First chapter of my latest oneshot. Don't ask. Also, oh, twenty minutes later than it should have been. Don't ask about that either. Sorry.
So, this is set in the More Things Change universe, as I said. It's set probably three months or so after they leave 'home' and move in together in New York. Rusty's fifteen, Danny's seventeen.
Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with O11
Bruises faded over time. Injuries healed and no new ones took their place. For the first time in his life nothing hurt. For the first time in his life he could wake up in the morning and pull on whatever he wanted to wear without having to stop and think about what it covered. For the first time in his life he could make plans for tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that and not have to mentally add 'If I'm not too hurt'. For the first time in his life nothing hurt and sometimes he found himself staring in the mirror at his unmarked skin and wondering.
For the first glorious burst of summer and freedom it didn't matter. They were far too busy for him to stop and think. Once he was finally healed up enough for them to leave the sanctuary of Mike's apartment, once Danny had finally stopped apologising for the moment of epiphany and insanity that had sent them running out of town three months before they'd planned and several days before Rusty was actually fit enough to travel, the rest of the summer had passed in a haze of theft and fun. They spent every moment together, because they wanted to, because they could, and it was more wonderful than he could ever imagine. And besides they had to learn, first their new neighbourhood, and then as much of their new city as they could. Had to learn where to work and where to avoid. Had to make enough money for rent, for living, for tuition and books. Enough that they wouldn't have to pull too many jobs when school started.
And that was the problem, or maybe it was just where the problems started. Hell, maybe it was just when he first noticed the problem.
September came, and his first day at his new school, and Danny's first day of college. And it was fine. Of course it was fine. He was quiet and unobtrusive and charming and likeable, and he tried as hard as he could (it would please Danny) and by the end of the day he found himself in the midst of a group of kids who liked him and who wanted to get to know him better. Jason and Becca and Andy and Victoria and Aaron. They went out after school and ate pizza and laughed and talked, and he span a little truth and a lot of easy, essential lies, and deflected attention away from himself and listened to them talk about the parties they'd had and the kids they liked, and how unfair parents were. It was fun. He had fun. They were fifteen, sixteen, and nice children.
But the evening came to an unexpectedly early conclusion. The others had to head home, had curfews and parents waiting. He'd never considered that, but they seemed to think it was normal, and they'd frowned at his confusion, and he'd shrugged and said that he was allowed to stay out an hour later, and they'd been wide-eyed and impressed.
He walked home, cursing himself. This was the sort of thing that would catch them out, trip them up. The stupid little details that they didn't know. He was sure that by the time Danny was fifteen, his mom had never bothered setting a time for him to be home. As long as he was at some point, she hadn't cared, hadn't noticed. He'd thought that was normal. He was pretty sure Danny had thought that was normal. But this was really all it would take. A thoughtless comment, one of those kids mentioning that Rusty's guardian let him stay out as long as he wanted, and maybe someone's parents would be concerned, and maybe someone's parents would call social services, and maybe someone would find out that Danny wasn't his cousin, wasn't his legal guardian, wasn't even quite eighteen. And then would come the consequences.
Fuck, he had to be more careful.
The apartment was cold and dark and empty when he got in. Not surprisingly. They'd agreed, first days and they were going to make friends, go out afterwards, have fun. Acting normal was the idea. Or being normal. He wasn't quite sure which. And he was pretty sure that college kids didn't have the same kinds of curfews.
He sat in the living room, the TV blaring out 'Three's Company' and he didn't bother to change it. Staring down at his maths homework, he wondered about the con with the florists that they'd been working on last month, the one that they hadn't quite been able to get to work, and he wondered if maybe leaving a couple of days in between visits could solve the problem?
Time passed and it got late, and Danny didn't come home. He made a sandwich and stared at the TV. Somewhere out on the street below, people were shouting and there was the sound of glass breaking, the sound of a door slamming. The apartment must be colder than he thought; he was shivering, trembling, and he pulled his legs up close to his chest and turned the TV volume down as low as possible, as the sound of running, angry footsteps echoed outside the front door, and when they went past, he let out a shaky breath.
(He wished Danny was here.)
Eventually, a little after midnight he went to bed. He left the light on.
He woke up in the middle of the night desperate for something to eat, and that wasn't unusual at the moment. Seemed like he was growing an inch every week, and he'd gone from being vaguely hungry all the time to being starving all the time, constantly feeling like he did when he hadn't eaten for a couple of days. And he already knew that he had nothing in his room, knew that he had eaten all the junk food he kept hidden earlier. Slowly, inevitably, he got up and headed to his bedroom door, the floorboards rough against his bare feet, and he was filled with a feeling of dread, of inevitability, and still he couldn't stop himself.
The living room was dark. No sign of Dad. He must be asleep, and that was good, that meant that he would be okay if he was just quiet and careful.
Stealthily, without turning on any lights, he fixed himself a potato chip sandwich, and he poured himself a glass of water, and he turned to leave the kitchen, and, like he always did these days, he tripped over his own feet and he tried to save himself, tried so hard, because he knew what was going to happen, but he hit the floor in a crash of china and broken glass.
There was a second of silence. He didn't move.
There was the sound of a door slamming, the sound of angry running footsteps and then there was the shouting, and then there was the pain and the moment when his hand was stamped on, crushed into the glass and the crumbs, and the moment when the boot crashed into his shoulder, and he curled up as close, as tight, as small as he could and the pain came again and again and again, and it didn't stop.
He woke up in a tangle of blankets and sweat, biting as hard as he could into his lip to keep from screaming, and the pain from his dream was gone, all the pain was gone, and that wasn't good, that was never good, because that meant it had been a while, and when it had been a while it was always worse, always much, much worse. It was better that it was often. Frequent. Better that Dad got a chance to work out his frustrations, a shove here, a slap there, a punch, a kick, and it was better, much, much better than when he'd been away for a while, when he'd been safe for a while, and Dad needed to take the moment to express every last inch of violence and anger and frustration and hate. Better that it happened often. He tried to explain that once and Danny looked at him like he was speaking a foreign language, looked at him with eyes filled with a different kind of frustration, a different kind of anger, and a hate that would never touch him.
Danny.
He wasn't at home . . . Dad's place. He hadn't been living at Dad's place for months now. They'd moved out and he was safe. They were safe.
Slowly he opened his eyes and stared round at his room. His room. The room that he had in his and Danny's apartment, the room with the furniture that they'd acquired from a half dozen different sources, and he was pretty sure that very few other thieves had ever found themselves wandering round a home depot store at two in the morning, wearing ski masks and trying to find out if a wardrobe came in teak instead of pine, and whether there were pillow slips to match the duvet cover. His room, which was newly redecorated, and even the paint was stolen, conned from the nearly-finished office building under construction three blocks over, and they'd been left with a choice between taupe, mulberry and magnolia, and Danny had stood in the middle of the room, a large splodge of taupe in his hair that would later prove impervious to everything except scissors, and had wondered aloud what would happen if they mixed all three together, and Rusty had generously offered to try the experiment on the walls in Danny's room, and it was just as well that they'd thought to put coverings down, because the ensuing discussion had left them and everything around them well-speckled with mulberry. His room. Because Danny had wanted them more than just safe.
And he was safe. And he couldn't stop trembling. Couldn't stop jumping at every little noise from the street below. Couldn't stop the nightmare – memory – from playing in his head, again and again and again. It had been oh, more than a year ago. That time a little while before he turned fourteen, when he'd been growing into himself, or whatever, and he'd been awkward and ungainly and clumsy for months, constantly falling over his own feet, constantly walking into things. It hadn't just meant a lot more pain from Dad, it had left him struggling to make the simplest of lifts, struggling to even shuffle cards straight, let alone do anything clever, and for a few weeks - after he'd been caught with his hand in someone's pocket, and Danny hadn't been there to try and save him from the beating that followed - for a few weeks Danny had earned money for both of them, and in between times they'd been figuring out cons, ways that they could rely on charm instead of dexterity. And that had been good. Whole new games to play.
He was safe. And the nightmare was still in his head. He licked his lips and his mouth was dry and he could feel his heart racing, and he wanted to run, wanted to hide and he wanted . . .
Danny. He gave up and admitted it. He wanted Danny.
Standing up, his bare feet sinking into the carpet, he grabbed his bathrobe and headed out of his room. The living room was dark, but he could still see Danny's jacket thrown over the back of the sofa. Good. Oh, that was good. Danny was here, and he wasn't too proud to admit that made him feel so much better, that that made the trembling die down just a little.
He pushed Danny's door open and blinked into the room, and he caught a glimpse of long brunette hair strewn over the other pillow, before he hastily stepped back out of the room, closed the door as quietly as he could, and stood in the middle of the living room.
Fuck. Fuck, that had been stupid. That had been so stupid.
He needed to do something. Anything. Needed to occupy his mind, his hands, his self. Coffee. He'd make a cup of coffee and he'd go back to his room and he'd drink it and do something that didn't involve thinking, maybe read his maths book or stare out of the window and count the people that went past or figure out what excuses he should use this month – no! That wasn't where he was anymore. Wasn't who he was. He wasn't trapped. Wasn't beaten down and scared.
Fumbling, hands still shaking, he got the kettle on and reached into the cupboard for the coffee, (and he remembered another cupboard and reaching in and the cockroach that had scuttled over his hand, and he remembered screaming - "like a little sissy, like a goddamned girly fag" - and he remembered afterwards and worrying that he'd cracked a tooth) and suddenly the coffee jar was lying broken on the floor. Mechanically, he crouched down and with trembling hands, reached out to pick up the broken glass, anxious to clean up the mess he'd made.
Danny grabbed his wrist.
"Rusty," he said with quiet urgency and somehow he didn't think it was the first time that Danny had tried to attract his attention. Somehow, he thought that Danny had been there for a while.
He stayed staring at the ground for a moment before he looked up. There was a look in Danny's eyes, a worry. He smiled, trying to make it go away. "Hey, Danny. Sorry, guess I dropped - "
" - Rus'," Danny said, even more gently and hiding from each other was difficult. "Sit down, will you? I'll get it."
Biting his lip, he nodded and sat down at the table while Danny swept up the glass and coffee, keeping an eye on him all the time.
"Drink?" Danny suggested, when he was done.
He gave it a moment's consideration before agreeing and Danny reached into the very back of the cupboard, pulled out a bottle of whisky and poured them each a glass.
They sat together, and he knew that Danny was watching him, was watching as the shaking eased, as his illusion of control returned. Easier when Danny was there. Always, always, always.
Silently, Danny reached out and laid a hand on his arm. "You want to talk about it?"
He shrugged. "I'm fine?" he suggested, with as much optimism as he could manage.
Danny looked at him and the patient disbelief was obvious.
"It was just a bad dream, Danny," he explained with a sigh. "It was nothing. Really. Certainly nothing to disturb you over."
The look he got left him in very little doubt as to exactly what Danny thought of that.
He couldn't help but smile a little, and he sipped at his drink and took comfort in the weight of Danny's hand. "Really," he said, sincere and reassuring. "It was just a bad dream. Nothing that can hurt me." And maybe Danny still looked worried, but that was only to be expected. Danny was Danny, after all. But he could change the subject and Danny would let him. "I'm sorry for disturbing you," he said, in a voice that had amusement and curiosity and a question.
Danny smiled. "Her name's Della. Met her when I was signing up for class."
"What class?" he wondered.
The grin was wide. "Introductory Criminology."
Rusty blinked and laughed. "Oh, you'd better be careful," he warned. "No personal anecdotes."
"Right," Danny agreed. "Anyway, we got talking, she took me to a party, met a bunch of incredibly enthusiastic people, and brought her back here."
"Other than that how was college?" he asked, happy to listen to Danny's voice.
Danny shrugged. "Don't know, really. Different, I suppose. Apparently I should be joining a frat."
Rusty frowned. "Isn't that all about doing humiliating things and then getting drunk?" he asked. Which was strange, because, logically, it would make more sense the other way round. "And then going and watching the girls in sororities having pillow fights?"
"What kind of movies have you been watching?" Danny asked, eyebrows raised. "Anyway, apparently I'd need to spend a week doing exactly what someone told me to."
"Oh," Rusty shook his head slowly. "Oh, that's not going to happen."
"Not a chance," Danny agreed. "Doesn't sound like my kind of thing anyway. So," he smiled brightly. "How was school?"
"Fine," Rusty shrugged. "Full of children."
"Ah." Danny's smile was sympathetic.
"Went out with a few of them afterwards. They seemed nice enough." He paused. "They all had a curfew."
Danny looked surprised. "Really?"
"Yeah." He sighed. "Think maybe we need to figure out a set of rules I'm pretending to live under."
"Least it'll give you something to complain about," Danny agreed. "We can - "
" - ask the right questions - " Rusty nodded.
" - quietly - " Danny stressed.
Obviously, he agreed with a look. " - and figure out - "
" - what's normal," Danny finished and that was that problem taken care of.
He bit his lip. Thought of Della. "I am sorry for - "
" - Don't be," Danny cut him off firmly.
"Could've been much more awkward," he pointed out with a grimace. Because he might be open-minded, but there were some things he had no particular desire to walk into the middle of.
Danny nodded. "We need a signal."
"We could just start knocking?" he suggested. Neither of them had had much company over the last few months, and the few times it had been an issue, they'd both known there'd been someone else in the house.
"No." Danny's mouth was set in a straight line. Clearly not an idea he cared for in the slightest. "Sock on the door or something. Not that."
"Okay," he agreed, with a certain amount of relief. He didn't particularly like the idea of creating even that much distance between them.
Danny smiled at him. "How you doing?"
He considered. "Better," he said honestly. The terror had faded in the face of Danny.
"Ready to go back to sleep?" Danny asked.
"No!" he said, a little too quickly, a little too sharply. He winced at the look on Danny's face, but somehow he didn't think he was going to be doing that tonight. "Going to stay up. Watch some TV." He smiled, maybe a little weakly. "You should - " he nodded towards Danny's bedroom door.
"Yeah," Danny agreed.
But two minutes after Rusty settled down on the sofa, Danny was there with a bag of M&Ms, and they managed to find a channel showing 'The Big Sleep'. Bogart and Bacall, whisky and chocolate, and Danny was there, not judging, not asking, his shoulders brushing against Rusty's, and his nightmares felt far away.
He woke up when a door slammed, and maybe he jumped a little, and maybe he flinched a little, but then Danny's arm across his shoulders tightened, and he was safe and he relaxed, even as he felt Danny looking at him, even as he felt the frown.
A girl – Della, he assumed – was standing in Danny's bedroom door, glaring at them.
He lifted his head up off Danny's chest and sat up straight, wondering if this would be a good time to introduce himself.
"I'm leaving, Danny. I'll see you in class," she announced, in a voice that could have been carved from ice.
"Bye, Della," Danny said quietly as she swept out, and he made no move to stop her.
Rusty frowned at him. "You should - "
" - no," Danny said firmly, still not moving.
"Or at least - "
" - no," Danny repeated, a little harsher.
He sighed. "For future reference? I think that girls like it if you spend the night with them, when you spend the night with them. Rather than going and watching television."
Danny smiled at him, and there was something in his eyes that Rusty wasn't getting. "Yeah," he said simply. Then he looked closer. "You okay?"
"I'm fine," he promised, rolling his eyes. He didn't think he was lying.