Disclaimer: I own nothing in the Ocean's 11 universe. Unfortunately for me.
A/N: Yes. This is another multichapter story. What? I just finished two. That means I have to start another one. Not totally sure that's how it works, actually. But hope you like it.
The first thing he knew was that he was lying down. And his head hurt. The rest – the world – was muggy confusion and darkness. There was something screaming in the corner of his consciousness, and for some reason he was frightened.
Gradually there was a little more. He was in a bed. A narrow, uncomfortable bed. It smelled of hospitals. He didn't know how he knew that, didn't know how to explain the knowledge. It was just there.
And then there was a noise over to his right and his eyes shot open instantly, and the daylight hit him like a solid wave of pain and the groan burst out of him and he screwed his eyes tight shut. The world could wait for him. His head hurt and staying absolutely still and trying not to think about anything seemed like the best plan.
Unfortunately the world had other ideas. "You're awake again!" a woman's voice announced, unnecessarily loudly for his ears. "I'll go get the doctor."
He opened one eye a fraction and was left with a hazy impression of a nurse's uniform leaving the room. That was okay. He hadn't cared much for the company anyway.
Left alone, he lay still. Took deep breaths. Gradually acclimatised himself to consciousness and light and life.
Eventually the nurse came back into the room, accompanied by an exceptionally bored looking man he was prepared to accept was a doctor. Mostly due to the stethoscope and lab coat. Clues. Definite clues.
"Good morning," he said politely.
The doctor didn't look up from his perusal of his notes. "It's afternoon, actually. You've been here for a few hours."
"Oh," he said awkwardly. Somehow, that was vaguely troubling. But the doctor didn't seem especially concerned. He cleared his throat. "What happened?"
Now the doctor did look up and studied him with a frown. "You don't remember? Your . . . " He glanced back down at the notes. " . . . cousin said you were playing football and there was an accident."
He didn't remember. Not in the slightest. And there was a larger truth beneath that, a truth that screamed on the edges of his awareness, louder and louder. "Yeah," he said to the doctor, remembering not to nod with an effort. "I remember now. Hell of a tackle." He didn't understand what he was doing. Didn't understand why he didn't just say that he didn't remember.
"Right," the doctor agreed, absent and indifferent. "Anyway, you sustained a blow to the head and a moderate concussion resulted." Immediately his fingers flew to the left side of his head and he winced as they encountered gauze and pain. "You've only been conscious for brief periods since you were brought in."
He didn't remember. And this time the lie didn't rise to his lips and obviously he wasn't quite as quick to cover his confusion because the doctor made an attempt to look reassuring. "Don't worry if you don't remember. That's relatively normal after brain trauma."
Uh huh. Reassuring. Right.
"One thing," the doctor added, looking down at his notes again. "Your cousin was in such a hurry to get back to the game that he forgot to give us your name and I'm afraid you didn't have any ID on you, so if you wouldn't mind . . . ?"
The truth screamed louder than ever. Too loud to ignore.
He didn't know.
He didn't know his name.
There was nothing in his head, no name, no identity, no him. He had no idea who he was and it was terrifying.
"John Rudd," he lied instantly, effortlessly, inexplicably. He could scream at himself. Why was he lying? He should be telling them, should be letting them help him, because, safe to say, he was in real trouble here. But just the idea made him feel vulnerable and terrified, and he just couldn't. No. No, lie for now and try and figure this thing out.
"Thank you, Mr Rudd," the doctor said, writing it down. He didn't seem to see anything amiss. Which was good. "And your date of birth?"
Fuck. Twenty? Forty? Sixty? He forced himself to smile at the nurse, who unexpectedly blushed. Probably not sixty then. "Well, how old would you say I am?" he asked, and hoped it sounded like flirt rather than desperation.
"Twenty seven?" she guessed, with a slight smile and a sideways glance towards the less-than-amused-looking doctor.
Right. Right. Safe to say she would be flattering him. So . . . "Close," he said. "Thirtieth December 1962." Inside he frowned. He knew today's date. Least he thought he did. And he didn't know how he knew that. Didn't know where the edges of what he'd lost were. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest. Could taste his fear.
The nurse blinked. "You don't look thirty," she said surprised.
Oh. Maybe she wasn't the flattering type. "You should see the portrait I keep in the attic," he said with a grin, and she looked blank. This was stupid. This lie was really, really, stupid and he didn't know how to stop. Seemed as though he was committed now.
"And your street address, Mr Rudd?"
He didn't even know which state he was in. Somewhere in the Midwest, judging by the accents, but that was all he had. "Well," he temporised. "I'm new in town. As a matter of fact, I only got in yesterday. Staying with my cousin and I'm not sure of the street address." The doctor frowned and he carried on hurriedly. "It's apartment six, number 1014, and its the long street downtown, next to the bus station."
"Fifteenth Street?" the nurse suggested, and really, he could easily kiss her.
"Yes!" he said, excitedly. "That was it!"
"Apartment 6, 1014, Fifteenth Street, St Louis," the doctor nodded, scribbling it all down. "Thank you, Mr Rudd, that' s all the administrative details we need to get for the moment. Now, I just need to give you an examination, if that's all right?"
"Of course," he agreed, affably. He was pretty sure they couldn't tell what was wrong just by looking. He was pretty sure he was safe.
The examination was basic and perfunctory, and he suffered through it with as much grace as he could muster.
"Okay," the doctor said when he was done. "Everything seems satisfactory, but I'd like to keep you in overnight, just for observation."
"No," he said, firmly and with a smile.
The doctor blinked. "I really would recommend - "
He didn't want to stay here. Not in the slightest. " - no," he repeated. "I'd like to sign myself out. I do have that right, don't I?"
"Well, yes," the doctor agreed. "But you'll need to sign a form to say that you understand that this is against medical advice."
He grinned. "Don't worry," he told the doctor seriously. "If I find myself dying, I'll be sure to let everyone know it wasn't your fault."
The doctor glared at him.
The forms were duly fetched and so were his clothes. He stared at them for a long time. He didn't recognise the suit, and in some way, that was every bit as frightening as the bloodstain on the collar of the shirt. But more than that, it was a suit. No one played football in a suit. And there were just clothes; no wallet, no money, no ID, no keys, nothing. His pockets had been emptied. And then there was his mysterious cousin who had left without giving any personal details. No. This story stank to hell. Instinctively he knew he was right to be getting out of here. He was better on his own.
Standing up made his head spin, walking into the bathroom and getting dressed and cleaned up left him shaking and desperate to crawl back into bed and stay there for a few years. But that wasn't the truly troubling thing. The truly troubling thing was the bathroom mirror. He avoided it for a long time. Hoping against hope that he could look into it and see himself and know exactly who and what that meant.
His hands gripped the edges of the sink tightly. He could only hope he was a man of courage. He raised his head and looked.
Dark hair and dark, expressive eyes. A tan that suggested he was no stranger to warm climates. A mouth that looked like it smiled easily and often. A face that might be that of any stranger.
Still. Handsome, he thought. Definitely handsome. And that was something. Would probably feel worse to look at yourself in the mirror for the first time and find yourself thinking you were an ugly bastard. Probably he could live with this face. Probably he didn't have a choice.
He had no idea who he was. He had no idea who he was and he was terrified.
He chose to escape before the nurse got back with the wheelchair. Hospital policy was, apparently, that no one walked out on their own two feet, but he'd jumped through their hoops, signed John Rudd's name to a variety of documents, he'd accepted the pills and the leaflets on what to do if he found himself experiencing excess dizziness, nausea, blurred vision or death, and now he was absolutely, one hundred percent, ready to leave.
Still, he was careful when he stepped out of the room. Looked both ways, searching for nurses and searching for wheelchairs. Which was why he saw the six large men standing at the nurse's station, and the nurse who was eagerly pointing them towards his room. Towards him. And he saw the bulge at the back of their jackets, and he knew what that meant. Six, large, armed men. Looking for him.
Fear-driven instinct told him to step back inside the room, and that was stupid, because that was exactly where they were going to be looking in the next couple of minutes, and there was no other way out of that room. Instead he stepped out into the corridor, and he ignored the shouts, and he ignored the sound of feet running towards him, and he scanned the area and he made a dive for the door marked 'Emergency Exit'. He slammed it behind him, and the catch on it was one of the old ones, and they didn't make them like that any more because they were really easy to jam, all he needed to do was hit it there like that and it would hold them up for at least a couple of minutes, and then he was running down the concrete stairs as fast as he could, and down into fresh air and daylight, and the crowd of smokers at the entrance. He ducked past them, pointedly going one way and then doubled back behind the building as soon as he could and followed the signs out of the hospital as quickly as possible.
He was out of breath, and his head hurt and there were people looking for him with guns, and he didn't know who he was. He needed a coffee. Actually, he needed a drink, but he had a feeling that coffee was safest at the moment.
There was a diner a couple of blocks away that felt far enough to be safe. He was inside and at the corner before he realised that he had no money. The man eyed him suspiciously and he put the pain and confusion onto his face and swayed minutely for good measure. "I'm sorry, could I . . .could I borrow a dime for the phone? I just got mugged and I want to call my brother. Tell him to come pick me up."
The man's eyes widened and there was sympathy in his eyes, and he glanced at the bandage round his head and hastily reached into his pocket and pushed a handful of change across the counter. "Here. Phone's in the back. You sure you don't want to call the police? Or an ambulance?"
"Nah, I'm just . . . just had a shock, you know? I was just coming out of the hospital and they jumped me. Can you believe that?" he smiled, bravely.
The man shook his head. "What's the world coming to? Here, I'll get you a coffee while you're on the phone, okay?"
He hesitated. "Uh, they got my wallet," he explained apologetically, and the man waved him off immediately.
"Nah, it's on the house. After the day you've had? I'll get you a sandwich too. And a donut. Sugar, that's what you need."
Sugar. Yeah. That sounded . . . yeah. He walked slowly into the back and held a conversation with the time-and-date service for a long couple of minutes. Then he took his coffee and his food, thanked the man for his sympathy, and went and sat at the table with the best view of the door and thought.
What the hell was he doing? What the hell was he going to do?
He had no idea who he was, but whoever he was had an instinct to lie, a knack for making up stories, an ability to spot when men were carrying guns and the knowledge to disable doors.
None of that was normal.
Really, he could only hope he was a locksmith who watched a lot of action movies and had an overactive imagination.
He sighed. Not likely. What was he supposed to do? There were men with guns looking for him. He should go to the police. Except he couldn't be sure that he hadn't done anything wrong.
Maybe what he needed to do was give up and start a new life in Venezuela. Certainly he didn't have any practical ideas.
Finishing as much of his food as he could manage, he pushed the plate aside and put his hand up to massage his head. It hurt and he was so fucking tired. So tired and so alone and so confused. Not that he had anything to compare it to, but he seriously doubted that this was a good day.
Managing a smile and a nod to the worried-looking man behind the counter, he staggered out into the street. What he needed now was a bed. And he didn't know how he was going to get that, but there were motels and surely, surely he could think of something. Surely.
And then one of the men from the hospital came round the corner, and he was seen, and the man drew his gun and people started screaming, and he was running before he even understood, and he dived towards the street, and next to him a car window exploded.
He was being shot at. He didn't know who he was and he was sore and terrified and exhausted and he was being shot at and what the fuck was this all about?
A black car skidded to a halt in front of him and the passenger door was open. "Get in," a voice told him.
Wasn't quite "Come with me if you want to live," but he was terrified and bewildered and alone and still there were screams behind him, and he knew the shooter was there somewhere.
"Now!" the voice ordered and blindly, he obeyed.
Okay. Hope that intrigued someone? Anyone?