The Benedict Job: a different perspective by InSilva

Disclaimer: these characters are not mine. They are the wonderful creation of a team of writers and I thank them for them. For this fic, I need to reproduce lines that are direct lifts from the first film. I did not write these lines. They are the work of the wonderful writers. The scenes in-between and around the action you know and love – that's my bit. Hope you enjoy.

Chapter One: Reunion

It was a warm Hollywood evening and the street was full of party people. None of them paid any attention to the man in the dark suit which was exactly how the man in the dark suit liked it. Munching the tortilla chips, Rusty looked over the crowd with a jaded eye. He could do without this evening but he had made himself come out, made himself make the effort. Ten weeks on, maybe tonight he would make it past forty-two seconds before the kids began to grate.

"Hey, Rusty, what's up?" Topher's arrival quickly dampened this hope.

"Let me ask you a question, are you incorporated?" he queried as they entered the club through the private side entrance and made their way down the hall.

Rusty shot him a disbelieving look that, poor poker player though he was, even Topher could not fail to read. Privately, Rusty thought twenty-nine seconds – a new record.

Topher plunged on. "OK, if not, you should really think about it 'cos I was talking to my manager last night—"

"Bernie," Rusty interrupted, certain that this was the correct name. Although he tuned out much of the starlets' conversation, he made sure he listened to names and connections: you never knew when you'd need them.

"No, not Bernie, my business manager…actually, you know what, they're both named Bernie." Topher sounded mildly surprised at this revelation. "Anyway, he was telling me that because of what we do could be considered, like, research for a future gig or whatever, I could totally make it a tax write-off, the one thing is and this is, like, just his thing – stupid - but I'd have to pay you by cheque."

Rusty just looked at him. Topher wilted under the gaze and what had seemed a reasonable, nay, sensible idea the night before melted away.

"Or we could just stick to cash," he volunteered and Rusty nodded his agreement. There you go. Let's just stick to cash. And I am not asking for enough of it.

The game was as exhausting as usual, his sense of déjà vu heightened as he heard himself saying what he'd said so many times before.

"Josh, to the left."

"How you bet is your business, you want to make them think you're betting for a reason."

"You don't want four, you want to fold."

"Shane, you've got three pairs. You can't have three pairs. You can't have six cards in a five-card game."

The crowning moment came as Topher laid down his hand in triumph.

"All red."

Rusty stared down at the mixture of hearts and diamonds and felt his heart crease.

The club was heaving. He sat at the bar, pressing the whisky to his face, staring ahead blankly at the bump and grind in front of him, wondering for the nth time how he'd ended up here. Surely there were other things, better things, better outlets for his skills…

The barman smiled at him and tried to strike up a conversation.

"How's the game going?"

"Longest hour of my life," he replied with honesty.

"What?" the barman shouted over the hubbub, a grin plastered on his face.

Jeez. He decided he didn't have the energy for honesty. When had he?

"I'm running away with your wife," he shouted back, grinning and smiling.

"Great!"

Jeez.

Slowly, his feet dragged him back to the private room. Not much longer, he promised himself. One more session, maybe two…then he'd leave these…these children behind. He'd go on vacation. Hell, he deserved a vacation, a change of scenery, a change of company, a change-

His thoughts skidded to a halt as he reached the doorway. Seated at the card table, charming the marks, joining the game, was Danny.

Dark eyes met his. Rusty sat down opposite those dark eyes and the pair of them started talking with words spoken and unspoken.

What are you doing here? Last time I remember, we weren't exactly talking.

More to the point, what are you doing here? Cardsharp to the stars?

Rusty considered for a moment then shuffled the deck and the game continued.

"Mr Ocean, what do you do for a living, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Why would I mind you asking? Two cards. As a matter of fact, I've just got out of prison."

There was a definite frisson in the room. This was a criminal. A real-life criminal. Rusty's mouth set a little firmer. What the hell did they think he was? Chopped liver?

"Why were you in prison?" A hint of reverence, a soupçon of thrill.

"I stole things."

An honest answer. Rusty could almost taste the awe.

"Like jewels?"

Enough of this awe-shit, Rusty decided.

"Incan matrimonial headmasks," he contributed and was rewarded by a twitch of Danny's lips.

"Is there any money in those Incan matrimonial…"

"…headmasks," Danny finished with an admirably straight face. "There's some."

Are they for real?

You have no idea. Isn't the mineral water enough of a giveaway?

"Don't let him fool you," Rusty admonished, "there's boat-loads if you can move them. I'll take one. But you can't."

You were wrong.

"My fence seemed confident enough."

You know why I did it.

"Deal in cash and you don't need a fence."

You never cut me out again.

"Some people lack vision."

I'm here, aren't I?

"Probably everybody in cell block E."

Oh, you're forgiven. Take another look at the hand you've just been dealt.

He was ready to forgive and he was ready to move on. Danny had come looking for him.

They took the kids for a decent pot – payment, Rusty thought, for the stupidity he'd had to witness – and left the club.

He led Danny to his convertible in comfortable silence. As Danny followed him down the street, Rusty felt his presence fill a void he had stopped noticing.

After their argument, he'd missed him badly. When Danny had got himself caught, Rusty had retired to a room with a supply of bourbon and emerged in time for Danny's trial. In disguise, he'd even managed to engineer a brief meeting in the halls around the court, bumping into one of Danny's guards and falling against Danny, dropping the slightest bit of paper into Danny's hands.

The message had read:

"AT&T: reach out and touch someone". Which roughly translated to "Let me know when you want to talk".

There had been no word from Danny until he had been in prison for three months. And then he'd received a postcard that had spent two and a half months being redirected around various haunts to make sure that it did not lead anyone to Rusty.

The postcard had read:

"Cut down on traffic accidents". Which was a terse way of saying "Keep your distance".

That could be taken different ways. Maybe Danny was trying to protect him – after all, he'd sent the postcard on an epic journey of misdirection. Or maybe they still weren't talking. But now, Danny was back. And talking was top of the list of things they were going to do.