Disclaimer: Do not own Ocean's 11 or any of the wonders therein.
A/N: The curse of the magpie strikes again! There were four things I was supposed to be working on. This is precisely none of them. Hope that you are prepared to give it a chance regardless.
A/N 2: Uh in this I reference 'Usual Suspects', Disney's 'Pinocchio' and 'The Great Escape' as well as very, very slight mentions of things associated with 'And Home' 'And Away' and 'Spirit and Dust', none of which you have to have read before reading this. Seem to have developed a new little verse that kind of crept up on me. That can't possibly be normal.
Waking up took a while. There were flashes that he didn't understand. Pain and people talking. The smell of disinfectant and sickness. Pain and shaking and weakness. The irregular beeping of an electrocardiogram that suggested that someone was doing less than fantastically. Pain beyond belief, and the swamping of his senses that drugs brought. Pain. A lot of pain.
Danny wasn't there.
More pain.
Darkness.
Loneliness.
He slept.
The job was simple and straight-forward and stupid. He knew that. Could imagine Danny's exasperated voice telling him that you did not steal from Keyser Soze. Trouble was, if Danny had been there, if they'd been them and it hadn't just been Rusty living through the endless alone-time, if Danny had been there they'd have done the same thing. They'd have had to. And so he smiled to himself and told imaginary Danny that it didn't work if Jiminy Cricket was a hypocrite. Imaginary Danny was less than happy with that.
One year and ten months and he could admit in his own head that he was lonely.
Sanford Kobrin was the name Rusty chose to think of him by. He knew half a dozen others and could say with absolute certainty that there was no chance that any of them were real.
On the other hand, he could say with absolute certainty that the 12th century statue of Buddha that Kobrin was in negotiations to sell to the museum was absolutely real, because Zhao had proudly told him that it had been in his family for countless generations shortly before Kobrin took everything he owned and left him old and penniless. Zhao had died soon afterwards. Shock, heartbreak, whatever. The idea of leaving well enough alone had barely crossed Rusty's mind.
The job was straightforward. The museum was easy. He got a job as a cleaner for a few weeks, and that wrecked his hands, but it gave him an opportunity to leave the electronic jammers he'd got from Roman at strategic points around the room to knock out the motion sensors. Then all he had to do was hide himself in the storage space next to the boiler room for twelve hours, switch the surveillance, trigger the jammers, grab the statue and get out in the six minutes he had before the police arrived.
Zhao's son Wei had been quietly thankful for the return of the statue. Wouldn't bring his father back, but it was all that Rusty was able to offer.
It was three weeks later when he stepped into the apartment he was staying in, walked into the living room, hit the light switch and tensed when nothing happened. The front door was quietly shut behind him. He turned to run and was blinded when four floodlights suddenly hit him from all sides.
His living room had been cleared of furniture. The lights surrounded the empty space and from the shadows around the edges he was aware of movement. The fear was whispering through him. They were in his house. They were in his house and they'd taken over, they'd taken over all his little pretensions to safety and he knew that all of this was designed to frighten, to intimidate. Problem was, it was working.
"Mr Ryan. Please. Step forwards." The voice was gentle. Melodic. He knew the voice.
"Mr Kobrin," he acknowledged and made a break for the front door. He didn't see the men who brought him to the floor. First thing he really knew about it was when they broke his leg.
It was deliberate. Thought out. He was already down and they brought the baseball bat down across his shin. He'd swear he heard the crack before he felt it and almost, almost, he didn't manage to choke back the scream. The pain was like a lance, running through him, and he bit down into his lip hard. Focus. Focus and get past it, because there was going to be more pain, there was going to be much more pain, and he needed to deal with it.
They dragged him back into the light and dropped him into a heap on the floor.
Kobrin spoke out of the shadows. "Mr Ryan, I am sorry that such an action should be necessary to retain your attention."
There was a pause. Gritting his teeth, Rusty dragged himself to the nearest floodlight, grabbed the stand and pulled himself up until he was balancing on his good leg. Dizziness, nausea and agony, but he would face it all on his own terms. "Oh, you have my attention," he managed to say at last.
"That is good to hear," Kobrin approved. "Doubtless you know why I am here?"
Rusty glanced round his living room. "Redecorating?" he guessed.
Kobrin laughed quietly. "No, no. Nothing so pleasant, I'm afraid. You are a professional criminal, Mr Ryan. A thief and a confidence trickster. Your skills and loyalty are spoken of highly in all the right circles."
"The only thing worse than being talked about . . . " Rusty said and he could feel himself sway. He wasn't going to fall. Wasn't going to show a second of weakness. Not to this man. Not in this way.
"Quite, quite," Kobrin agreed. "And normally your choice of profession would be no concern of mine. But you stole from me."
He didn't say anything. Denial was pointless and there was no other line that he was prepared to offer, even if he thought it would work. He didn't beg for mercy, he didn't apologise and he didn't offer to make reparations. Imaginary Danny raged inside his head.
"Being stolen from is an occupational hazard," Kobrin mused thoughtfully. "But this is the first time in a very long while that the thief concerned knew exactly who he was stealing from. I find that amusing. Tell me, Mr Ryan, are you brave or simply foolhardy?"
Imaginary Danny was more than happy to answer that question. Rusty smiled. "I have poor impulse control."
"Oh, I doubt that," Kobrin said immediately. "I very much doubt that. Are you going to tell me where my statue is?"
Kobrin couldn't know of his connection to Zhao. Couldn't possibly know. Was never going to know. "Sold it," he said and he let his voice tremble a little, let himself surreptitiously reach out and lean on the light stand, as if the pain was overwhelming him, as if he was on the very edge of his endurance.
"And you are not going to tell me to whom," Kobrin stated.
"No," Rusty agreed lightly. "I'm not."
Kobrin sighed heavily and Rusty frowned because the noise was full of pride and admiration. "Unfortunately I believe you, Mr Ryan. Which puts us at something of an impasse. You have deprived me of my property and put it beyond my reach. And much as I might like to, I cannot let that go. How would you suggest we settle this."
Rusty grinned and ignored the pain and the trembling that was rippling through him. "How about a bake-off?"
There was an appreciative laugh. "I think not. I am sorry. You are an intriguing young man. A pity."
Three dark shapes holding baseball bats moved into the light towards him. He shifted his hand on the light stand and swung it at them and there was a pained yell, and one of them fell, and Rusty hopped, stumbled, threw himself towards the front door and there was a crack, an explosion of pain against his back, and he was falling forwards in a world of agony, and there was another blow and more pain, and he crawled towards the door until the foot came down on his back, pinning him in place, and the punishment began for real.
Kobrin's voice was gentle and regretful. "Goodbye, Mr Ryan."
Imaginary Danny was screaming, and Rusty ignored him in favour of offering silent and desperate apologies to the real thing.
They never made a sound as they hit him again and again and again, and he moaned and gasped and choked on his own blood and the thought of Danny was everything, the memories and emotions that sang through his soul, and he didn't feel so very alone.
And darkness.
Waking up took a while. Days passed and there was light and pain and noise. There were moments when he would find himself struggling to understand who he was, moments when his world was reduced to the pain and the overwhelming certainty that he wasn't supposed to be alone. That there was supposed to be someone there, someone who meant warmth and comfort and protection and love. Then the pain would take him again, and the drugs, and the dizziness and the darkness and he would go to the place where he didn't exist.
Gradually the universe re-established itself. He found himself looking up into the face of a blurry doctor. "Welcome back," came the genial voice and Rusty could just about make sense of that.
"Danny?" he rasped anxiously. It was the only thought within him.
"Is that your name?" the doctor asked intently.
He had to consider. No. No, he wasn't Danny. Danny was in prison, which was a kind of safety, and Rusty was alive which was inexplicable. "Richard," he suggested. "Richard Smilie."
"Well, Mr Smilie. You're a very lucky man . . ."
The voice faded. Rusty didn't stay awake long enough to find out why he was lucky.
He woke up again, minutes or hours or days later to find a nurse fussing with the flowers at his bedside and a feeling as if he was being slowly trampled to death by a herd of rhinoceroses in every part of his body. He couldn't help but make a noise, and the nurse looked down at him and she did something and suddenly he was flooded with a feeling of calm and well-being and the pain faded to a dulled agony.
"Mr Smilie, you're awake," the nurse stated and she was an excellent observer of the obvious.
"Yeah," he agreed, willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. He might not have noticed if she hadn't said. He swallowed hard. "How am I?"
"You're going to be fine," she said reassuringly and even through the drugs and the pain he could hear the 'eventually' that she didn't add. "You had a minor skull fracture , four broken ribs and a broken leg, as well as numerous bruises and lacerations, but all in all you were very lucky. The doctors will tell you more later, but they say you're going to make a full recovery."
He nodded and it hurt.
"Do you remember what happened?" she asked eagerly, and he smiled inwardly at the desire for gossip.
"Not really," he lied and he remembered the floodlit living room and the pain and the inevitability and the alone, and he buried the shudder as deep as he could.
He thought she looked a little disappointed. "The police said it was a robbery gone wrong."
The urge to giggle was almost inescapable. Well, that was truer than anyone could guess. He quickly changed the subject. "How long?"
"Have you been in hospital?" she guessed. "Nearly a month. It's the seventeenth of March today."
A month. He'd spent a month in hospital and hadn't known. The enormity of the thought left him lying perfectly still and blinking and he wanted Danny there, wanted the endless comfort, the reassurance. He wanted Danny.
Danny didn't know. Rusty had been in hospital for a month and Danny had no idea. Suddenly he'd never felt quite so alone, and he wanted to curl up into a weeping ball and let the self pity and the loneliness and the betrayal consume him.
Except . . . except he'd been in hospital for a month. And every month, he sent Danny a package of cookies. Just because he could, just because he didn't want to forget about Danny even for a second, didn't want Danny to feel forgotten. But that worked two ways. And Danny would have been comforted by the knowledge that as long as Rusty was sending cookies, it meant that Rusty was all right. And when the cookies didn't arrive, twelve days ago now . . .
He looked up at the nurse urgently. "I need to make a phone call," he demanded. "Right now."
"Oh, we can contact anyone you want with you," she told him eagerly. "It's a shame that we weren't able to get anyone sooner, but for the first three weeks we had you down as a John Doe, I'm afraid."
Jaw clenched he spoke slowly. "I need to make a phone call. Now."
She blinked at him. "I'm not sure - "
"Please." The word burst out of him, all desperation and fear and panic and her eyes widened.
"I'll see what I can do," she promised. "You can't move just yet, it might take a while . . . "
He nodded shortly. As long as they were trying.
Something was nagging at him and it was getting harder to focus, harder to stay awake even, but he had to know. "Flowers?" he asked. How did anyone know he was here?
"Oh, they're lovely," she agreed. "Lilies. They arrived yesterday. There's a card. Would you like me to read it?"
"Please," he managed to say.
"Congratulations on surviving. You are indeed an intriguing young man. Should you wish a change, there are opportunities within my employment." She looked up. "And there's a phone number."
Trembling with the effort, Rusty managed to stretch out a hand and take the card out of her hand. It said exactly what she'd said it said and the mobile number was there for anyone to see. Kobrin's personal number? He could taste the adrenaline at the back of his throat. "Get rid of it," he told the nurse hoarsely. "Please. And the flowers."
She stared at him, wide-eyed, and nodded.
He felt as though he was falling.
He woke again to find a phone being wheeled into the room on a trolley. He smiled happily at the orderlies and neither of them looked like they were planning on giving him any privacy. Terrific. Well, he could be subtle. Subtle was easy. Keeping the pain and the exhaustion out of his voice; that was going to be the hard part.
Obviously, he couldn't call Danny directly. He knew that. Some things they couldn't hide from each other, and he couldn't run the risk of Danny fucking up his life forever just because he thought that Rusty needed his hand held. Not going to happen.
With a deep breath he dialled Frank.
"Hello?" Frank sounded strangely suspicious. Must be in the middle of something.
"Hey Frank, it's Rusty." That was good. He sounded normal. Steady-voiced.
"Rusty?" Frank sounded delighted. "How are you? You got something going on?"
He decided to ignore the first question for the moment. "No, not at the moment." His arm was starting to tremble with the effort of keeping the phone to his ear. "Listen, I need a favour."
Frank groaned. "My feet still haven't recovered from the last time. What you and Danny think is an acceptable exit plan - "
" - Nothing like that," Rusty assured him quickly. "Just need you to call Danny and tell him I'm all right."
There was a pause. "He's still in prison, right?"
"Right," Rusty agreed, swallowing hard. "I keep in touch with him by . . . doesn't matter. Point is, he was expecting to hear from me this month and he hasn't, and I need you to tell him not to worry."
"Why don't you tell him yourself?" Frank asked.
The pain was creeping up on him again. His tongue was thick and he couldn't think. "Because . . . because . . "
"Because you're not all right, right?" Frank sighed. "Jesus, Rusty, what happened?"
"Slight accident," he managed to say. "In hospital. No-one's looking. I'm going to be fine and I need you to tell Danny not to worry."
"Of course," Frank agreed gently. There was a pause. "You're not going to tell me any more, are you?"
He shook his head and didn't even realise that Frank couldn't see. "Tell Danny," he said again, and he could feel his own deterioration.
"I will," Frank promised. "Listen, Rusty, I'll come out and see you, okay?"
"No need," he assured Frank. He'd be fine. Just needed to rest up. Just needed to know that Danny wasn't worrying. "Frank, I need to go now." Before he passed out.
Frank sighed. "Get some rest, Rusty. And don't worry about Danny, okay?"
"Always have, always will," he said and there was a choke in his voice. "I miss him."
The last thing he heard was Frank saying his name and the volumes of concern and alarm in his voice were unnerving and unthinkable.
The next time he woke up it was with the knowledge that he wasn't alone and the feeling of someone holding his hand.
Not Danny. He knew that immediately, even despite the brief spark of hope that flickered deep inside him.
He opened his eyes and turned his head and smiled at Saul.
Saul frowned at him. "What have you been doing?" he asked and Rusty could hear the fear in his voice.
Didn't stop him smiling. "Danny said not to steal from Keyser Soze," he explained. "Didn't listen."
Saul's frown deepened. "When - "
" - oh, Danny wasn't there," Rusty interrupted. "Like Jiminy Cricket."
"Right," Saul nodded and his voice was gruff and tender. He brushed a hand through Rusty's hair. "Right. They've got you on the good stuff," he added with a degree of amusement.
That, he'd noticed. Felt a little like he was flying. Not a feeling he appreciated especially. "How are you here?" he asked after a second.
Saul smiled down at him. "You called Frank and asked him to call Danny. Danny gets Frank to call me. The two of you playing Chinese whispers or something?"
Rusty blinked up at him. "Steve McQueen never crossed the border," he explained.
"Oh," Saul said and his voice was full of understanding. "You pair will be the death of me," he muttered.
"Sorry," Rusty managed and the apology was genuine and heartfelt.
"Don't worry about it," Saul said exasperated. Then he paused and when his voice went on it was more gentle. "Danny didn't want you to be alone."
Rusty was filled with a feeling of warmth and contentment. "No," he agreed with a smile, and somehow his eyes closed on their own. "Need to do something that'll stop him worrying about me."
Saul sighed. "Nothing in the world."
"Can you think of a place that rhymes with cattle?" Rusty asked sleepily.
"Seattle?" Saul suggested.
"Mmm. That'll do." Rusty's head dropped down and he was dimly aware of Saul pulling the covers over him.
"Go to sleep, Rusty," Saul ordered gently. "I'll be here when you wake up."
Rusty smiled. He wasn't alone.
Thanks for reading, please let me know what you think.