I own nothing to do with the Ocean's 11 universe, and they really wouldn't want me playing in their playground.
Obviously inspired by phonecalls in 'Justice'. That was neither blame nor apology. Just acknowledgement.
Tess sipped at her coffee and wondered vaguely when Danny would be back. So far their anniversary had been wonderful and surprising and romantic. As it always was. As their marriage was. Danny had made her breakfast in bed, but when she'd seen him standing there she'd reached up and kissed him, and pulled him in close and the next thing the bed had been full of croissant crumbs and the coffee had gone cold. And they'd been sitting outside the little café for nearly two hours, while she tried to guess what restaurant Danny had booked for the evening. And then Danny's eyes had suddenly lit up, and she knew he was planning something – something good – and he'd kissed her and promised he'd be back soon and vanished. And she smiled and drank her coffee and enjoyed the sunshine and it came as a surprise when Danny's phone rang.
She eventually managed to dig it out of the jacket he'd left draped on the back of the chair and stared blankly at it. The caller ID said 'No Number'. She'd never seen that before. And it occurred to her that Danny wouldn't be able to call whoever it was back. And it might be important.
Sighing, she hit the button and held the phone to her ear. Before she could say anything a familiar voice started talking. Fast and relieved and . . . amused? (Something). "Forget how to answer your phone again?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Listen, I'm sorry, I'm really sorry, and I don't have much time and there are some things – "
She interrupted hastily. "Rusty? It's Tess."
"Oh," There was a slight, flat silence and she could hear angry voices talking in the background. "Is he there?"
"No, he just left. I don't know how long he'll be." She hoped he'd take the hint.
He laughed. And she couldn't put her finger on why, but it sounded wrong. "It never goes like this in the movies," he muttered.
"Look, Rusty," she said exasperated, and her finger hovered over the button to terminate the call. "You said you don't have much time so why don't you call back tomorrow or something?"
"Don't hang up!" he said and for a second – before she told herself that she must have been imagining it – he sounded frightened. "Please."
She hesitated, unsure." What is it?" she asked.
"It's your anniversary, isn't it?" he asked randomly and she was neither surprised that he knew that nor happy that he'd called anyway.
"Yes," she said stiffly and she frowned when he sighed.
"I'm sorry. Believe me, I'm sorry." She'd never heard him sound so serious.
"It's all right," she said, unwillingly.
He laughed again. Just a little bit. "I'm afraid it isn't. Listen, there are some things I need you to tell him."
"Tell him yourself," she begged. Call later. Come over. Something.
"That's . . . not going to be possible, I'm afraid. I'm not going to be able to see him again."
And for a second she misunderstood. For a ridiculous second she thought he meant it the way it sounded. But that was impossible. "You're not going to see him again before what?" she asked.
She could almost feel the hesitation through the phone. Could almost picture him, standing there, uncertain, rubbing at his mouth. "I'm not going to see him again at all. This is sort of a last request. Could have asked for a steak or a cigarette, I suppose . . . but I wanted to talk to him."
Her mouth was dry. The universe was cold. And the silence stretched out for decades.
"Are you still there?" he asked, and now she could hear the hesitation and the apology.
"Yes," she whispered, gripping the phone tightly. "Rusty . . . " And there were a thousand things she thought she should say, but she somehow didn't know what they were. She found herself wishing he'd tell her what he wanted to hear, and she found herself wishing that Danny was here, more than she ever had before.
"Good," and the relief that she understood was obvious. "I was afraid it was going to have to go Dead Parrot at you."
The sob turned into a choked laugh and she paused, horrified. "Rusty, tell me where you are," she begged. "I'll call the police or the army, or something. It'll be all right."
"That's not really an option at this stage," he told her gently. "And I don't think these guys would be very happy if they heard me telling you that." For a couple of moments all she could hear was him breathing. "I need you to listen to me now, okay? There are some things I need you to tell him."
She nodded, blinded by tears, and bit back all the apologies for not being Danny that were inside her.
"Tell him . . . tell him I'm not afraid. Tell him it's going to be quick. It's not going to hurt."
In the background she heard one of the voices laugh, mocking and ironic. And she couldn't stop the flinch at the implication, and she couldn't silence the whimper.
Rusty's voice was steel. "Tell him anyway. Please."
She would. And she'd do everything in her power to make him believe that Rusty had believed.
"Tell him not to do anything stupid. No," he corrected himself. "Make sure he doesn't do anything stupid."
And the tears fell all the harder, because she already knew that wasn't going to be possible. But she'd try, because he wanted it and because she wanted it. Keep Danny safe. Even if he'd never understand. Even if he never forgave either of them.
"It's going to be difficult," he acknowledged, and she knew he meant more than this, she knew he meant everything. He hesitated. "Could you . . . could you call our friends? You know who. They'll want to know. And I don't know if he'll . . . "
"I will," she promised. She took a deep breath. And maybe this was the most important vow she'd ever made. Above and beyond and forever part of 'in sickness and in health.' "And I'll be there for Danny. Always. I'll look after him for you. For both of us."
"I know." And she could hear the gratitude in his voice. "Tell him I was never alone. Tell him it was all worthwhile. Tell him I'd rather have five minutes than a hundred years." He laughed. "Tell him I didn't have the time to practice this speech."
"I'll tell him, Rusty." Her voice was shaking as badly as the rest of her, and she wished she could have hid it all for him.
His voice was gentle. "I really am sorry. Tell him that, too."
"I don't want you to go," she whispered. Not just for Danny.
There was a brief silence, and she heard someone in the background, talking to him, and she didn't know the voice, and she didn't understand the language, and she didn't recognise the accent and there was nothing she could do, and her knuckles were in her mouth as she listened to him reply.
"No, I understand. You've been more than generous." He paused, and his next words were directed into the phone. "Three more words for him." She heard him swallow, and then he whispered quickly, "As you wish."
She didn't even hesitate. "He loves you too," she assured him, insistently. "He loves you."
A different voice in the background. Quiet and commanding. "Mr Templar, that's quite enough." And she closed her eyes, because this was the end, and god! They didn't even know his name. They didn't even know who they were killing.
And his voice was in her ear again, one last time. "Gotta go now. Thank you." And that last was meant just for her.
"Don't hang up," she begged. "Rusty, don't go. Please." She was screaming, and there were people staring at her, but the phone was dea . . . the phone was silent, and she was alone, and she hadn't said enough, and she hadn't done enough, and at this moment, somewhere, Rusty was dying, and she hadn't done enough.
She clutched the phone tightly and pressed it to her forehead and she sobbed, and willed him to ring back and knew he wouldn't, couldn't, and Danny walked round the corner with a huge bunch of flowers and a broad smile.