Yes, yes, yes, nearly three months. I am all shades of useless and I can only hope this chapter won't come as a disappointment.

And, once again, as is nearly normal with this story; it has been read by InSilva and she has helped and encouraged and supported far more than you can imagine. And, so you've heard this a hundred times before. But I still mean it. This story would be precisely nowhere without her help and input, and I just want to say thank you one more time. Thank you.

Oh, and if you don't know by now . . . there are distressing themes and reference to inexplicit adult themes.


By the time he heard the knocking, Danny was exhausted.

He'd spent the time -and he didn't know how much time, would never know how much time - but he'd spent it slumped against the door, trying so hard to think, trying so hard not to think, and his mind was trapped in inescapable circles.

He couldn't see a future. He really couldn't. He had no idea how to get them out of this hell and every time he tried to think, every time he tried to plan, his mind fled into the past. Into the past he'd spent the last four years denying.

(The sound of joyful laughter and popcorn hitting the TV. The Kurt Russell marathon that they'd spent a weekend watching, and neither of them had ever known why. Rusty's insistence on the Freudian interpretation of a man called Snake. The fight over the remote control and the solemn one minute's silence when it had dropped into the carton of melted ice-cream. The subsequent discovery that chocolate stains just didn't come off leather. Waking up with his head on Rusty's chest, listening to Rusty's heartbeat while Kurt Russell told them that he had an aversion to getting fucked up beyond all recognition. Wasted time. Perfect time. Forever time.)

There had been a time when all things had been possible. There had been a time when it had felt inevitable that the sunshine would last forever, when there'd been riches that should have been unloseable and unstealable, when life had tasted like summer, golden and forever. There'd been a time when the very idea of one of them being alone and miserable would have been unthinkable. Because the other would be there, would always be there, and they wouldn't have to ask, but there'd be words and silence both, and laughter that transformed the world and smiles that lit up the sky, and above all, above everything, the warmth of being understood completely, of being loved eternally, of being defined in the other's eyes and smile. And he wondered; if he'd known they would come to this; if he'd known there would be four years of misery and then a lifetime of loneliness - misery and loneliness that they chose, that they courted, that they invited - would he have done anything differently? Could he have treasured each moment any more than he had?

(The sight of Rusty's smile as he pulled off the ski mask and shook out his hair. The bagful of ping-pong balls and the competition to see who could trip the most motion detectors with one throw. Twenty points when he'd managed five over his shoulder. Minus ten when Rusty had accidentally hit a Picasso on the nose. At least, they'd thought it was the nose. The indulgent sigh on the scaffolding when he'd been so sure that he was going to drop the pictures and the subsequent discussion as to whether they could be sued if the box landed on anyone. The Warhol they'd hung on their own wall for at least an hour before the doorbell rang and they'd had to hastily cover it again and stick it behind the wardrobe, before Janey asked questions that they just didn't have an answer for. They had been young, they had been brilliant and they had stood on the very edge of the infinite.)

If he'd known . . . if he'd known. If he could somehow travel back in time, could tell himself about today, tell himself about the past four years, could he make all those moments mean more than they already had? If, somehow, he was able to persuade his younger self that there would come a time when Rusty would throw everything they were away, would grind it into dust, a time when he'd look Rusty in the eyes and see the pain to come and walk away, a time when he'd see Rusty lost and broken and say he didn't care, a time when Rusty would deny they meant anything; if he could persuade himself that they would come to this, could he have felt it more? Could he have made each moment last a little longer? Could he have made each moment a little more full of magic? He didn't know.

(The weight of Rusty's hand on his chest in the chill of the dark tunnel below Los Angeles. His head on Rusty's lap. The rumble of trains going past. The pain. The pain. And Rusty's voice, getting him through it, soothing in the darkness. Telling him stories. Making him promises. Staying and never leaving. They'd had forever. Forever and a day and it hadn't been long enough.)

And he thought about precious things that should be taken for granted because they'd always be there, always be unbreakable, unforgettable, undeniable. He thought about always having more time, and the tears fell again.

The knocking was quiet. Tremulous and uncertain. If he hadn't been leaning against the door, he would never have heard it. As it was, he almost didn't answer. Standing up seemed like so much effort, speaking seemed unthinkable, explaining the tears, impossible.

But the knocking didn't stop, and after a moment there was curiosity and he staggered to his feet and looked through the peep-hole.

Rusty was standing there. And for a moment there was hope, and, as quickly as he could, he hauled the door open and Rusty stumbled into the room, his shoulders hunched tight, his eyes fixed on the ground, not looking at Danny, not even for a second, and he was pale and he was shaking, and Danny felt the grip of the burning cold, deep inside.

Before he could react, before he could even ask, Rusty leaned forwards and pressed something into his hand, and he still wouldn't look at Danny, and he stepped back quickly as if . . . as if he thought . . . as if he was afraid. And Danny nearly cried.

He thought that was the worst. Thought that was about as bad as things could get. Then he looked down at his hand.

Danny stared at death for a very long time.

The world faded.

There was a knife. And there was a little bottle of pills.

He tried to understand.

There was dried blood clinging to the knife.

He tried to understand what he was being told.

The bottle of pills was full.

Tried to understand what he was being shown.

He was drowning in the unimaginable.

There was nothing. There was no rational thought, and death burned through his hand,and the pills and the knife fell to the floor and he didn't even think, couldn't even hesitate because all that mattered, in that moment, in that forever, all that mattered was that he reach Rusty, as quickly as possible, because he needed, needed, to hold Rusty to him as tight as he could, and he wrapped his arms around him and he clung on through the silent storm of pain, of guilt, of failure and fear and he wanted so much more than he could ever say.

But Rusty still wasn't looking at him, and Danny could hear the raggedness of his breathing, could feel him trembling in his arms, and he thought of the terror and desperation of earlier ("Don't touch me"), and he thought of Rusty not recognising him in the dark, and he thought about Carson's hands and Rusty being afraid of him, and it hurt in more ways than he could ever have imagined, but he slowly started to untangle himself, slowly started to step back, slowly started to think.

Rusty's hands immediately clenched into his shirt. Holding on and not letting go. And Rusty stepped closer to him, impossibly closer, and buried his face into Danny's shoulder and instantly, Danny's arms were back around him, and his fingers automatically wound their way into Rusty's hair.

Maybe they could stay like this forever. Maybe that would be all right.


He leaned against Danny and he didn't dare let go, and he still didn't know if he was doing the right thing.

It had seemed easy. To close his eyes and fall into old habits. To surrender to the needing and the desperation and the loneliness and the one thought that sustained him through everything that had happened.

Because he hurt. He hurt so very much. And Danny had looked at him, and seen him, and Danny loved him, and he hurt so much, and he hadn't been strong enough to stay away. He'd never been that strong.

He hurt. And he was afraid.

And Danny knew.

But he'd made a choice, of sorts. He just didn't know what happened now. After all, he hadn't chosen life; he'd chosen Danny.

Where did they go from here?


It might have been minutes later, it might have been hours. He didn't know. Didn't care. He gently stepped back from Rusty, needing to see. And there was pain, and uncertainty and misery, and this wasn't over, and nothing was fixed and nothing was decided, and Danny was so very afraid. Carefully, he led Rusty to the sofa and sat him down.

Rusty wasn't looking at him.

Danny knew exactly what he was looking at. The pills. The knife.

He just didn't know what it meant.

He bit his lip and started to explain. "Rus, I - "

"Yes," Rusty agreed, and Danny was relieved at the fact that he did understand. "Go."

Still he hesitated, and Rusty looked up at him, his face tight and miserable. "I won't move from this spot," he promised, and Danny winced. But it was what he needed to hear.

He held Rusty's hands for a fraction longer and ever so casually his fingers brushed over Rusty's left wrist. Feeling the fragile thread of pulse. Proof of life. Rusty looked away from him and he let go immediately. "Sorry," he said at once.

Getting to his feet, he picked up the knife and the pills, and he headed into the bathroom.

He flushed the pills down the toilet. Easy enough. As if they'd never been. As if he'd never insisted that Rusty get the prescription filled. As if he'd never insisted that Rusty get a nice, easy way to die. He bit back on the guilt; not helpful, a thousand times not helpful.

The wall was cool against his hand, and he needed to lean on it in order to stay standing, and he thought about alive and not-alive and how little space there was between the two. So damned easy. If Rusty wanted to. Wanted to take that step. To fall away.

The knife was more difficult. He wasn't ready to leave the suite. Not ready to be anywhere near out of ear shot. So he couldn't dispose of it properly. But he needed to make sure – he needed to do something. Only thing he could do was hide it.

When he stepped out the door, Rusty was exactly where he'd left him. And that wasn't comforting. But he lifted his head and he looked Danny in the eyes and there was the barest flicker of reassurance, the starkest suggestion of promise. And Danny concentrated on letting the truth be shown. The truth Rusty had denied earlier. Love and strength and the everything he had to offer. Whatever Rusty needed, Danny would get for him. There was the tiniest hint of an answering smile in Rusty's eyes.

He almost ran into the bedroom, determined not to take any longer time than necessary, and he dug into the drawer and came up with an assortment of socks, and hastily he unpaired them, and wrapped the knife up in one, then another, then another. Hiding it. Disguising it. (Denying it?)

There was a part of him that wondered why he was doing this. There was a part of him that was busy cataloguing every single sharp object in the room, busy considering just how easy it would be to tie a noose, busy reminding him that they were on the twelfth floor. So many ways. So damned easy. And he thought he'd never been this scared.

Rusty had wanted to die. Did want to die? And he couldn't help but think that probably, if Rusty wanted to, really wanted to, if he put his mind to it, there'd be no way that Danny could stop him. Because Rusty was as he'd always been; ingenious and wilful. All it would ever take would be a moment.

Danny had to stop that moment from coming into being.

He ran a hand through his hair and walked back through and Rusty still hadn't moved, and when he looked up at Danny – looked up quickly and then glanced away, stared down at the floor – when Danny saw his eyes there was a hesitation there, a question that he didn't understand.

He sat down on the sofa beside Rusty and with more effort than he could easily stand, resisted the need to reach out a hand, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to offer comfort or seek it. "What?" he asked gently.


Rusty wished Danny hadn't asked. He'd been preparing himself for the questions. Hadn't meant to let Danny see the questions he had of his own. But he had to ask, now. "You angry with me?"

There was a long pause. A long, universe-ending pause. And he stared at the ground and wondered. Because he would understand Danny's anger, just as he would understand disappointment and disgust. Weakness. He was weak and for a couple of seconds the sound of cruel laughter echoed through his soul and for a couple of seconds it seemed like the room was fading out of existence.

And then Danny was crouching in front of him and Danny's hand was hovering inches from his own. "Look at me," Danny said quietly. "Rusty, you look at me."

Reluctantly he did. Reluctantly he looked Danny in the eyes and he felt like he was falling.

Oh, Danny wasn't angry with him. Danny wasn't angry. Danny was terrified. Danny was frightened in a way that Rusty had never known him to be, standing on the edge of a precipice somewhere beyond imagination, and instinctively, Rusty reached out and grabbed his hand, grabbed Danny's hand and brought it to his lips, just for an instant, just from the always-desire to comfort, to make things better in any way impossible.

"You believe me?" Danny asked, after a time and Rusty nodded. There were things he couldn't deny. And he knew the way Danny felt.

"I don't know I can always remember," he said quietly.

Danny squeezed his hand gently. "I'll remind you," he promised. "Every second of the day, if I have to."

He felt the corner of his mouth tug sideways. "Think someone might notice," he pointed out.

Danny grinned and rocked backwards on his heels. Looking at Rusty again. There was silence that was almost comfortable.

"What do you want?" Danny asked finally, and Rusty knew the answer Danny wanted. Knew the only answer that would take that look out of Danny's eyes. And he wanted to say it, he really did. I want to live. Wished it was a lie he could tell.

"I don't know," he said instead and he watched the pain in Danny's eyes. "I can't live like this anymore."

Danny nodded slowly. "Tell me."

He resisted the urge to look back at the ground. Seeing Danny was like seeing everything he thought he'd given up.

"It hurts all the time, Danny. I'm scared all the time, and I can't sleep and I can't think and I'm jumping at shadows, and I'm useless to you." He could hear his voice rising, could feel his heart hammering in his chest, could tell his breathing was getting shakier, and he was powerless to change it.

"It hurts so fucking much, and I can't make it stop, Danny, I can't make it stop. Carson's right,"

He heard the muffled, pained noise ripped from Danny's throat, but he didn't stop, he couldn't stop. "I'm just pathetic, and a waste of space, and you can't tell me you wouldn't be better off - "

" - I can."

Danny's voice was a whisper. But it carried. Rusty fell silent and stared down at the ground. Danny's hand was still in his. "Oh, Rus'."

"I can't live like this anymore, Danny," he begged eventually. "I'm not the same." He saw Danny make an abortive movement, he saw Danny had been going to reach out, stroke his hair as he had a thousand times before, in moments of pain, in moments of affection, and Danny had stopped, because he wasn't the same, wasn't at all the same. "You can touch me," he snapped, full of anger that had come from nowhere. "I won't break." (He already had.)

"Fucking Carson," he swore bitterly and he laughed at Danny's frown. "I had it under control. I had ways of coping . . . I'd taught myself not to mind. Touching. That it didn't mean the same thing. And then he . . . his hands. Fuck." He took a deep, shuddering breath. "I can't live like this."

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Danny reach out his hand, and the fact that Danny was being so careful that he saw, that he knew what was happening, the fact that Danny knew he was so damaged, somehow that didn't stop Rusty from wanting to lean in to the gentle hand brushing through his hair. Danny.

He kept his eyes fixed on the ground (where they belonged) and hated every shred of weakness.

And still Danny stroked his hair."Look at me," he said again, and Rusty couldn't help but raise his eyes.


He told Rusty to look at him. He needed Rusty to look at him, because everything was so much harder when he couldn't see Rusty's eyes. Harder to know what Rusty was thinking. Harder to force (not force) Rusty to see what he was thinking.

And he was frightened by the unfathomable depth of the pain in Rusty's voice, frightened by the fraying self control, frightened by the mood swings and the erratic. And he would never be better off without Rusty. He never had been better off without Rusty. His life was infinitely poorer.

He twisted his fingers through Rusty's hair, and he stared intently into Rusty's eyes. "I love you," he began, because he meant it and because he needed to say it. "I love you and I'm going to be here for you. For whatever you need. For as long as you like." He hesitated, but it was true. "For forever, if you want, if you give me the chance. We'll find a way. We'll find something."

Rusty laughed bitterly. "Trying to say it'll get better if I give it time?"

"No," Danny was patient. "That's not what I was saying."

"Because there's been time," Rusty went on, not listening, not seeing, not seeing. "It's been twenty-nine days. And I don't feel better."

Twenty-nine days. And if the horror wasn't busy drowning Danny, he might have found the precision amusing. But twenty-nine days, and Rusty wasn't just talking about when he'd left prison. And part of him knew that if he were to ask, Rusty could give him the number in hours. "You were attacked the day you were paroled," he said slowly.

"Attacked?" Rusty grinned tightly. "Euphemisms, Danny?"

Euphemisms. He swallowed and kept talking. "So, twenty-nine days and it's not better - "

" - It's worse - " Rusty interrupted.

Danny nodded and didn't try and argue because the truth was everywhere. " - You think that - "

" - I can't live like this, Danny." Rusty's voice was quiet and wild and desperate and Danny wondered if he was looking for help . . . or permission.

"I could ask you to stay," he said quietly, after an invisible hesitation.

Rusty's face was blank. "You could."

He could. He could ask and he could persuade and he could demand, dominate, and Rusty would. He really would. For him. For a while. Danny bit his lip and kept the tears away. "I want it to be -"

"- Louis?" Rusty suggested, sardonically.

" - not just for me," Danny finished.

Rusty sighed and leaned back. "The bright blessed day, and the dark sacred night?" and the heat was gone from his voice.

There was a silence and they were caught in the memory. Was it really nostalgia when the world back in the good old days really had been better?

Rusty sighed again. "Used to be - "

" - wonderful," Danny agreed. "It did."

"I'm sorry, Danny," Rusty began quietly. "I don't know - "

And he had to interrupt. Had to. Because Rusty was apologising for being angry, for feeling, for being alive, and Danny could never accept that. He told the truth. " - I'm not going anywhere."

Rusty looked at him like he wanted to believe it and Danny put everything he had into sharing the truth and for a while there was silence and a kind of comfort.

"Did you have a plan?" Danny asked quietly, after an age had passed.

Rusty shrugged. "Does it really matter?"

"Yes." He had to know. Couldn't even explain why, but he had to know if it was more than pain and desperation.

Rusty stared at the floor and curled his fingers tightly. "Was going to wait until after the job. When we're done, I would tell Saul, and whoever, that I was going to catch up with an old girlfriend. Then I'll just vanish. Head somewhere they won't have my fingerprints, make sure to lose all my ID. I've got the pills. Might get some more. An anti-emetic at least, would need that. And a few drinks. Be easy. No one will ever know . . . would have. No one would have known."

Hypnotised, Danny listened to the flat voice, the wistfulness and he imagined the days of wondering, the weeks of not knowing, the months of searching, the years, the always. "Rus' . . . " he whispered desperately, and the terror tore through his soul.

Rusty looked at him quickly. "I came to you," he said, in a low voice. "Danny, I came to you."

Danny reached out his hand, and Rusty grasped it tightly and they existed.

This time, Rusty broke the silence. "Yes. I was," he said quietly, looking anywhere but at Danny.

And for once Danny couldn't follow. "What?"

"My last day inside," Rusty explained flatly. "Just before I walked out those gates. I was fucked."

"Raped," Danny corrected, unwillingly, and the fury built up inside him, the never ending howl of outrage and mortal injury.

Rusty sighed. "Can't rape the willing," he said, and his voice was small and distant.

"What?" The fury was growing, a storm, and never aimed at Rusty. He couldn't think . . . no one could have made him think . . .

"There were three guards in the next room," Rusty told him, dreamy and disconnected. "All I had to do was scream. Make a sound. I didn't. That sound like rape to you?"

The smallest part of the fury crashed outwards and just because Danny's voice was a whisper didn't mean it wasn't also a scream. "You think I should be disgusted? You think I should be angry with you?"

Rusty looked round at him sharply, and for the first time in a while Danny could see his reflection in Rusty's eyes. "Danny . . . "

Danny looked at him, looked through him, looked at four years and looked at them. "I want to kill everyone who's ever hurt you. Everyone who's ever looked at you wrong. I want to give you – us – our four years back."

There was a pause. There was a humourless smile. "You can't."

"I can't," Danny agreed, and the tide of fury swept back for the moment, replaced by the ache and the determination and always, always the love. "But I'm going . . . I'm going to make things better, Rus'. We're going to make things better. I promise. And I'm not going anywhere. Not for as long as you can stand having me around."

"I don't want to be alone anymore." The words came from nowhere and Rusty looked surprised by the sound of his own voice and Danny let the hope shine through his being.

"I don't want you to be alone either," and he wasn't talking about the physical. They needed each other. They really did.

"I didn't want it, Danny," Rusty whispered. "I really didn't. I swear."

Rusty's voice was pleading and beseeching and near-hopeless. As if he didn't expect to be believed. As if he couldn't imagine being believed. Danny kept his gaze steady and compassionate and he buried the howling deep inside. For the moment. "I know, Rus'. I know. It wasn't your fault. It was never your fault."

"I didn't want it. He was angry. He didn't want me to leave. The parole board. He'd tried . . ." Rusty shrugged and flashed a quick smile. "I was more charming. More persuasive. That time."

Thank God, thank God, thank God.

And he could see what happened. Three guards outside the room. A man who'd been persuasive before. And Rusty didn't make a sound. "No parole if you'd been caught fighting," he stated, with just the slightest catch in his voice.

Rusty glanced at him. "I fought. I always fought. But that time . . . one bruise, one drop of blood and they would've locked me up again. Another six months? Another year? I couldn't take that chance. Like with Carson."

Danny wanted to argue with that. Oh, he understood, and much as he hated it, despite the many, many amusing thoughts he was entertaining about exactly what he was going to do with the unknown bastard, he was glad that Rusty was free. But with Carson? He'd watched Rusty sit and calculate, and he'd watched Rusty take everything that Carson threw at him, and he still didn't think it was worth it. But he couldn't argue. He really couldn't. Because that wasn't four years of pain and misery acting. That was Rusty, and this wasn't the time to be having that argument. Besides, neither of them ever won.

And he'd wanted to try and explain some of that, but when he looked over, Rusty was staring at the floor again and his fingers were rubbing at the bandage on the burn on his wrist, and Danny could see where it was starting to show red. "Leave it. Please," he said firmly.

Rusty's fingers stopped immediately. "I didn't notice. Sorry."

Danny nodded and didn't comment, and he set about fixing the dressings. At some point in the evening, Rusty had added to Carson's work. Danny could see where the burns had been scratched open, raw and weeping and ugly. Carson again, and Danny pushed that particular dagger of anger away once more.

"There," he said, when he was done, and he hesitated. Because there was more. He knew there was more. "The knife . . . " he started reluctantly.

"Yeah," Rusty agreed.

"There was blood on it," Danny said, swallowing hard. And he didn't want to ask the question, didn't want there to be a question. He wanted to live in a world where the question was ridiculous and unthinkable.

"Yeah," Rusty agreed again.

Danny nodded slowly. "Rus', I'm sorry. I need to see."

And he sat back, expecting Rusty to roll up his sleeves, prepared to see the cuts, ready to try and understand, and he didn't fully understand the spasm of misery and fear that crossed Rusty's face.


Rusty closed his eyes for a long moment and tried to ignore the adrenaline and the ridiculous, irrational terror. Some things he wasn't prepared to admit. He took a deep breath and stood up, and blindly he reached down and undid his belt.

With a vague curiosity, he saw Danny's hand quickly reach out and stop, millimetres from his own. "Don't," and Danny's voice was abrupt and pained.

There was a long pause, and Rusty still stood, and his eyes were fixed to the ground.

"Should've asked where," Danny commented finally, and Rusty looked up sharply, because Danny's voice was full of weary, bitter amusement.

"My thigh," Rusty told him quietly.

Danny nodded. "You're determined not to make this easy, aren't you?" he asked, light and tender and Rusty felt the grin flicker across his face.

"Yeah," he agreed, and the laughter in his voice was still just about on the right side of hysterical. "Don't know what I was thinking."

There was a sigh and Danny was watching him and his face was full of sympathy and understanding. "We don't have to do this. I've got dressings and stuff here. You want, you should do it yourself. I don't - "

That sounded good. Except for one thing. " - I don't trust you, I might as well be dead already," he whispered and he carried on watching the tender ache in Danny's eyes as he slid his pants off and let them fall in a heap on the floor.

"You haven't got any neater in the past four years," Danny commented casually, as Rusty sat back down on the sofa.

He shrugged. "My way of rebelling against cell checks."

It was Danny. That's what he had to keep telling himself. Despite what his body was telling him, despite the fight or flight and the hammer of adrenaline as Danny quietly set about checking and fixing up the mess he'd made of his thigh, it was Danny, and that meant that he was as safe as he'd ever been in his life. He had to listen to his soul.


Rusty trusted him. Danny had to keep telling himself that, as he tried not to watch Rusty trembling. Rusty trusted him, so the urge to apologise, the urge to stand well back and apologise for everything in the world, that was just counter-productive.

He tried not to look at the other scars either. The little, pockmark-like circular indentations that ran up Rusty's other thigh and under his boxers. The faded red stripes that he could see curved round the back of Rusty's legs, moving higher and higher. The glimpse of the three white scars that he caught, just above Rusty's boxers, when Rusty had leaned forwards and his shirt had opened slightly.

He tried not to look. Because if he looked he would think, and he would imagine, and he would envisage, and he didn't know if there was a power on Earth that could hold him.

And then he moved the dressing aside, and Rusty clenched his jaw and reached out and held tightly on to Danny's shoulder and, yes, he considered. There was one.

The wounds were deep. Not the shallow cuts he'd been imagining. These were deep. As if Rusty had really driven the knife in. Had stabbed the knife into himself, and then twisted and tore at the wounds with his fingernails – and suddenly Danny had a flash to earlier in the evening, to Rusty standing there with his hand pressed into his thigh, hurting himself, hurting himself while Danny looked on, and his very soul whimpered. These weren't what he'd been imagining.

And he could just about understand the hand. Not exactly, but he had a picture, an image, of a sudden flash of rage and confusion and terror and being lost, and striking out blindly. He could understand that. It terrified him beyond imagination, but he could understand. He didn't understand this. Couldn't even begin to, and even as he treated the physical wounds, he was thinking about the hatred that they implied, and he didn't know where to begin.


Rusty could see the thoughts play out in Danny's mind and he sighed and spoke up quietly. "It isn't about that,"

He could feel Danny freeze under his hand. He'd needed to reach out. Needed. The reminder, the comfort, the anchor. And Danny looked up at him, and studied him carefully for a long moment and said nothing.

Rusty felt compelled to explain. "It helps." And Danny's face didn't change and he still fell into defensiveness. "No, really it does. When I . . . get lost. In the past. It gives me something else to focus on. Something that I can use to stay in the present. Like I can make myself think that there's more danger here." He shrugged. "It helps."

Danny nodded slowly and his face was completely neutral. "Would you like the knife back?"

Yes. He would. He really, really would. He wanted it back because then he had options and he had choices, and he had a weapon against the darkness and the fear and himself. But he'd gone to Danny. He'd gone to Danny. He closed his eyes. "No," he said firmly.

When he opened his eyes again he was bathed in the sunlight of Danny's relief. "What would you have done if I'd said yes?" he asked wonderingly.

"We'd have been leaving the hotel. Now. We'd have been leaving Vegas, heading for someplace," he shrugged. "Someplace else. Someplace safe. I admit I'm a little hazy on the details."

"We couldn't," Rusty frowned. "It's the night before, the job, Carson . . . " He trailed off and he looked at Danny, really looked at Danny and there was everything he thought he'd chased away so very long ago. Eternal. Unbreakable. Beyond imagination. Beyond belief. Beyond limits. "Oh," he whispered, in dawning understanding, in dawning belief. Because Danny could. He would.

"I don't have anything more real. I don't have anything more important," Danny said softly and Rusty nodded.

Danny finished wrapping his thigh in silence, and this time he didn't need to remind himself that he was safe.


Danny settled back onto the sofa and they both jumped at the sound of Rusty's phone jangling. Rusty looked at the display for a second and then pushed it towards Danny. "Saul," he explained. "I was supposed to go talk to him after I talked to you."

"You didn't," Danny said, and that could have been so much worse. He didn't take the phone. "Think he wants to talk to you." He didn't want to make Saul any more worried than he already was.

Rusty shrugged awkwardly. "Think he'll be happy to talk to us."

Danny stopped breathing. "He can talk to us?" he asked, understanding, of course understanding everything that meant, and he couldn't remember the last time he felt this giddy.

"Think I take my pants off in front of just anyone?" There was a definite twist of a smile on Rusty's lips, and he nodded, and Danny found himself taking the phone happily. And he was happier still, when Rusty leaned into his shoulder, lying almost against him, close enough to hear both sides of the conversation, close enough to accept the comfort that Danny was offering.

"Hi, Saul," he began and winced as Saul immediately began talking. Frantic. Worried.

"Danny? Where is he? Is everything all right?"

Danny glanced down at Rusty and saw the nod, the permission to share as much of the truth as they ever would. "He's with me. And no. Everything's not all right. But it's going to be." And the promise wasn't just for Saul.

There was a long silence. "You're . . . " Saul began, and trailed off.

"Yes," Danny agreed. "We are."

"Rusty's there?" Saul asked.

"Hey, Saul," Rusty answered, sitting up a little closer to the phone.

"You're okay?" Saul asked, and Rusty considered.

He licked his lips and glanced at Danny. "Going to be," and again the promise was for more ears than Saul's.

"Good," and the relief in Saul's voice was immeasurable. "Good. Try not to let this happen again."

"We won't," they chorused as one.

Saul snorted. "Why did I ever think I missed that?"

There was a shared look, a shared decision. Danny began. "Life is less - "

" - oh, definitely less - "

" - and with more - "

" - exactly," Rusty finished.

They weren't better. They could get better, Danny thought, hoped, knew, but they weren't there yet, and until that happened, even with Saul there was a need to hide, to pretend, to act, to defend themselves.

And he already knew that Saul wouldn't be fooled, but he would accept, to a certain extent, and there was understanding in his voice. "Night before. I'm going to try and get some sleep."

"We'll see you in the morning," Danny agreed. "Goodnight,"

"Goodnight," and the phone went silent.

He looked over at Rusty thoughtfully. "He has a point. We have a busy day tomorrow."

"You need your beauty sleep," Rusty agreed, and Danny grinned.

Neither of them even considered the idea that Rusty might sleep in his own room. They were together.


Danny had dug out a t-shirt and a pair of sweat pants for him, and had thoughtfully busied himself fixing a couple of drinks while Rusty changed. And that was good, because no matter what he knew, there were probably places where he could overstretch his nerves. Besides, he'd seen Danny's face when he'd seen the scars he'd seen. And that had only been glimpses of the edges. Rusty wasn't quite ready to show him everything.

He sat on the edge of the bed and sipped at the whisky and tried to ignore the way that the clothes hung on him. Because, yes, anything he borrowed from Danny would always have been big on him. But not this big. And he'd seen the look in Danny's eyes at the contrast, before Danny got it all locked away, and he hated it. "You put on weight while I was away," he said, after a second.

Danny blinked and smiled. "What comes of not having you there, stealing my food."

"Nah," Rusty shook his head. "It's your age catching up with you. The middle age spread. You're getting old."

"Old?" Danny reacted with great indignation. "I'd remind you, Rusty Ryan, that I'm only - "

" - but I'm always going to be younger," Rusty interrupted, triumphantly.

Danny laughed and leaned against the wall. "I could sleep on the couch," he offered, sudden and awkward.

Rusty's approximation of a good mood faded. Danny wanted to get away from him. (Like in the kitchen, after Felding.) And the sensation of filth, the reminder that he was pathetic, and dirty and insignificant and disgusting came crashing back, full force, and he could feel the weight of Moffatt's hand on his head, as he forced him to . . . and he squeezed his eyes shut and instinctively his hand travelled to his thigh, craving the hit of pain, the reminder of reality. . .

And suddenly Danny was in front of him, holding his hand firmly away, calling his name anxiously.

Rusty opened his eyes and stared into Danny's and spoke quickly, words falling over each other. "Don't leave. Please, Danny. I promise I won't get in your way. I won't touch you. I won't argue. I'll be good. I'll be anything, if you'll just stay, just for a while. Please, Danny."

Danny was staring at him and Rusty stopped talking, stopped pleading because the look in Danny's eyes . . .the look in Danny's eyes. He'd never meant to cause that sort of pain. "Rus' . . . " and Danny's voice was trembling. "I just thought it might make you more comfortable. I never . . . I'd never want . . . " He shook his head and squeezed Rusty's hand tighter. "You. Only you."

And he wanted to apologise, but he could see in Danny's face the warning that that was the very last thing that Danny could cope with right now, and he'd never meant to hurt like that. "You thought it might make me more comfortable?" he asked instead.

Danny nodded shakily. "Not - "

He grinned. " - you'd be amazed how few of them wanted to curl up in bed with me." And he winced, because he could see in Danny's face that he'd just thoughtlessly revealed a little more than he'd meant to.

With a shake of his head, he lay down, and he pulled Danny down beside him, and they lay, side by side, holding hands and neither of them made a move to turn the light off.


He'd left the bed, he'd left the room, he'd left Rusty and he didn't know why. Just needed space? Just needed air? There hadn't seemed to be any real reason, and he was standing in the corridor and he had to get back inside.

It took him a couple of minutes to get the key card to work and with every moment that passed his irrational fear grew.

The room was dark when he stepped inside. Dark and silent and cold, and Danny's heart was pounding in his chest as he pushed open the bedroom door and turned on the lights.

There was so much blood.

Rusty lay, stretched out on his bed, staring at the ceiling, eyes wide and expressionless and dead, and the knife was still clutched in his hand, dangling over the side of the bed, and his arms, wrist to forearm he'd slashed them open, again and again and again, and Danny could see the hatred in every last gash, wide open and obscene, and the sheets were soaked red, and the blood was dripping onto the carpet, and Rusty was just lying there, staring at the ceiling.

He was standing next to the head of the bed. Looking down at Rusty. And his fingers hovered over Rusty's throat, searching for the pulse, for the difference between alive and not.

And he touched Rusty, and Rusty's skin was cool and dry, but the blood was hot and sticky and it flowed over his fingers, and Rusty's eyes were empty and staring and Danny could hear the scream rising up inside him, desperate to escape . . .

Rusty made the smallest of noises in his sleep and immediately Danny was awake, trembling, heart hammering in his chest, but awake. His eyes snapped open to the sight of the blood-free bedroom and he pushed the nightmare firmly back into the deepest recesses of his subconscious to be dealt with in some future time, hopefully never.

He sat up and looked down at Rusty. Rusty was (alive) curled on his side, turned away from Danny, and Danny could see him shaking, could hear him breathing, fast and terrified.

"Rusty!" he called, and he reached out a hand, ready to wake Rusty up.


He was back in the solitary cell again, sitting with his back against the wall whilst Moffatt's solicitous hand held the cold compress to the lump on the back of his head; and Moffatt's poisonous voice whispered in his ear. "You really missed me this much? Oh, I'm flattered, but I'm afraid we can't have fun right now. I'm working."

He shuddered and dug his fingernails into his hands. He shouldn't be here. He had to get back to Vegas. Had to get back to Danny.

"You really hate it here that much?" Moffatt asked, sympathetically. "Yeah, it must be difficult for you. To be alone and unfilled. No one to show off to. No one looking at your bedroom eyes, your hungry little mouth. No one to notice that little sway when you walk that just screams "fuck me". No one to watch you shake that perfect, fuckable ass."

He wasn't able to make a sound. And he gazed, desperately, entreatingly towards the guard, just on the other side of the door. But his back was turned and he was still talking to the nurse.

Moffatt moved the compress aside for a moment, tutted sadly and replaced it. "I explained to Simon - " He paused. "That's the man whose nose you broke. You do know his name, don't you?"

Rusty shook his head. Moffatt clicked his tongue again.

"Honestly, I don't mind your . . . appetite . . . but you could at least make an effort to know the names of the men who are nice enough to give you what you need. Else you'll get even more of a reputation than you already have." He sighed disapprovingly. "Anyway, I explained to Simon that you were upset because you didn't feel he was enough of a man to satisfy you." Moffatt paused. "He was a little upset about that, actually. Says he's looking forward to making you eat those words."

Rusty fought down the need to punch Moffatt. Couldn't do that. Couldn't.

"Of course," Moffatt went on casually."You could always hit him again. Then you'd end up here again. Trapped in this little room. Twenty-four hours a day, with no way out, with no chance of seeing daylight, with nowhere to run to. This little, enclosed, coffin of room. Wouldn't that be nice?"

He had to bite into his lip to stop the whimper escaping. And Moffatt noticed. Of course.

"You know, if you really need to get out of here, there are ways," he suggested, sympathetically. "I know the guard there. He's a nice guy. He'd be happy to help you. And all you'd need to do is do him a little favour in return. You wouldn't mind that, would you? You'd like it, even. Putting that hungry little mouth of yours to its proper use?"

And Rusty looked up sharply, because this was different than last time. Oh, the words were the same. But this time, this time Moffatt wasn't lying. And Rusty was supposed to be in Vegas right now, it was the night before, and he was needed, they needed him, Danny needed him, so if there was a chance to leave, he had to take it, didn't he? Danny would understand. He had to get back and do his job.

He chewed on his lip, and as the guard walked in he'd made up his mind and he was prepared to slide onto his knees, and Moffatt was rubbing his shoulders comfortingly, and he looked at the guard . . . Except it wasn't the guard. It was Carson.

Carson was standing there, and his smile was bright and genuine and his hand was on his zipper. "I like you, Robert. And you're going to let me do whatever you want, aren't you?"

Rusty wasn't screaming. He wasn't. And suddenly he was on his knees and Moffatt was easing his jumpsuit off, and Carson was closer and Rusty tried to look up at his face but his head was firmly forced back down.

"Rusty!"

And that was Danny's voice, and please, don't let Danny . . .

"Rus'!"

. . . be here, don't let Danny see this, because he couldn't stand to see the disgust in Danny's soul that he felt in his own . . .

"Rusty! You're not there."

There was concrete beneath his knees (he was lying on his side.) There was a foul taste in his mouth (his mouth was closed.)

"Look around you. You're not there. You're with me. You're with me and you're safe. I promise.

And Moffatt's hand was rubbing down him. (On his shoulder) And it was harsh and it was cruel. (No. Danny.)

"You're not there."

He wasn't there.

The solitary cell faded away and he was lying in bed, looking up at Danny, and with a blink, he forced the misery and hope off his face and lay trembling, and waited for the familiar rejection.


Rusty had opened his eyes almost immediately. Had woken up almost immediately. Except he hadn't, and Danny had been afraid. And all he'd been able to do was promise that it wasn't real, any more, that Rusty was safe.

And then Rusty had come back to himself, and he'd watched the relief fade away to be replaced with blankness and neutrality and this wasn't what he wanted. "I'm with you," he whispered insistently. "I'm with you and I'm never going to leave." He asked permission with his eyes, and waited for the puzzled nod, and he bent down and kissed Rusty's hair and wrapped his arm tight around Rusty's shoulders. "I'm here," he promised. "I'm here. Always."

And Rusty looked at him for a long moment and Danny's breath caught in his throat, because Rusty believed, in an instant, Rusty believed him and the smile dawned like the first perfect morning after a long, cold winter.


Thanks for reading. Would love to know what you think.