No. Still don't know how long. Sorry. And me and InSilva don't like this fic. Not even a little.
It was raining when he woke up. Had been for some time, judging by how soaked he was.
He hurt.
He hurt and he was cold and he was wet, and he was lying face down in the dirt, and he was cold and he hurt.
With a groan he managed to roll over until he was lying on his back. Alleyway. He was lying in the gutter in the alleyway beside the bar. Looked like the bar had closed. Sounded like it too. He must've been out for a while.
(We're all lying in the gutter but some of us are looking at the stars.)
He turned his head and spat out a mouthful of blood and mud.
(There weren't any stars anyway.)
He hurt and with a sigh he started to check the damage. His face was the worst and, with an explorative hand, he traced over the swollen and the bruised and the crusted, dried blood. They didn't seem to have left much untouched. Felt like his nose had bled. A lot. Fuck, he was lucky they'd dumped him face down. He'd been lying on his back he could easily have choked to death by now. Other than that, nothing so unusual. His neck hurt as if he'd been thrown around a lot. Chest, arms, stomach – he'd be black and blue by now. His ribs ached, but he didn't think anything was cracked or broken. Probably that would hurt a lot more. His knuckles were sore and carefully he brought his hand up in front of his face and blinked. His knuckles were split and bloody. Well. That was different.
On the whole, it was bad but not unliveable with.
His face was the worst . . .
(Dangling helplessly in the air, held up by his shirt front, by a man he couldn't quite see, couldn't quite focus on, and fists crashed into his face again and again. "Not so smart now, are you?" a coarse voice demanded and he tried to catch his breath, but the blows were coming too fast and his mouth was full of blood. "Not so pretty either.")
His eyes were squeezed shut and he shook his head slowly. That was . . . that had been . . . that had been now, hadn't it? Not with Dad? He wasn't certain.
But he remembered the bar and he remembered jumping up swinging, and he remembered dodging and men shouting at him, swearing at him, hitting him, and he hadn't cared, he'd been laughing even as he'd been losing and Dad had been standing there, leaning against the bar, bottle of vodka in his hand, toasting him as he fell, as they dragged him off the floor and promised to teach him right from wrong.
No. He shook his head frantically. No, that was wrong. He was confused. Dad hadn't been there; that wasn't possible. Just a bad dream or a stupid trick of memory or something.
He shivered. Nothing to worry about.
Feebly, he patted himself down. No cigarettes. Bastards must have taken them. He frowned. More than just no cigarettes. For the first time he realised that his jacket was missing. Everything was missing. They'd stolen his jacket, gone through his jeans pockets, stripped him of everything he had. He supposed he was lucky that they'd left him his clothes. A sudden thought, a realisation, and he wiggled his feet cautiously and bit hard into his lip. He tasted blood. They'd taken his shoes.
(He was leaning against the doorframe, holding himself up by an effort of will. "Bastard stole my shoes," he said flatly and he watched Danny's expression change.)
He blinked; that definitely wasn't now. Danny had come for him then and . . .
Danny.
With a moan he realised the other thing they'd taken from him. His wallet. The wallet Danny had given him. The gift that Danny had put so much thought into, so much effort into. The wallet with the little compartment with the tools and the lockpicks that Danny had given him last Christmas. Danny had given him it and it had meant . .. it had been . . . and he'd lost it. He'd let a group of poker-playing thugs take it like it was nothing, like it didn't mean anything to him.
He clenched his fists and slowly, with an effort, pulled himself first up to his knees and then, after a few, tightly swaying moments, forced himself to his feet. It hurt. The wallet wasn't what Danny was going to be worried about. Rusty knew what was important to Danny, knew what mattered. Knew what was going to put the the look of utter desolation in Danny's eyes.
He knew what he'd done. He just wasn't sure why he'd done it. Wasn't sure what he'd been thinking. Wasn't sure if he had been thinking. There'd been urgency and desperation and fear and anger, and he'd been spoiling for the fight, desperate for the fight, and it hadn't been about winning or losing. Just been about putting an end to . . . he'd needed to . . . he didn't know what he'd been thinking.
Swallowing hard, he leaned against the wall for a long moment before he staggered out of the alley and headed towards home. Really, wasn't as bad as it could have been. He'd had worse. The pain was dealable with. Long as he kept his arm snug round his chest, long as he kept his head down, didn't look at the street lamps, long as he didn't try to walk too fast, long as he stopped to rest often; it really wasn't so bad. Dealable with. What was more annoying was the fact that the pavement was swimming with water and his feet were frozen. Made walking more difficult and sometimes he stumbled. Sometimes he fell. He always got up again.
There were people around of course, and he was aware of curious looks, even some concern. He ignored it. No one he recognised and no one spoke to him. Thankfully.
By the time he reached home he was exhausted and shaking and his whole body was alive with pain, the ache and the burning gnawing on his every nerve. He was done.
Stupidly, he stood in front of the door and reached into his jeans pocket. No key. No keys and no lockpick. Cursing himself, he knocked loudly and prepared himself.
No answer.
Danny wasn't home yet.
No keys and no lockpick and no answer (no Danny) and bizarrely, inexplicably, for a moment he thought he was going to start crying.
He bit his tongue. No sense in that. Wouldn't help anything. It never helped anything. He had to think; there'd been an old sofa dumped on the side of the road half a block away. Probably that would do the trick. Even if it meant heading out into the cold and the rain again.
Half a block seemed longer than it should have been, and by the time he was kneeling in front of the sofa, prising loose the upholstery, digging out a piece of wire spring, he was feeling tired enough that just falling asleep on the sofa almost seemed like a good idea. Not quite though, and he staggered all the way back, thinking of nothing more than putting one foot in front of the other, until he was standing outside the front door again, and this time the wire was in his hand and slowly and clumsily he fumbled at the lock and he was almost surprised when the door swung open.
The apartment was cold and dark and he shut the door behind him and stumbled through to the bathroom. Really, all he wanted to do was fall into bed and not get up again for a few months, but he'd feel so much worse if he went to bed still chilled and bloody. Better to take care of himself first.
Peeling off his wet clothes, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. As he'd expected, his face was a mess, raw and swollen and ugly, his chest and stomach were black and blue, smeared with blood, and he could see red finger marks on his upper arms where he'd been held. Bruised and bloodied and marked and damaged.
(He looked like himself again.)
Throwing the water on, he practically fell into the shower and did his best to get himself cleaned up. Nice to be able to do this with hot water.
After his shower, he managed to splash some antiseptic on anything that looked like it might need it, shoved band-aids on anything that looked like it might bleed and crawl into a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. One of Danny's t-shirts. Just because that's what had been lying around. No deeper meaning.
Then he fell into bed and slept peacefully for the first time in five weeks.
Morning came and he woke up in pain but warm and comfortable, and somehow the two things together meant something close to safety.
His face was throbbing. His chest hurt when he breathed. There was a sharp pinch in his neck and shoulder that threatened consequences if he moved around too much. Nothing to be overly worried about and, with a carefully stifled groan, he managed to sit up, swing his legs over the side of the bed, and shuffle upright.
There was noise coming from the living room and he closed his eyes shut for a long moment. Danny.
With a deep breath, he pushed his bedroom door open and stepped out into the living room. Danny was in the kitchen area, making coffee, his back to Rusty. "You're up late," he called out cheerfully, without looking round. "Was just going to come wake you."
He didn't say anything. Didn't even think anything.
Danny continued talking after a second. "You want to do something this weekend? I was thinking we could take a stroll up to the Diamond District, see if anything . . . " he trailed off sharply. And Rusty could see, could tell just by looking, just by the tension in Danny's back, that somehow, something in the tone of the silence had caught his attention. "Rus'?" Danny breathed.
Still, he said nothing. Couldn't think of anything to say. Couldn't think of anything to tell Danny, anything that would make this better.
Danny turned round slowly, and Rusty winced when the coffee cup hit the floor.
Instantly, impossibly, Danny was standing in front of him, his hands gently cupping Rusty's face, comfort and love and fear in every touch, searching, studying, picking out each and every injury with the ease of long-practice, his eyes alight with familiar horror and misery. "What happened?" he demanded frantically. "Rus', what the fuck happened?"
He swallowed painfully. "Danny, oh, Danny, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"Never mind that," Danny told him gently, leading him over to the sofa and getting him sitting down. "What happened?"
He couldn't lie. "There was . . . I was . . . " He couldn't tell Danny the truth either. "They took my wallet," he said helplessly. "And my jacket, and my keys and . . . they stole my shoes, Danny."
The echo hit Danny; he saw it, he hated it. And he'd used it.
"Rus' . . . " There was agony on Danny's face and he clenched his fists and turned away for a moment. "Who?" he demanded, all the fury in the world in his voice.
He couldn't bear this. Really, really, couldn't bear what he was doing. What he'd already done. He swallowed. "Didn't know them. There were six of them."
"Kids?" Danny asked sharply, turning back to face him, his eyes wild.
"Adults," he admitted.
Danny closed his eyes and Rusty could see the shudder of rage, the shadow of the unthinking, could see the desire, need, to find, to hurt, to punish, and he had to distract Danny before it went any further.
"They stole my wallet," he said again, quiet and miserable.
Opening his eyes quickly, Danny looked at him and got it immediately, and with a sigh, he was sitting beside Rusty, his hand stroking Rusty's hair. "I'll get you another one," he promised. Gently he reached out, tilted Rusty's head towards him, his fingers tracing over Rusty's battered face. "We should - "
" - I don't need a doctor, Danny," he said firmly.
Danny didn't look convinced.
"Really," he insisted. "If this had happened at home we'd - " He stopped. Winced. And he could see the memories playing out over Danny's face.
(He was lying on a couch and it smelt of vodka and blood and Danny was kneeling beside him, pressing a cold compress to his cheek, talking light inconsequentialities and the old anger and helplessness beneath his words were barely audible. "Apparently Mom had the dining room painted last weekend. Do me a favour, huh? When we get our own place, let's make sure it's not painted orange.
A dribble of water ran down his neck and he grimaced. He smiled happily up at Danny. "When we get our own place, let's make sure it's got a freezer. Will make this a lot easier."
To his bewilderment, Danny's hand convulsed and he stood up, dropping the cold compress somewhere along the way, taking a shaky step backwards. "What did you say?" Danny demanded in a whisper and his face was still and blank and frightened.
Rusty frowned. "I was just saying ice packs are better, that's all. Drier too."
There was a moment of rage and misery and despair and futility, but when Danny spoke his voice his voice was calm and gentle. "When we get our own place we won't need to do this anymore. When we get our own place, no-one's going to hit you. You're not going to be hurt. No more beatings. No more pain." Danny's eyes were wild and his voice was desperate. "Rus'? Tell me you understand that?"
"Of course I do," he said after a long moment and he could hear the tremble in his voice.
Danny stared at him. "That's it. We're leaving. Now.")
He could see Danny trembling. "I promised. I promised you. I said - "
" - no," he interrupted frantically. "No, Danny, it wasn't your - "
" - I wasn't there," Danny whispered, and Rusty couldn't even begin to explain that it wouldn't have mattered, that Danny couldn't be there all the time, that if Danny had been there it would have happened another time. "I wasn't there, Rus' - "
" - you didn't do anything, Danny," he promised wearily. "It was me, it was all me, I . . . "
He stopped at the look on Danny's face, at the pain and the disbelief, and then Danny's arms were tight around his shoulders and he felt something relax inside him as Danny kissed his hair. "It's not your fault, Rus'," Danny whispered insistently. "It's not."
He lay against Danny's chest and for a while he was safe and for a while there was nothing to be frightened of.
Thanks for reading. Hope you thought it was okay.
