Disclaimer: I don't own anything Ocean-y.
A/N: Like I said, 'more things change' story. And this one is set just over two years after the boys leave home.
1984
The bar was annoyingly crowded and in ordinary circumstances Saul might have considered going elsewhere, but he wanted a drink to wash away the taste of frustration. Having spent three weeks convincing Ray Washbourne that he, Elmer Doyle, was his very best friend, Ray had suddenly been transferred out of town.
These things happened. That didn't help.
He sighed to himself. This was shaping up to be a depressing sort of break. Still he was meeting Reuben tomorrow. That was something. If he could persuade Reuben not to ask about Ray Washbourne too much, anyway.
He took a sip of his drink and wondered what Rusty and Danny were doing now. He hadn't actually seen them since they'd took off after Rusty's birthday. Two months and one bank job was some celebration. And Bobby still wanted to talk to them about the bank. Something about not everything having to be a joke. Still. He could understand and so could Bobby. Eighteen wasn't just another number. Especially for them. He'd never pried, but he knew that they'd spent all the time he'd known them living in fear of Rusty being sent back to his family. And he knew that there was horror there and he found himself thinking of the fear on Rusty's face, that first time, when he'd known them barely a week and Tom Marino's men had got them. When Rusty had looked up at Danny and the blood and the bruises and whispered "Dad got you, too?" in a voice that trembled. And Danny had looked so miserable and he hadn't even glanced at Saul, hadn't been thinking in the slightest about having an audience, he'd just clasped Rusty's hand and promised in a low voice that they were far away and they were never going back. No. They had plenty to celebrate, and Saul certainly didn't grudge them that. Even if he did think of the bank and shake his head in pride and amusement. When he'd been a teenager, conning free meals and diamond rings had been about as far as he'd gone. Not that Danny was a teenager any more. Not that Saul was in a hurry to explain to the boys what impossible meant.
Smiling, he thought of the postcard in his pocket. His address in Rusty's handwriting. Danny's scrawl in place of a message. "Idea" was all it said. The picture was of the Sistine Chapel. If there'd been a return address, he'd probably be sending them a note telling them sternly to leave it where it was. At least he could be certain they weren't serious. At least it seemed like they were having fun. And when they got back, he'd maybe have a talk about keeping in touch a little better.
The bar seemed to be getting even more crowded. Though that could just be due to the size of the brick-like man sitting next to him, who was drinking vodka like it was water.
He sighed again and sipped morosely at his drink. Tomorrow, or the day after, he would start looking for a new best friend for Elmer Doyle. The con was too elegant to let it all go to waste.
Another man sat down on his other side, wearing a loud shirt and a Stetson. "Fucking kids," he said loudly, looking round as if searching for encouragement.
Saul glanced at him and made a vague, non-committal noise, vaguely aware of the brick next to him looking up from his drink with almost-interest. For a moment there was something about him. Something familiar. Enough to make Saul take a second glance, but then he was confident that he'd never seen the guy before in his life.
"You want to hear about my son?" Stetson demanded belligerently. "Little bastard just walked out on me. Said he never wanted to see me again. After all I've done for him. Can you believe it?"
The bartender looked up from polishing a glass and sighed sympathetically. "Maybe he'll come round."
"Kids," the dark-haired drunk on the other side of Stetson agreed, unsteadily. "They got no sense of...no sense of discipline these days. No respect. Spare the rod, spoil the child."
"I never laid a hand on Wilfred," Stetson said gloomily. "Gave him everything a boy could want. Now he goes and runs off with some show girl. Says he's in love. Says he's going to marry her. Won't listen to his mother. Won't listen to me. What's a man to do?"
The drunk had been nodding emphatically from the moment Stetson had started speaking. "See, that's your problem. That's where you went wrong. You should've been more firm with him all the time. I don't have kids myself, but just look at the world today. That's the only thing they understand."
"Maybe you're right," Stetson sighed doubtfully.
"It doesn't make a difference," the brick at Saul's side spoke up suddenly. And Saul couldn't put his finger on quite what it was, but there was something about the man that disturbed him immensely. "Some kids just never learn. No matter how hard you try. Some kids are just bad."
"You think?" Stetson asked, frowning.
"You want to hear about my son?" the brick demanded angrily. "Sly, useless, soft, little bastard, he was. I could see right from the beginning that he'd be a fucking disappointment and he was. Always sticking his nose into things. Always asking questions. Stupid bastard never learned. No matter how much he got beat."
Stetson shifted uncomfortably. "That's not a way to treat a boy," he protested.
"Some kids have it coming," the brick snarled, and Saul resolved to walk away from the conversation at the next surreptitious moment. "I mean what do you do when you catch a two year old stealing food from the garbage, huh? You make sure he knows not to do it again. Not like kids understand logic, you know. Gotta beat 'em down. But when I caught the little fucker rummaging in the fucking trash the very next day – well, what does that tell you?"
"That he was starving?" Saul suggested in spite of himself. He'd meant to keep quiet. This wasn't his fight. Wasn't even a winnable fight. But he couldn't help but picture a two-year old – a child, a baby – forced to live on scraps of rotting food, and he just couldn't keep his mouth shut.
The brick stared at him. "You trying to be funny?" He didn't wait for Saul's answer. "Bastard was too stupid to learn. Should've realised that early on and cut my losses. But then his bitch mother walked out and I stepped up. Raised him myself. Never got any thanks for it either. Fucking bastard even had the nerve to call social services on me once, can you believe it? After all I did for him."
The barman snorted. "Yeah, you're a real hero, pal." He walked away, shaking his head and Saul should do the same, he knew he should.
"Social services take him away?" Stetson sounded hopeful. Saul couldn't blame him.
The brick smiled triumphantly. "They brought him right back soon as they figured out what he was. Even apologised for the fuss. See, they could see that the little rat needed a firm hand." He took a long drink and threw his glass down emphatically. "All I ever tried to do was make him into a man. But it didn't matter what I did. He still turned out to be a fucking fag, wearing nail-polish and sniffing around some rich kid. In the blood, you see? Couldn't even beat it out of him. Though I still tried my hardest. And he was a thief and a cheat. Used to get his fucking teachers coming round trying to convince me that he was some kind of genius. Gifted." He laughed incredulously. "Believe me, when he came home after that, he got it for being a filthy little cheat. And he used to steal all the time. Even got arrested one time. Had the fucking police round at my door." A look of dark fury crossed his face. "Taught him not to do that again at least."
"What happened to him?" Saul asked quietly. He wasn't even sure exactly why, but he had to know. Wanted to think that the boy was safe, that the boy was somewhere better.
There was a pause and the brick shrugged uncaringly. "Took off a few years back. I never saw him again. Good riddance to bad rubbish, you know? Probably left with that friend of his. Although," he added, rubbing thoughtfully at his mouth, "Little bastard left me stiffed for the rent. And the fucking power got cut off the next week. Imagine doing that to his own father. What man wants a son like that?"
Saul stared and he thought maybe his heart had stopped beating. The hand rubbing at the mouth. The hand rubbing at the mouth. And he knew that gesture, he'd seen it before. Often before. And the man was maybe a few years younger than Saul himself. The right age. He stared and mentally he took off a few decades, a hundred pounds, added intelligence and charm and wit and beauty.
He wanted to scream.
Oh, he knew who this man was now. Knew what this man was now. And the unfamiliar familiarity was obscene. He knew the child this man had beaten. He knew the child this man had starved. He knew the child this man had spent fifteen years – fifteen years! - trying to torture into submission and the stab of pride he felt at the fact that the child had never broken was immense and fierce and painful. He knew this man. He knew.
And it was unthinkable that this man, this monster, was walking around in the world, and Saul knew that he still walked in their nightmares, and he imagined them walking into him, unaware, and his blood was cold.
He had to be sure. He had to know.
"What's your name?" he asked hoarsely.
The brick stared at him, confusion in his eyes. "Robert Ryan," he said shortly. "Why?"
The anger burned impossibly brighter. He knew what this man had had and what he'd thrown away. What he'd done his best to destroy. It was unforgettable and unforgivable.
His fists were clenched, ready. "I want a son like that," he said fiercely and when he swung he'd never thrown a harder punch.
Reuben was mostly amused and a little concerned. He'd got a phone call at five o'clock in the morning. Saul wanting bailed out. And that was unusual and he was desperate to know exactly what Saul had managed to get into. Because Saul getting arrested? That had got to be a story worth hearing.
Happily, he recognised the desk sergeant when he went in. "Davie!" he called cheerfully. "How's Mirabelle? How's the kids?"
"All fine, thanks, Reuben," Davie answered. "Good to see you again. What can I do for you?"
"I'm here about a friend of mine," Reuben explained. "Elmer Doyle?" He smiled conspiratorially and leaned over the desk with avid curiosity. "You going to tell me what he's in for?"
Davie rolled his eyes. "Bar fight last night," he said shortly.
Reuben leaned back frowning. "A bar fight?" he echoed, incredulously. "You sure?" He'd been expecting to hear that Saul had got caught stealing something. Jaywalking. Impersonating a bishop. Nearly anything but that.
"Yeah," Davie nodded. "Pretty intense. Witnesses say he started it. Just up and attacked the other guy. It got pretty bloody. Neither of them are seriously hurt, but they both needed a couple of stitches. Apparently it took three cops to haul your friend off the guy."
And that didn't sound like Saul. Not in the slightest. "Who's the other guy?" Reuben asked, hoping that somewhere along the lines this was going to start making sense.
Davie shrugged and turned over a couple of pages in the book in front of him. "A Robert Ryan. Mean anything to you?"
Reuben stared. It did. Of course it did. Just that suddenly things had gone from making no sense to being absolutely goddamned impossible. "Robert Ryan?" he repeated, aghast. "Young guy, right? A kid? Blond, looks like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth?"
"No, I don't think so," Davie frowned. "No. No, this Robert Ryan was about Mr Doyle's age."
Oh. Well. That was a relief. But he still didn't understand what the hell was going on here.
He paid the money and Saul duly turned up, battered and bandaged and miserably silent. All thoughts of mockery had long vanished from Reuben's mind, and they left the police station and drove back to his house in absolute quiet.
"You going to tell me what this is about?" he asked, once he'd got Saul settled comfortably on a sofa and Dominic had brought coffee and breakfast.
Saul shook his head mutely. "Thanks," he added, a few moments later. "I'll pay you back in - "
Reuben waved a hand dismissively. " - I don't care about the money," he reminded Saul. "Robert Ryan?"
Saul looked at him impassively and still Reuben would bet that he'd been hoping that Reuben would never find out just who it was he'd been fighting.
He leaned forwards intently. "Rusty's father?" he asked very, very quietly, and he was watching for the hint of surprise on Saul's face. Not so much for the deduction – not exactly an impossible leap – but for the fact that he thought he knew a little of the whys. Not that anyone had ever told him anything. Not that anyone ever would tell him anything. But he wasn't blind and he wasn't stupid, and sometimes there were moments and Danny and Rusty, they were good, but they were young and however they had or hadn't been brought up, it had left a couple of marks. Not to mention the way Saul and Bobby looked at them sometimes, the way they talked.
Very slowly, Saul nodded and Reuben took a deep breath and felt the fury simmering.
"Well, that only leaves one question, doesn't it?" he said, almost cheerfully, leaning back in his chair.
Saul looked at him questioningly.
Reuben smiled. "Do you honestly think that hitting him a couple of times in a bar is enough?"
"It isn't," Saul said immediately, hoarsely, agonisingly.
Reuben nodded. "Alright then."
"The boys can never know," Saul warned quickly.
"They never will," Reuben agreed.
They never would.