A/N: Sorry this chapter has taken so long. Hope it was worth the wait.
Danny closed the door behind him and sighed. No-one looked up. Linus, Turk and Virgil were engrossed in a game of cards, and Livingston was staring at the monitors and apparently playing hangman with himself.
Terry Benedict. Bastard. And, yes, it was just possible that a certain amount of this was the jealous ex-husband thing, and more of it was because he couldn't quite bring himself to be angry with Tess. (For this. There were other things that he hadn't even begun to deal with.) But Benedict had approached him, quietly and calmly, and it had been quite clear that he was convinced that Danny was planning something. And he supposed he had to give the guy credit for understanding the obvious. But when Danny had hinted that, actually, he'd just been here for Tess, it had been obvious that not only was Terry less than convinced, he also wasn't exactly happy that Tess was gone. Apparently it was real. Who'd have thought?
If Benedict was looking at him that way, then they'd need to start figuring out the implications. It wasn't like the phrase 'leave town and never come back' had actually been used, but it had definitely been floating in the air. There would be consequences. He sighed again, and this time Linus looked up.
"Is everything okay, Danny?" he asked.
Danny smiled easily. "Everything's fine. Where's Rusty? Need to talk to him about something."
Livingston looked round. "He's not back from that meeting with Roman, yet."
Oh. Danny frowned. Because he should have been. Even allowing for the fact that Roman would feel the need to explain just how clever he was, they should be done by now. He glanced over, but Linus and the twins were concentrating on their game again. "Who went with him?" he asked, and Livingston looked uncomfortable.
"Well, that is . . . it was going to be Basher," he stuttered.
Going to be . . . ? "What happened?"
Livingston bit his lip. "Well, Rus' smiled, and he sort of explained . . .something . . . and suddenly he was gone and we hadn't actually objected."
"Livingston . . ." Danny sighed. But honestly, he wasn't terribly surprised. Even if he'd been understanding about it in the first place, Rusty was going to struggle with the idea of being under such close scrutiny. Little too confining. Always would have been.
He pulled out his phone and hit memory one, and tried not to think of how the slot had been blank for the past four years. It answered on the second ring, "Uh huh?"
Danny tried to keep his voice light. "Where are you?"
"Downstairs," Rusty answered immediately and he sounded close enough to normal – today's normal – that Danny relaxed.
There were voices talking and clinking glasses. "At the bar?"
"Yeah," Rusty agreed.
Danny found himself glancing over Livingston's shoulder, scanning the feed from the floor. Ah. There. He grinned at the combination of purple and green. "Like the suit. Very Joker."
There was a slight pause and then slight amusement. "Nicholson or Romero?"
"Animated series," Danny answered promptly.
"Huh." And tangled up in that was the almost-comfortable realisation that once upon a time they would have been going down the route of finding out just how many cartoons Danny normally watched.
Not the time or the place. He cleared his throat and changed the subject. "We've got a problem with Terry Benedict."
"No shit," came the immediate rejoinder.
Danny grinned. "Funny. A new problem."
Rusty sighed. "Let me finish my drink."
And that probably meant . . . "Roman wanted to give you the full picture, didn't he?"
Rusty sighed again, and Danny watched on the screen as he rolled his glass against his temple. "He was very thorough."
"See you in a couple of minutes," Danny said cheerfully, and hung up.
Rusty slid the phone back into his pocket and resisted the urge to dig his thumb into the wounds on his thigh. Danny had sounded so normal and it hurt. Everything hurt. He'd had to use the knife twice more since that first time, and each time he'd sworn would be the last. Oh, he knew damned well that it was no sort of solution. Just a little trick of chemistry. Endorphins and adrenaline and he could fool his mind and body into thinking that the immediate, present danger was more real. And that wouldn't last for long. Already, that last time, this morning, before the meeting with Roman, he'd needed to put on a little more pressure. He'd dug the knife in that bit deeper and it had made him think of – though not, thankfully, relive – that time when Felding had held him down and showed him his technique for de-eying potatoes. Just a slight flick of the wrist and the little gobbets of flesh went flying. He'd stood for a long moment, knife held limply at his side, other hand automatically clamped over his leg to stem the bleeding, and he'd had to fight so hard not to be sick. Just the adrenaline, of course.
And he was breaking his promise to Saul. He knew that perfectly well, and it felt wrong in a way that few things ever did. It was a betrayal. Every time. Every time he even thought of the knife. Every time he surreptitiously let his fingers dig into damaged flesh or put that extra bit of weight on the leg, to stop the past from hurting or to remind himself that he and Danny weren't . . . well. Weren't whatever they'd once been. Every single time, he imagined the look on Saul's face if he knew. The horror, the helplessness. (The disappointment the pity.) And it never stopped him.
"You look deep in thought, Robert." The voice was cheerful and pleasant, and the smile was wide and genuine.
Rusty stared helplessly as Carson slid onto the barstool next to him. He hadn't heard him coming. And this wasn't supposed to happen.
"Oh, come now, Robert." Carson scolded. "You used to be more fun than this. Haven't you got anything to say for yourself?" He leaned in closer, smile still proudly in place. "Did you miss our little chats? I certainly did."
Okay. That could be it. Maybe. It was remotely possible that Carson had just seen an opportunity to torment and hadn't been able to resist. It fitted; he was a sadist. But in the circumstances, and bearing in mind that he thought that he was going to have all the time he'd ever need, when the job was done, to break Rusty down into as many pieces as he liked, there surely had to be something else. Unless . . .
Danny couldn't tear his eyes away from the screen. Carson sitting next to Rusty was probably the sight that he least wanted to see in the world right now.
"Do we have sound?" Linus asked, and there was a note of fear in his voice.
Livingston was already playing with buttons and recrossing wires and Carson's voice suddenly flooded the room.
" . . . Did you miss our little chats? I certainly did."
Gritting his teeth, Danny reached for his phone, ready to tell Rusty to get out of there. But with his finger on the call button, he hesitated. Because why hadn't Rusty done that already?
"Danny, look!" Livingston pointed excitedly at what Danny privately termed the box-with-lights-on. The lights were flashing.
"Carson thinks he's blocking our signal?" Danny asked, but it wasn't a question because Rusty already understood that.
Livingston nodded. "Yes." He frowned. "Only I don't know why."
Danny did. "He's testing us."
"What?" Turk asked.
"He wants to know if the Verbal information is real," Danny explained dully. "So he's going to sit there, with Rusty, and try and force us to interfere. And the moment we do, he'll know we're setting him up."
"And we're fucked for tomorrow," Virgil finished tightly. "Bastard."
"So we abort, right?" Linus asked. "We're not just going to sit here and let him . . . Danny?"
Danny's eyes went back to the screen. To Rusty.
Rusty relaxed and smiled back at Carson. "About as much as I miss panpipe music. Has anyone ever told you you're a little annoying?" With everything he had and everything they'd ever been, he concentrated on broadcasting a message that would only ever be read by one person. 'I can handle it. Stay out of this. Don't do anything stupid.' They'd come too far to be beaten by something so small.
Carson looked approving. "That's better, Robert. And no, not in so many words. Not twice, at any rate."
Rusty laughed. "Bet when you were a kid you'd ruined all your Christmas presents by lunch."
Carson nodded thoughtfully. "I do like to play roughly with my toys, Robert. As you well know."
Danny didn't let his reaction show. Not if he could help it. Not in front of anyone.
"Danny?" Livingston looked back at him anxiously. "What are we waiting for? What are we going to do?"
For a moment he hesitated. He'd read all the signals. Of course. Not that he could exactly explain what any of them were, or meant, but they were there and even though he and Rusty were broken and apart, he understood what Rusty was saying. 'Keep out of this. Don't do anything stupid. I can handle it. Nothing to lose, remember?' And he wanted to pretend he hadn't understood, and charge in regardless, guns blazing, metaphorically or otherwise. Of course, he always would have. The urge to protect underlined everything. Thing was, now it came down to one simple question. Did he trust Rusty?
"Danny?" Linus prompted.
"We wait. Sit tight," Danny said heavily, and he pretended he didn't see their shocked, incredulous looks.
Rusty made a show of looking round. "No Rhino-boy today?"
For a second Carson looked puzzled. Then realisation dawned and he laughed. "Agent Hopper? There is a certain resemblance, isn't there? I must remember to tell him you said so. I'm sure he'll get a real kick out of it."
"Always pleased to entertain the Bureau, Harry," Rusty said lightly. "And speaking of, what can I do for you today?"
"You're remarkably upbeat for a man who is in the process of betraying the love of his life. But then, that's what I like about you." He paused, and Rusty tried not to shiver. "You do believe I like you, don't you Robert?"
"Yes." He couldn't explain it and he didn't want to, and he hated it more than he could ever say, but he believed it.
Carson smiled and went on. "I like the way that no matter what I do, no matter how I break you, you always somehow manage to scrape yourself back together. How do you do that, I wonder?"
"Practice," he said shortly, because it was slightly true and because Carson would be expecting the fracture, and because Danny would hear the other level.
"Yes, I suppose that's true," Carson paused, and then he looked Rusty straight in the eyes. "Mind you, I also liked the feeling of you beneath me, crying and begging me. Do you remember that, Robert? The last time we met. Do you remember?"
Rusty didn't pause. Couldn't pause. Because if he stopped and let himself feel the words he was lost. "What would you do if I said no?"
And that had been a mistake. He knew that even before the teeth glinted cruelly. "Why, I'd do it again. Reduce you to a snivelling wreck, right here in public."
"Really." And his voice was pleasingly sceptical.
"We both know I could, don't we Robert?." There was no doubt. No annoyance. Just amusement. Because they did both know. And now Danny knew too, and more than anything that made him want to scream.
He shrugged. "Wasn't arguing with that. Just that that kind of scene, well. It doesn't exactly fit your plans either, does it?"
"Unfortunately not," Carson agreed with a sigh.
"Drink?" Rusty offered, signalling the barmaid.
"Thank you." And there was that amusement again. How he hated it.
They were beginning to hate him; he could tell.
He never looked away from Rusty and Carson, but he'd been aware of the twins' spiking confusion and rage; he was aware of Linus standing beside him, tense and miserable and desperate for Danny to do something; and he was aware of Livingston staring straight ahead of him in a cloud of growing fury.
And Danny watched Rusty through Carson's hateful voice (". . . you beneath me, crying and begging me. Do you remember Robert?") and he could read the truth, and he could read the shame and the humiliation and the self-disgust and the horror, and he couldn't stop picturing the scene, and he couldn't stop thinking of the fingermarks on Rusty's arm, and he remembered the emotion in Rusty's voice when he said he hated Carson, and the thing was there'd always never been anything worse. Four years and every last shard of agony was still mirrored. And Rusty was still refusing his help.
He smiled at the barmaid when she came over, and once, a very long time ago, he would have been amused and intrigued by the way her eyes lit up. Now it made him feel dirty inside.
"Hi again," she breathed. "What can I get for you?"
"Same again please, Saffron," Rusty said and he could feel Carson's eyes watching him as she blushed when he said her name. But he wanted Carson to think that he was doing his best to pretend that he was fine. And he wanted Danny to think that he thought he was fine. And it was getting a little difficult to see just where he was in all of this, but he had to admit that 'fine' probably didn't enter into it. He turned to Carson and smiled, for Saffron's benefit. "And for you, Harry?"
Carson smiled, first at Rusty and then at Saffron. Then he reached out and wound a loving arm around Rusty's shoulders and stroked playfully at Rusty's cheek. "Oh, he's such a tease. You know perfectly well what I want, don't you Robert?"
Saffron looked disappointed. Rusty was trying not to shudder or scream, or lash out, or cry, or beg. Because none of that would go well. But he felt sick and dizzy, and honestly shouldn't he be used to this by now?
Carson's eyes were delighted as he trailed a finger very, very slowly down Rusty's chest. "Don't you, Robert?" he repeated pointedly.
He managed to shrug apologetically at Saffron. "Shirley Temple," he managed and she blinked and Carson laughed.
As soon as she'd moved away, Rusty glared at Carson and pulled the hand off his chest violently. "Don't touch me."
Carson shook his head sadly, and effortlessly reached over with his other hand and gripped Rusty's hand, taking the opportunity to dig his fingernails into the almost-healed cuts on his palm. "Oh, Robert. That lacked conviction. You haven't had much experience saying 'no', have you?"
Rusty glared harder and tried to wrench his hand away, but Carson just held on tighter and he tried to fight back the rising panic.
"Now, now," Carson's eyes were dancing. "That isn't the way this works, Robert. Here's what's going to happen. Join in when you know the words. You're going to sit still and let me do whatever I want, and if you make any sort of fuss, I'm going to break your fingers."
"Stay where you are," Danny ordered hoarsely and the twins paused in the act of opening the door.
Livingston, halfway across the room, glared at him. "Danny, enough is enough."
It had been enough the moment that Carson had sat down. It had been enough the moment that Rusty suggested the Verbal. (It had been enough four years ago.)
Linus stepped forwards, quiet and conciliatory and very, very afraid. "Don't you think it's time we stepped in, Danny? This isn't right."
He shrugged and tried to sound reassuring. "Carson can't do much in public like that. And the rest is all an act," he lied and he stared at the monitor and deep inside he was screaming.
He did know the words. And his natural reaction was to break Carson's nose and run as far as he could. (As far as Danny.) But there was no lust in the man's eyes, just glee and anticipation, and whatever happened it would be about humiliation and control, not about sex. (Wasn't it always?) And he couldn't afford the fuss, and he couldn't afford broken fingers. And he could take it. He could always, always take it. He nodded slowly, and Carson carefully took one of his hands away, and with the other hand, equally carefully, twisted Rusty's fingers until he could feel muscle and ligament straining. He kept his face blank when Carson resumed stroking his chest, and when Saffron brought the drinks over he managed to smile pleasantly at her, and produce his wallet and the right money and a generous tip. She didn't notice anything wrong. He was better than he thought. Except from the part where he was dying.
Carson brushed a hand further down and stroked Rusty's thigh and clearly delighted at the wince Rusty couldn't quite suppress. "You're thinking of killing me right now, aren't you?" he asked, conversationally.
Rusty nodded, jerkily. "With that cocktail umbrella."
Carson glanced down at his drink thoughtfully. "Do you know, I actually think you could."
"I've always been creative," Rusty agreed and almost screamed when Carson stopped petting his knee and carefully started moving his hand back up his inner thigh.
"Tell me, Robert," Carson's voice was casual. His fingers weren't. "Why a Shirley Temple, exactly?"
"I'm sure the Bureau wouldn't like you drinking on duty," Rusty answered and Carson laughed incredulously.
"What makes you think this isn't about pleasure?" His hand moved another inch higher up Rusty's leg, and with a dull sense of inevitability, Rusty realised that any more and he would lose control. Would start fighting. And everything would be for nothing.
"Why, Harry." He smiled and hated himself. "Didn't think you swung that way."
There was a long pause and then Carson laughed and took his hand away. "I really like you, Robert. I think I could happily play with you for a very, very long time."
Rusty could feel himself starting to shake.
Danny was going to kill him. He'd never been more certain of anything in his life.
He watched the calculation play out, watched Rusty nodding. Agreeing to be pawed at by a man he hated, and he wanted to explain, wanted to be absolutely clear, that nothing was worth this. And he heard Rusty talking, and there was still a lightness there, on the surface, and that seemed to go some tiny, tiny way towards reassuring the others – just an act, after all – but below that, far, far below that, for the first time, Danny could see how someone could douse the sun.
The passivity was killing him.
"You know," Carson said casually. "I think I'd like to break your fingers anyway."
Rusty shrugged. "Colour me surprised."
"There's no need for sarcasm," Carson scolded absently. "But it would be interesting, wouldn't it? I remember how well you handled what I did to your hand. And it makes me wonder whether you could actually sit and smile and talk to me and make all these lovely people believe that there was absolutely nothing wrong, while I slowly broke your fingers."
Rusty said nothing.
Carson smiled. "You'd have to though, wouldn't you? Because your little line about a scene not being in my best interests . . . that works both ways, doesn't it? And if we got picked up by security, why, I'd be forced to abandon my plan and arrest all your friends. And that would be All. Your. Fault. Wouldn't it, Robert?"
He still said nothing. Carson smiled and his eyes were bright, and he twisted on Rusty's fingers, pulled and bent back and squeezed, and any more pressure and something would snap. "Wouldn't it?" Carson repeated.
"Yes," he whispered.
"Imagine." Carson shone with pleasure. "Danny in prison, because of you. Wouldn't that be wonderfully ironic?"
"Not really," he said, and his voice was casual, but Carson looked at him sharply and his eyes widened in delight and he let go of Rusty's hand abruptly.
"Oh. That's still what this is all about, isn't it? How very, very marvellous."
Danny wasn't crying. Not anyplace where anyone could see.
"Don't know what you mean," Rusty said instantly. Not a line that he wanted Carson anywhere near. Not with Danny listening. Not ever.
"It's all about Danny, isn't it? You're still sniffing after him. Still desperate for his attention. Even after everything," He laughed, amused. "You're so pathetic, Robert. You do know that, don't you?"
"It isn't – " he began, but Carson kept talking inexorably.
" – Remind me. Whose fault is it that you went to prison? Whose fault is it that I can hurt you just by touching you? Whose fault is it – "
"Mine," Rusty interrupted, firmly, desperately, and this time it wasn't the answer Carson was looking for.
"Oh, I don't think so. You're nothing more than a beaten dog, desperately trying to lick the . . . hand . . . that hurts you."
"Shut up," Rusty whispered hoarsely.
"These are the facts, Robert. In case you've forgotten. I had enough evidence to send Daniel Ocean to prison. But dear Danny didn't want to go." He smiled, cruelly. "You can't really blame him, can you? After all, terrible things can happen to a man behind bars. And so, our dear Danny gets an idea. After all, he has a friend who loves him deeply. Who'd do anything for him. And so he sends you off to make a deal with the devil. That's me, by the way,"
"Figured," Rusty muttered, and he tried his best to stop listening.
"Quite. Anyway, you agree to go to prison in Danny's place, and you even pay me for the privilege." He laughed. "You can't even begin to imagine how that made me feel. When I found out that most of the money was yours. I swear, Robert, I've never met anyone quite like you."
"Thanks."
"Oh, it wasn't a compliment," Carson assured him. "I like you, but I think you're pathetic. A truly worthless specimen." Rusty flinched and knew Carson had seen it. "Danny sends you to prison, and you spend four years desperately waiting for him to call or visit – how long did you have his name down on the visitors list again?"
"Four years," Rusty said, his eyes downcast and he concentrated on keeping all the anger and hatred and disgust focussed inwards. With as much control as he could drag together, he glanced up at Carson's face. The man was nowhere near satisfied. Wouldn't be, until he'd managed to do something that he was sure would make them interfere. If they could see. And the problem was, if it went too far, Danny would. He reached into his jacket pocket and, with fingers that only trembled very slightly, lit a cigarette.
Carson watched him gleefully. "Yes. I remember. Four years. And he never spared you a second thought." Not true, Rusty reminded himself. Danny was still thinking about him. Just because he never visited and never talked about him and never used his name, didn't mean Danny wasn't thinking about him. "Until he needs help, of course, then he calls and you come crawling back for more."
"I know all this," Rusty pointed out sharply.
"I think that you've missed the point of it all though, Robert. But that's okay. I forgive you. I like you, remember, and I want to help you."
"I don't want your help," Rusty snapped.
Carson smiled wider. "Temper, temper, Robert." he leaned forwards and for a few moments, Rusty could feel his breath on the side of his face. Then he reached over and took the cigarette out of Rusty's unresisting hand and pulled his arm under the bar. Obscured from casual glances. Right in the view of the security camera. Rusty briefly hoped that Benedict's people weren't looking too hard, and then for a brief few seconds, until he got it all locked down, all he could think about was the searing, blistering, burning in his wrist where Carson held the tip of the cigarette against his skin. He didn't even have to bite his lip to avoid crying out. Odd how instincts could be moulded. He kept his face blank, and looked at Carson, and he didn't protest, and he didn't ask why.
When Carson was sure he had his full attention he smiled tenderly. "Listen to me carefully. Danny doesn't love you. Danny never loved you. He doesn't even care about you. Do you understand?"
"Yes," Rusty replied dully, and his wrist felt like it was on fire, and it was taking more of an effort now to avoid jerking his arm away.
"Then I'd like you to repeat it." Carson's eyes never left his face. "Please. It will help you."
"Danny doesn't care about me," Rusty whispered. He could feel the sweat running down his back and he was trembling hard enough that he was afraid that someone might notice.
Carson pressed just that bit harder. "Louder please, Robert."
"Danny doesn't care about me," Rusty repeated out loud, and his voice didn't waver and there was nothing in the world except him and Carson and the pain.
"And . . . ?" Carson prompted, and without ever taking the heat away from the skin, he slowly moved the cigarette further down Rusty's arm, and Rusty could just imagine the line of blistering that would follow.
"And he never loved me." Rusty finished, and perhaps it would have been easier if he could have met Carson's eyes.
"That's right, Robert. Well done." And he was smiling, and he looked happy, and with a vicious little twist, he stubbed the cigarette out on Rusty's arm. "Smoking is very bad for you," he remarked disapprovingly.
"This public health warning is brought to you in association with the FBI," Rusty said, and he wished his voice was steady. "We done here?"
Carson smiled. "I have everything I need. For the moment. Don't worry, I'm sure I'll be in touch." He stood up. Rusty didn't. Couldn't.
"Look forward to it, Harry," he managed, and he closed his eyes as Carson shook his head contemptuously and left. Carson was seeing a man desperately trying to hold onto his last shreds of dignity and self-respect. Truth was, Rusty had lost them some time ago.
His phone rang. He ignored it. Soon, very, very soon, he'd stand up and go upstairs and face the music, and the contempt and the pity and the disgust. But not quite yet. He held the bottom of his glass to his wrist, and the ice was soothing. Soon.
There were four people looking at him. And Danny could see the hatred and the disgust and the anger. And he didn't mind at all. Because however they felt about him, it couldn't even begin to compare to the way he felt about himself.
He'd never hated anyone more.
Thanks for reading, please let me know what you think. And I promise I'll try to get the next chapter finished soon.