Self Possession by InSilva

Summary: Very dark, little oneshot set in "Body and Soul" verse during Rusty's time working for MacAvoy. Warning for mature though inexplicit themes and violence.

Disclaimer: Rusty isn't mine and after this fic, I doubt he'd want to be anyway.

A/N: oh, look. I don't want to read it. If I were you, I'd keep "Perils of hero worship" or "Slightly irritating" or something cheerful close at hand.

If you haven't already, you probably need to read "Body and Soul" – at least the first chapter – otherwise this may make little sense.

It had been business as usual. MacAvoy's place. Standing next to three others who were also blond and slim. Staring at the green tassels. Waiting.

Though, actually, it hadn't quite been business as usual because the man hadn't touched any of them. He had walked up and down in front of them once and then he'd returned and stood in front of him, blocking out his view of the lampshade.

Rusty had found himself looking at a denim shirt, sleeves rolled up, tattoo on the left forearm. He didn't look up at the man's face. Instead, he fixed on the tattoo, the colours and the shape of the fish and the intricate design of curlicues surrounding it.

"Him."

He heard the man's voice and that was unusual too. Not nervous or timid or weary or self-hating or hesitant or anything like he'd heard before. There was intelligence in there and a kind of humour and for some reason, the combination made Rusty uneasy.

Nothing was out of the ordinary thereafter. Not really. He'd done as he usually did and the man had been quick and silent and it was only afterwards as they were dressing that he felt the man's gaze on him, curious and knowing. It didn't take the uneasy feeling away.

A few days later, MacAvoy came looking for him.

"Got a special request for you, lad," he beamed. "You must have impressed."

He said goodbye to MacAvoy at the door and then headed towards the bedroom. The man with the tattoo was stripped and sitting on the bed, waiting. Rusty felt his eyes on him as he shrugged himself out of his clothes. The eyes were on his face, not his body, and the disquiet returned at once.

"Stay there," the man said as Rusty started to approach the bed.

Startled, he halted and the man stood up and moved forward till he was standing in front of him.

"Look at me," he commanded.

The man was four or five inches taller and Rusty found himself craning his neck slightly to look up at his face. Dark eyes, broad nose, hard mouth. Looking down at him like…oh, Rusty wanted to be very wrong about that.

"What's your name?"

Names were never given. That was a given. Far too personal and precious and this man knew that, Rusty realised. Knew that and still asked and still expected. And that went along with that look of total ownership. Well, he could lie but something told him this man would know the lie. He fell back on a contraction he hadn't used since he was five.

"Rob."

The man stared at him looking for the truth. He seemed satisfied.

"Well, Rob, you intrigue me."

Rusty said nothing though part of him was suddenly dreading what was coming next and he had no idea whether or not it was a rational fear.

"I saw you the other night taking yourself away. Out there." The man jerked his head and indicated the living area. "Lampshade for a guess."

Rusty felt a chill snake through him but the man hadn't finished.

"And here," the man looked round the room. "No wallpaper, plain curtains…" he glanced at the bed. "Bet you count the roses, don't you? Every time."

Rusty swallowed. This wasn't part of the bargain. The deal was that he gave up his body. No one got to see inside him.

The man was looking at him shrewdly. He reached out a hand and ran it through Rusty's hair.

"You hate every moment of it, don't you?" he said softly, stroking gently, his fingers travelling through the blond.

The softness and the gentleness did not reassure.

Part of Rusty wondered if the man was a talker. He'd had those before. They wanted to tell him why they were there, what made them look up MacAvoy, what made them seek satisfaction in forbidden sweat and sex. But this man didn't seem the type. He didn't really want answers to his questions. He just wanted to let Rusty know he knew. Well, OK. He could listen to the words, he could hear the tone, it would just slide off him like-

"Ow!"

The man's fingers had tightened in his hair.

"Let me explain exactly what's going to happen."

He didn't let him take himself away. Every time Rusty tried, the man slapped his face hard.

"You stay right here, Rob."

And he'd had no choice. Whatever position the man had demanded, he'd made sure he could see Rusty's face, made sure that Rusty's eyes were on his; he went and brought in the bathroom mirror and propped it up at the end of the bed so that even Rusty's reflection couldn't escape.

Usually when he was with one of MacAvoy's clients, it was like he inhabited a stranger's body; running on autopilot; a sleeping partner in the proceedings. This was horribly different. It was relentless. It made him live every excruciating second. It made him an unwilling willing participant. It made him feel as if he would never be clean again.

It was later and Rusty ached in body and soul. The man had to be finished soon, surely. He had to, he had to…

As if reading his mind, the man grinned.

"We've got as long as it takes, Rob. Paid extra for the privilege."

He was near the edge of what he could stand. The man had found him digging his nails into his palms and slapped him. He'd not let him close his eyes. He'd stopped him biting his lip by leaning in and biting down hard on Rusty's mouth till Rusty could taste blood.

Rusty felt like screaming, like begging, like crying, and naked as he was, like trying to run but he knew that was what the man wanted and he was damned if he would give him the satisfaction.

At last, the man sat back on the bed and looked down at him.

"Alright, Rob," he said and for a delirious second, Rusty thought it was all ended.

Then the man reached over to his jeans and pulled something out of his pocket that Rusty only caught a glimpse of.

"Playtime's over," he said, eyes bright and Rusty felt the terror rising within him.

As he lay on the bed, blurry-eyed, exhausted, hurting in every way possible, the man dressed and then pocketed Rusty's money off the side.

"After all, Rob, you should be paying me. One of life's little lessons. Never try to kid a kidder."

Rusty would remember that as he did everything, as he remembered every little detail. He would remember looking up at the man and the tattoo and then the man's fist had punched down on his face and his strength had finally given out.

The next morning, MacAvoy found him, bruised and still bleeding and barely conscious.

"There, there, lad," MacAvoy clucked at him, disappearing and bringing back towels and water and a rough flannel to clean him up.

"He gave you a right going over, didn't he?"

And Rusty knew that was as close as he was going to get to an apology. MacAvoy hadn't legislated for this. He closed his eyes and let MacAvoy help him and that in itself made him feel nauseous. He couldn't stand MacAvoy and here he was, allowing him to-

Abruptly, he threw up.

He'd taken a couple of days to heal enough to move. MacAvoy had been attentive and hadn't mentioned payback for the bed which was a sure sign he was feeling guilty. MacAvoy's eyes, though…he hadn't been quick enough to hide from him completely. And MacAvoy had seen…MacAvoy would know exactly what to threaten him with.

"Here you are, lad."

MacAvoy handed over a chunk of money. Enough to keep him going till the bruises died. And when they were gone, where else would he be headed except back to MacAvoy?

Rusty left the flat and walked downstairs to the greasy diner below. He stared out the waitress who had gasped at his face and ordered a plate of breakfast.

While he waited, he closed his eyes and leaned his head up against the wall and tried to burn the man with the swordfish tattoo out of his brain.

It was never going to happen.