Short! Nonsense! Surprisingly slashy!

The room was dark when Rusty stumbled through the door and the light didn't come on when he hit the switch. Huh. That was strange. And annoying. He'd been staring at the outside of the museum for hours now – until long after it got dark and he couldn't actually see it. Staring at the outside, visualising the inside, desperately hoping for inspiration to strike. Now he wanted to check over the plans and see if somehow he'd slipped into a parallel dimension within the last eight hours or so, one where the plans would tell him that the crawl space beneath the Special Exhibition Centre was another two inches wide.

There was no sign of Danny, he realised, and he really shouldn't have been surprised. It wasn't as if Danny had been lazing around the past week or so. Probably Danny had gone off to attend to one of the thousand and ten things that they'd need to get resolved as soon as he had this nagging detail sorted. Or else, he thought, with a pang of guilt, Danny had simply gone back to his own room, some eight hours after Rusty had muttered something about wanting to see a window and drifted off without a backward glance. Possibly Danny had gone to get some sleep. He'd gone back to quietly suggesting that sleep was important.

He couldn't suppress the yawn at the thought and his eyes ached. Okay. It was possible that Danny had a point. But they didn't have time for him to do anything but think. They had barely a week left before the jewels were moved and really, unless he could come up with some way of getting the mannequins inside, they were sunk.

He blinked into the darkness. There was something bothering him. Something wrong with this picture. The room was dark. The lights weren't working – and that was strange for a start – but there was a light coming from somewhere. Frowning, he moved further into the room and discovered that the television was on, static crackling across the screen.

Oh.

Oh, that was strange.

He hadn't left the TV on, he was sure of that. And he didn't think that Danny had either – when he'd left, Danny had been eyeball deep, busy learning everything he'd need to know in order to pass himself off as an archaeologist to Ms Liebermann. Unless, maybe, he'd decided to watch 'Indiana Jones' instead? It could happen.

Moving closer, he discovered that not only had the TV been left on, there was a VCR attached. A VCR that hadn't been there before he left. A VCR with a typed note lying on top of it. "Do not press play."

He checked. There was a tape in the machine.

A chill ran down his spine. This couldn't be good. This could not be good in any world, surely. A mysterious tape that someone wanted him to see, or didn't want him to see. No Danny. No Danny. A thousand scenarios crashed through his mind, a thousand dreadful possibilities, a thousand unthinkable visions. When he pressed play his hand was shaking.

The static on the screen gave way to a different shade of static. Indistinct figures moved through the mist, swaying and looming ominously at the camera. There was no sound. There was no sound and he didn't know what he was supposed to be looking at. Didn't know what he was supposed to be doing and he leaned in, desperate to make any kind of sense of it, and suddenly the semblance of a face pressed up against the screen and there was a dull, eerie, keening scream.

He bit his tongue, stopped the stream of exclamation that threatened to skip from his lips and the tape came to an end and the phone rang, sudden and shrill in the silence.

He answered quickly and stood, listening to a wild crackling and the distorted sound of breathing.

"You're going to die in seven days," a hoarse voice whispered finally and he stood, staring in disbelief at the phone.

What . . . ?

This couldn't be happening. This was insane. This was completely . . .

The same, low, keening scream suddenly echoed through the room, and he jumped and swore and looked round wildly. That had come from inside the room. Somewhere near the door. He peered into the darkness. Fuck, he couldn't see a thing. He didn't even know what he was looking for and nevertheless, he was kind of wishing he had some kind of weapon. Or, failing that, that jumping out the window was an option here. Creeping forwards, towards the door, he stepped on something.

He picked it up.

Danny's cell phone.

Danny's cell phone which had just been called from Danny's room.

He closed his eyes and exhaled a long, shaky breath. Oh, Danny was a dead man.

*

When he marched into Danny's room, Danny was lying on the sofa, reading a magazine. Rusty couldn't help noticing that there was a camcorder on the table.

He leaned back against the door pointedly and waited.

"It says here," Danny began conversationally, reading from his magazine, "That sleep deprivation can lead to stress, headaches, irritability, impaired motor skills, hallucinations and emotional problems. And tiredness." He looked up. "That's a little like having a 'May contain nuts' message on a packet of peanuts, right?"

"Peanuts technically aren't nuts," Rusty told him. "They're legumes. Like peas."

Danny frowned. "Pretty sure that peas wouldn't taste right dipped in chocolate."

Oh, he could imagine that taste. He really, really wished he couldn't. "So, I'm guessing that you think that making me think that I've been marked for death by a girl who lives in a well would help me sleep?" he asked with a tight smile.

"Don't think she lived exactly," Danny pointed out. "And if nothing else it should make you think twice before falling down wells."

"I don't make a habit of it anyway," Rusty explained through gritted teeth.

Danny looked at him. "Montana?"

"One time is not a habit," Rusty said firmly. "And I didn't exactly fall."

"No. You didn't, did you?" Danny conceded with a grimace.

Rusty decided to change the subject. Or at least get it back on track. "But really, you think that trying to scare me to death is the way to lull me to sleep?"

Danny shrugged. "I've tried everything else."

He shook his head. "Oh, you'd better - "

" - over there." Danny nodded towards a room service trolley, pleasantly covered in dishes.

Rusty grinned and wandered over to investigate. He lifted the covers up. Huh. Strawberries. Chocolate mousse. Ice cream smothered with caramel sauce. A massive pile of profiteroles. A tray of truffles. Huh . . .

Danny came up behind him. "I've got a bottle of wine too," he said happily.

"Really?" Rusty turned round slowly, and Danny's eyes were full of intense amusement and suggestion. "So, when you said you'd tried everything - "

" - I always have more ideas," Danny smiled, and he leaned in and kissed Rusty, a slow burning fire, a wave of meaning and passion, and the world compressed into this one, single, perfect moment.

Finally, they broke apart momentarily, and Danny licked his lips. "Just trying to distract you from your impending doom."

Impending . . . expected. If the mannequins were expected, if the museum had been dogged by calls about the delivery of a shipment of mannequins, it wouldn't be about trying to disguise them on the day, it would be agreeing to take them off the museums hands, and they could . . .

Danny was staring at him. "No," he objected. "Rusty . . . "

He smiled, almost apologetically. "I need to - "

" - yeah," Danny sighed heavily. "Yeah."

He grabbed the profiteroles and collapsed onto the sofa, closed his eyes and watched the plan unfold in his own head.

After a moment Danny settled down beside him. "The things I put up with."

Rusty didn't open his eyes. "You wouldn't have it any other way."

"I hope Samara gets you," Danny said sulkily.

"Eat your profiteroles," Rusty advised.