Finding Out by InSilva
Summary: One-shot. Saul goes to visit Rusty with some news. A little angst involved. Rated for profanity.
Disclaimer: Just dipped a toe into Ocean's for a little bit. I own nothing.
He had tried to ignore it but the banging continued.
"Alright, alright!"
Pulling the bathrobe round himself, Rusty opens his door and blinks in the bright, morning sunlight that hits him. Squinting, he finds himself looking at a Saul-shaped outline.
"Your phone's off," Saul says abruptly.
"Yeah, it is," Rusty agrees with feeling. "Got in from Berlin last night, possibly this morning, and I'm trying to get some uninterrupted."
Turning away into the room, he beckons Saul in and starts rooting around on the side table for his phone. He turns it on and it flares into life with a million missed calls, texts and voicemails. Rusty frowns at it.
"Huh," he says, non-plussed. "What's so important that-"
He breaks off and looks at Saul standing there, tight-lipped and portentous, and the jetlagged part of his brain catches up with the rest of it and…the world stops.
The phone drops from his nerveless fingers. He gives a sudden intake of breath, he hears someone make a mewling gasp and then his legs give way and he would have gone to ground if Saul hadn't stepped forward to break his fall.
His fingers clutch at Saul's jacket as the older man half-drags, half-carries him to the couch. Pain flashfires through him, at once solid and implacable and excruciatingly physical pain, making his breathing random and uncertain. Tears start flooding hotly and his face shock-locks in horror.
How long he sits like that, he can't tell. Eventually, he becomes aware of Saul, gripping his hand, saying something, over and over, with an urgency that he can't comprehend. He stares up at Saul and watches his lips forming the same three words again and again. And finally, finally, those words penetrate.
"He isn't dead."
Cold relief douses the pain and is almost as agonising. He draws a deep, ragged breath.
"Fuck, Saul!" he says and there is a wealth of anger in those two words.
He closes his eyes and leans forward, burying his face in his hands, wiping away the tears and trying to control the nauseous spasms rocking through him.
Saul sits down in an easy chair and waits for him. At last, Rusty looks up, his eyes asking the question.
"He got caught," Saul says simply. "Marched him out of a gala dinner last night. Police are all over him."
Rusty swears softly, picturing him in handcuffs, being led away, being locked up.
"He called me up two nights ago to say Tess had walked out," Saul goes on.
Two nights ago, he'd been in Germany. His phone hadn't rung but then the network had had intermittent service. He doesn't know whether he'd tried and he never will. Not without seeing him again.
"She found out about the job."
That is unexpected. Not the walking out, that's inevitable. But for Tess to find out…Rusty can't even begin to think how that has happened.
"He went ahead with it anyway."
And that spoke more about a man drifting, a man alone, making an unwise decision because no one was there to talk him out of it.
"I spoke to Bobby Caldwell."
Rusty looks at him sharply. "Can he help?"
"He doesn't think so. The people working on this have been after him for some time. They're keen to make this stick." He hesitates, then goes on, "Bobby reckons if he goes down it could be quite a stretch."
Rusty digests that piece of information.
"Likely to be no bail. Trial date's about a month away." Saul looks searchingly at him. "You going to be OK, Rusty?"
"Yeah," he lies and doesn't bother to hide the lie.
His phone rings. Saul retrieves it from the floor, checks the number and turns it to silent.
"Want me to look after this for now? You know where to find me when you want it back."
"I'll take it, Saul." In case.
Saul nods his understanding.
"I'll let myself out." He looks as if he doesn't want to leave Rusty on his own. "You talk to me anytime."
"Sure. Thanks for coming round." Rusty doesn't even notice the door shutting behind him.
Six weeks. It is six weeks since he'd spoken to him. To be accurate, it is six weeks since the argument – the argument: they've had strongly-worded discussions, they've had the occasional misunderstanding but this has been the only time Rusty can remember when they have looked at each other and known they were never going to agree. They had spoken in fierce, low tones, not wanting to wake Tess and their partnership had dissolved, just like that.
Rusty had walked away that night still not sure he believed what had just happened, still not sure that Danny believed it either. He had half-expected Danny to come after him. He had half-expected himself to turn round and go back to him. Neither event happened.
The next day, he felt the anger stir within him. It had been Danny's choice, his decision, and Rusty would be damned if he was going to make the first move. Let him work out how very wrong he'd been and then come looking for him. He'd make him work for it, too, before he forgave him.
A fortnight later, he was ready to forgive if only Danny would come. He was ready to do most anything if only Danny would come. But Danny didn't.
Misery descended. He drank himself through it and out the other side and he'd emerged, blinking, into a brand new world. Some place where your thoughts stayed locked in your head; where the person next to you wasn't an extension of your self; where you breathed and you moved but no one was there to make you feel alive.
He'd lived in that world for the whole of a morning before pushing it away, back into the realm of fantasy where it belonged. He swore there was no way it was ever going to be a permanent state of affairs. Since then, he'd retreated to a place where Danny was on some sort of extended vacation, where they were going to be talking again and working together again; a place where it was only a matter of time.
Of course, now, that doesn't seem likely to happen any day soon.
Danny Ocean, behind bars. It doesn't seem possible that Danny's luck could ever run out. But then, it hadn't seemed possible that Danny would ever cut him loose… Rusty stops that thought in its tracks. It isn't going to help.
Bobby Caldwell…he wonders whether there could be any mileage in going to him direct. It has to be worth a phone call, surely. Maybe he can talk to him, offer up some bargaining chips. He punches in the number and waits till Bobby answers.
"It's Rusty."
"Hi," Bobby's voice is warm and understanding and he thinks this is what it would be like if Danny actually died.
"I thought maybe there was something I could-"
"There's nothing," Bobby says and his tone switches to one of bleakness. "They want him. They want to see him go down."
"How long?"
Bobby sighs. "Eight to ten. Maybe out in four."
Four years…
Bobby has to say his name a couple of times before he hears him.
"I'm still here," he says quickly.
"I was just saying, be careful. The previous jobs – the ones they can't pin on him - they know he wasn't working alone. Don't go anywhere near him."
"Thanks, Bobby."
"Is that you agreeing to see sense? Do you hear me? Steer clear."
"Thanks, Bobby." He hangs up.
Rusty looks round and considers whether anyone else is likely to arrive to make sure he's bearing up. He doubts it but then again, Saul has probably moved fastest. He gets to his feet. Allowing time to pick up a case or two of bourbon, he can make it to the nearest motel in half an hour.
The bourbon runs out eventually. He lies on the bed and runs his fingers over his face. Judging by how full his beard is, he's been there close to a month. The phone has rung, many times at first and then gradually fewer, but it has never been Danny.
He pushes himself up on his elbow and squints round the room. There is not much carpet on show. Instead there is a sea of bottles and fast food containers. He can't say he remembers eating the food. There is a pile of newspapers by the door and he can't remember reading those either.
Standing up, he heads for the bathroom and looks in the mirror. The reflection staring back looks as lost as he feels. Time to start thinking, he tells himself, and starts running the shower.
Returning to the bedroom, he picks up the latest paper and scans it. The trial is already underway.
The courtroom smells of nervous sweat, engrained into the leather seats and indicative of the desperation usually on display. Rusty finds himself breathing through his mouth to avoid it. He sits in disguise at the back, watching and waiting, and then Danny is there and Rusty forgets everything.
Throughout, Danny is silent, wrapped up in his own little world. A world Rusty knows only too well and a world denied him. He doesn't take his eyes off Danny: Danny never looks his way once.
In the corridor, he affects a slight limp. He works his way past the court officials and heads towards the prisoner escort group. As he draws level, he bumps into a guard, stumbles and falls amongst them, one hand shooting out to grab Danny's arm, the other hand pushing the message, at once meaningful and meaningless, into Danny's hands.
He straightens up and for the briefest of seconds, their eyes meet. Too brief a time to talk. Only time for them both to know what they have is still unbroken.
A/N: this fell out of "a different perspective", specifically, the first chapter. Hope it read OK.