken it for a very important reason, and Walter would return it to Mr. Schmidt once he’d finished with it.
Once the man left and his mother was snoring, he would turn on the lights and examine the treasure. Walter would have to wait until then; if his mother caught him reading at this hour, she’d yell at him for wasting electricity. She’d probably smack him across the face again, like she did so often during her rages. Walter didn’t mind the pain, really. He certainly didn’t cry anymore, even when she bloodied his nose or lip. He was nine now and too old to cry.
He contented himself with thoughts of his father as he waited for the man to leave. Walter had asked his mother about his father before, ever since he was old enough to realize that someone was missing in his life. She never gave him much information; she claimed that she didn’t know a lot about him. Walter didn’t believe her. How could you have a baby with someone and know practically nothing about the man?
His father’s name was Charlie, short for Charles, although both names had the same number of letters. Charlie had red hair and freckles too. That was all she had offered him until a couple of weeks ago, when his mother had told him that she’d thrown Charlie out a few months before Walter’s birth. They’d had an argument about politics, because Charlie liked President Truman and his mother didn’t. That was enough to prove that his father had been a good man; Mr. Schmidt always talked about how great President Truman was, how wise President Truman had been for dropping the bomb on the Japanese.
Mr. Schmidt had fought in the war and had lost one of his arms in France. Maybe Walter’s father had fought in the war too. Maybe he’d been killed fighting the Nazis or the Japs. Maybe that was why he’d never come for his son.
Or maybe he’d been an aide to Senator Truman, before he’d become the president. Maybe his father had been an FBI agent assigned to protect Truman while he campaigned, some sort of secret agent who couldn’t give out his real name to anyone. Maybe his father had to wait for President Truman’s permission to reveal his true identity long enough to visit his son. Or maybe his father had sacrificed his own life to save Truman’s in some assassination plot.
Those possibilities made much more sense than his mother’s story about not knowing his father’s last name.
At last his mother’s door opened, and Walter could hear the low rumble of a man’s voice in the hallway. Soon he’d be able to look at the book and try to decipher any clues that it held. The index would be useless to him, of course, since his father’s last name was still a mystery, but maybe there would be a mention of a red-haired, freckled Charlie. Maybe he’d flip through the pages and spot a grainy picture of what he’d look like in thirty years.
It was a slim hope, and Walter knew it. He probably wouldn’t find anything in that book…but there was always the chance that he might. And to a boy who had experienced so little hope in his short, miserable life, that flickering flame in his heart made all of the difference in the world.
also posted here
[week 7]
Title: Mystery
Characters: Rorschach/Walter Kovacs, Sylvia Kovacs
Prompt:
tamingthemuse 138 filchWord Count: 896
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Young Walter is desperate for clues to his father's identity. His mother's a whore, so there's some sexual content, but it's not graphic at all. Ahhh, my first Watchmen fic! I'm half-excited, half-terrified about posting this.
Sounds were coming from his mother’s bedroom again.
Walter burrowed further beneath his covers and placed a lumpy pillow over his head, but he knew that wouldn’t shut out the noises. Not entirely. First there would be low murmurs, perhaps a laugh from his mother if the man cracked a joke. Then it would be quiet for a minute or two, maybe another laugh if someone stumbled on the way to the bed. Later, the other noises would come, the ones that Walter hated hearing most of all – the rhythmic squeaking of the mattress, his mother’s gasps, the stranger’s moans. Finally, the sounds of the bedroom door opening and, quickly after that, the front door closing would signal that the man had left.
Then the apartment would be silent once more, or as quiet as it could be. His mother snored. Dogs barked. Cars backfired. Cabbies honked their horns. And, sometimes, the sound of a gun pierced the night.
Walter didn’t mind those noises; he only minded the ones coming from down the hallway right now, the ones that branded his mother a whore, just like the kids at school said. He could hear her giggling in the next room, even with the pillow pressed against his ears. Her latest customer must be hilarious. A real comedian.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to sleep, but that was impossible. The sounds from the room next to his, muffled as they were by his tightly-clenched pillow, kept him awake.
To stop himself from dwelling too much about what was happening, Walter thought about the book that he had filched from his teacher today, a biography on President Truman. He’d felt guilty for nicking the book, but only for a moment. He’d taken it for a very important reason, and Walter would return it to Mr. Schmidt once he’d finished with it.
Once the man left and his mother was snoring, he would turn on the lights and examine the treasure. Walter would have to wait until then; if his mother caught him reading at this hour, she’d yell at him for wasting electricity. She’d probably smack him across the face again, like she did so often during her rages. Walter didn’t mind the pain, really. He certainly didn’t cry anymore, even when she bloodied his nose or lip. He was nine now and too old to cry.
He contented himself with thoughts of his father as he waited for the man to leave. Walter had asked his mother about his father before, ever since he was old enough to realize that someone was missing in his life. She never gave him much information; she claimed that she didn’t know a lot about him. Walter didn’t believe her. How could you have a baby with someone and know practically nothing about the man?
His father’s name was Charlie, short for Charles, although both names had the same number of letters. Charlie had red hair and freckles too. That was all she had offered him until a couple of weeks ago, when his mother had told him that she’d thrown Charlie out a few months before Walter’s birth. They’d had an argument about politics, because Charlie liked President Truman and his mother didn’t. That was enough to prove that his father had been a good man; Mr. Schmidt always talked about how great President Truman was, how wise President Truman had been for dropping the bomb on the Japanese.
Mr. Schmidt had fought in the war and had lost one of his arms in France. Maybe Walter’s father had fought in the war too. Maybe he’d been killed fighting the Nazis or the Japs. Maybe that was why he’d never come for his son.
Or maybe he’d been an aide to Senator Truman, before he’d become the president. Maybe his father had been an FBI agent assigned to protect Truman while he campaigned, some sort of secret agent who couldn’t give out his real name to anyone. Maybe his father had to wait for President Truman’s permission to reveal his true identity long enough to visit his son. Or maybe his father had sacrificed his own life to save Truman’s in some assassination plot.
Those possibilities made much more sense than his mother’s story about not knowing his father’s last name.
At last his mother’s door opened, and Walter could hear the low rumble of a man’s voice in the hallway. Soon he’d be able to look at the book and try to decipher any clues that it held. The index would be useless to him, of course, since his father’s last name was still a mystery, but maybe there would be a mention of a red-haired, freckled Charlie. Maybe he’d flip through the pages and spot a grainy picture of what he’d look like in thirty years.
It was a slim hope, and Walter knew it. He probably wouldn’t find anything in that book…but there was always the chance that he might. And to a boy who had experienced so little hope in his short, miserable life, that flickering flame in his heart made all of the difference in the world.
also posted here
[week 7]
no subject
Date: 2009-03-15 02:08 am (UTC)This is the first Watchmen fic I've read- I didn't actually like the film- but this made me really feel for Rorschach, something that didn't happen when I watched the film.
Brilliant work!
no subject
Date: 2009-03-15 03:57 am (UTC)Thanks for the comment! :D
no subject
Date: 2009-03-15 08:19 pm (UTC)