my mouth tastes like gunpowder and deep copper.
Watchmen.
Wally, Janey, and (parts of) Jon.
"In any event, I never said 'The superman exists and he's American.' What I said was 'God exists and he's American.' If that statement starts to chill you after a couple moments' consideration, then don't be alarmed. A feeling of intense and crushing religious terror at the concept indicates only that you are still sane."
-Chapter IV, 'Dr. Manhattan: Super-Powers and the Superpowers'
Mostly movie-verse. Idgafff.
(There'd been no picture of Jon Osterman in the obituary.)
-
Janey refuses to talk about the accident. About him.
The death of a shy, twenty-something physicist is nothing compared to the death of a shy, twenty-something rock and roll star (twin explosions, entirely different reasons for them), and maybe Janey gets her wish when no one else at work discusses it, either.
They talk around him.
-
It's been a week since Jon
(what was Jon)
has returned.
"O Lazarus, risen from the grave," quips the front desk secretary to a chortling security guard, and Wally coughs into his hand as he flashes them his ID lanyard. Janey shoots them a truly poisonous look and doesn't even bother to surface hers, hands shoved deep into the pockets of her coat, kitten heels clicking dangerously.
They continue down scuffed linoleum tiles to the elevator bank, raucous laughter still frothing from the main lobby.
-
Jon had always been more handsome than him.
It wasn't low self-esteem that produced this hypothesis, it was simple goddamn fact. Jon's nose wasn't crooked. He never stared out at the world from behind lopsided tortoiseshell Arnel frames. His build was loosely athletic instead of (hell, let's face it) sadly beyond repair.
(He remembers staring into the mirror for almost hours as a boy - scrutinizing every inch of that underdeveloped body, disappointed with what stared reluctantly back.)
No one's focusing much on someone's mind when said mind is currently shelved inside an opalescent sculpture of anatomical perfection, carved of static electricity and hissing energy instead of marble.
(He used to tell himself the too-long stares, those ashamed glances, meant he was just jealous.)
That makes it easier, at first.
-
(They used to be roommates, back in college.)
-
Standing next to Jon at these press conferences is a lot like being thrust against an impressively painted backdrop of the sprawling universe and somehow expecting anyone who strides by to pay attention to you, instead-- but he tries his hardest, rattling scientific and military jargon with more gusto than he feels, looking and sounding like a turn-of-the-century curiosities quack who's peddling his wares (struggling to get them to listen, for once, that Jon's no danger to them, Christ; that'd be like branding an abandoned (unmanned) military tank a national threat), telling himself the blank expression on Jon's face as he sweats under all their scrutiny is simple calm instead of simple indifference.
-
(There is something in that new voice of his that is so chilling, and the worst part is that you can't even explain why.)
-
Even with the beginnings of grainy silver at her temples, those lines creasing her eyes, Janey's still beautiful in her forties - yet there's too much uncertainty in her smile these days, a far cry from the sole female physicist back at Gila Flats who not only pulled her weight as much as any man (unafraid to let them know it), but constantly bossed him around like a put-upon, affectionate older sister.
He bites his lip, hard; takes off his glasses out of nervous habit, wiping the scratched lenses over and over with the sleeve of his faded brown suit. He replaces them just as she parks the car, headlights dimming in the driveway of the cherry brick Ranch-style she shares (shared) with Jon. She doesn't cry, doesn't swear or look for something to hit like she would have before. She stares blankly down at the steering wheel, fingers curled tensely around it.
She just looks tired, and her silence is somehow worse.
-
The TV people want to interview him about Jon.
They haven't spoken in nearly three years. (They haven't held a conversation in nearly ten.)
Like a bad habit, that need to defend (protect) surges up once more - yet there's hardly anyone else on the planet in less need of protection. The ache in his throat with each forced word is sharp, stinging, and the excuses he conjures sound so good that even he almost believes them.
Only later, after finding that handsome check waiting in his mailbox, will it strike him. The way they'd all talked about Jon:
It was as though he was dead and long buried.
-
People (people who know Dr. Manhattan, people who never knew Jon Osterman, never saw that aw-shucks demeanor beyond a single faded photograph reprinted in the newspaper) will blame that calm detachment, that chilling apathy, on forces beyond anyone's control.
Wally won't bother correcting them, because it's far less frightening to believe that's the cause.
Because it's less frightening to know that the only manipulation Jon's ever issued himself is letting them believe it.
-
"Mr. Weaver," and then: manila folder pressed against starched white fabric, sympathetic hand at his elbow, "please, let's discuss this in private."
The look on his face as the pathologist's door closes is calm. Startlingly composed.
He's had only the world's best teacher.
Wally, Janey, and (parts of) Jon.
"In any event, I never said 'The superman exists and he's American.' What I said was 'God exists and he's American.' If that statement starts to chill you after a couple moments' consideration, then don't be alarmed. A feeling of intense and crushing religious terror at the concept indicates only that you are still sane."
-Chapter IV, 'Dr. Manhattan: Super-Powers and the Superpowers'
Mostly movie-verse. Idgafff.
(There'd been no picture of Jon Osterman in the obituary.)
-
Janey refuses to talk about the accident. About him.
The death of a shy, twenty-something physicist is nothing compared to the death of a shy, twenty-something rock and roll star (twin explosions, entirely different reasons for them), and maybe Janey gets her wish when no one else at work discusses it, either.
They talk around him.
-
It's been a week since Jon
(what was Jon)
has returned.
"O Lazarus, risen from the grave," quips the front desk secretary to a chortling security guard, and Wally coughs into his hand as he flashes them his ID lanyard. Janey shoots them a truly poisonous look and doesn't even bother to surface hers, hands shoved deep into the pockets of her coat, kitten heels clicking dangerously.
They continue down scuffed linoleum tiles to the elevator bank, raucous laughter still frothing from the main lobby.
-
Jon had always been more handsome than him.
It wasn't low self-esteem that produced this hypothesis, it was simple goddamn fact. Jon's nose wasn't crooked. He never stared out at the world from behind lopsided tortoiseshell Arnel frames. His build was loosely athletic instead of (hell, let's face it) sadly beyond repair.
(He remembers staring into the mirror for almost hours as a boy - scrutinizing every inch of that underdeveloped body, disappointed with what stared reluctantly back.)
No one's focusing much on someone's mind when said mind is currently shelved inside an opalescent sculpture of anatomical perfection, carved of static electricity and hissing energy instead of marble.
(He used to tell himself the too-long stares, those ashamed glances, meant he was just jealous.)
That makes it easier, at first.
-
(They used to be roommates, back in college.)
-
Standing next to Jon at these press conferences is a lot like being thrust against an impressively painted backdrop of the sprawling universe and somehow expecting anyone who strides by to pay attention to you, instead-- but he tries his hardest, rattling scientific and military jargon with more gusto than he feels, looking and sounding like a turn-of-the-century curiosities quack who's peddling his wares (struggling to get them to listen, for once, that Jon's no danger to them, Christ; that'd be like branding an abandoned (unmanned) military tank a national threat), telling himself the blank expression on Jon's face as he sweats under all their scrutiny is simple calm instead of simple indifference.
-
(There is something in that new voice of his that is so chilling, and the worst part is that you can't even explain why.)
-
Even with the beginnings of grainy silver at her temples, those lines creasing her eyes, Janey's still beautiful in her forties - yet there's too much uncertainty in her smile these days, a far cry from the sole female physicist back at Gila Flats who not only pulled her weight as much as any man (unafraid to let them know it), but constantly bossed him around like a put-upon, affectionate older sister.
He bites his lip, hard; takes off his glasses out of nervous habit, wiping the scratched lenses over and over with the sleeve of his faded brown suit. He replaces them just as she parks the car, headlights dimming in the driveway of the cherry brick Ranch-style she shares (shared) with Jon. She doesn't cry, doesn't swear or look for something to hit like she would have before. She stares blankly down at the steering wheel, fingers curled tensely around it.
She just looks tired, and her silence is somehow worse.
-
The TV people want to interview him about Jon.
They haven't spoken in nearly three years. (They haven't held a conversation in nearly ten.)
Like a bad habit, that need to defend (protect) surges up once more - yet there's hardly anyone else on the planet in less need of protection. The ache in his throat with each forced word is sharp, stinging, and the excuses he conjures sound so good that even he almost believes them.
Only later, after finding that handsome check waiting in his mailbox, will it strike him. The way they'd all talked about Jon:
It was as though he was dead and long buried.
-
People (people who know Dr. Manhattan, people who never knew Jon Osterman, never saw that aw-shucks demeanor beyond a single faded photograph reprinted in the newspaper) will blame that calm detachment, that chilling apathy, on forces beyond anyone's control.
Wally won't bother correcting them, because it's far less frightening to believe that's the cause.
Because it's less frightening to know that the only manipulation Jon's ever issued himself is letting them believe it.
-
"Mr. Weaver," and then: manila folder pressed against starched white fabric, sympathetic hand at his elbow, "please, let's discuss this in private."
The look on his face as the pathologist's door closes is calm. Startlingly composed.
He's had only the world's best teacher.