A/N: Warning, this chapter is particularly unpleasant.
The cold was almost painful and he stumbled quickly through the streets, almost tripping over his shoelaces, hugging his arms around himself tightly, trying to hold the warmth (and pain) inside of him. He didn't know exactly where he was going to, he just knew that he had to get away from Saul and from confusing words and sickeningly soft beds and heartfelt gratitude.
He was still afraid that Saul was going to come after him. All the time he'd been sneaking out of the apartment his hands had been trembling. At least he was good at being quiet. Was just like creeping out of the house when Dad was home. He knew how to tread lightly, knew to muffle the sound of the door closing with his shirt sleeve, and even so with the memories in mind, he almost lost himself imagining the sound of footsteps behind him, the harsh breathing, the rough hands dragging him back, the hands that touched and held and wouldn't let go...
He'd bitten the back of his wrist fiercely, letting the pain keep him sharp and silent.
Problem was, he'd managed to escape alright, only now he didn't know where he was going.
Instinct – need – told him to go to Danny's. To let himself take comfort in the fact that Danny liked him, as he had before...and look what had happened. Danny would welcome him, look after him, but Danny's parents would send him straight back to Dr Mayhew and he just...he didn't want that.
And more than that he didn't know that he should be inflicting himself on Danny. Wasn't just about what he deserved, it was about what Danny deserved. Danny was...Danny wasn't him. Danny was better than him. And whatever Danny said, his touch was poison and he'd drag Danny down into the mud just by being near him. And Danny wasn't supposed to spend time with him. Danny's Mom had looked at him in the hospital and he'd somehow felt even more filthy and insignificant, and if Danny hung around with him, they'd punish him too, maybe even send him to Dr Mayhew as well.
Unwillingly he imagined Danny in his place. Danny being used. Danny having to...or being forced to...and in an instant he was doubled over, his hands pressed hard against his mouth, his fingernails gouging into his face as the pressure of the scream inside him built to unbearable levels.
Better he died than he let that happen.
No, he couldn't go to Danny. He'd have to see Danny again, reassure Danny that he was alright, but after that...
He dropped down to the ground, kneeling slumped between a couple of dumpsters.
He could go back home. It had been a while at least. Maybe Dad wouldn't be so angry. Maybe everything would be normal and he'd just be slapped a couple of time and sent to his room. His room. He thought longingly of the faded carpet, the cracked wall, the space under the bed that was his, and that felt almost safe. There were clothes here that belonged to him and weren't so nice that he felt wrong in them, there was a shower he could use and food he could eat, as long as he was careful. And Dad might punish him when he was bad, but he'd never used him.
His stomach lurched alarmingly. Dad had never used him before. Things might be different now. After all, Mom had been there before and now she'd left and maybe that would change even more than he'd thought. After all, Mom was sick and dependent and Dad was stronger and smarter, and he used her and gave her food and medicine and alcohol. Really was there any difference? With Mom gone, maybe Dad would want...would expect...
"Men need a little help to relax now and then," Dr Mayhew crooned, his thumb brushing affectionately down Rusty's cheek. "It's a tough, thankless task looking after children like you. You're...stress relief. Do you know what that means?"
He shook his head dumbly.
"Mmm," Dr Mayhew said thoughtfully, his thumb now gently rubbing over Rusty's lips. "All men have...frustrations...they need to work out. And you're useful for working out those frustrations. You do want to be useful, don't you?"
Dad always had frustrations. And, in a different way, hadn't Dad always used him to work them out? When things were going bad, or Dad was in a bad mood, Dad would knock him around more than usual, even if it wasn't directly his fault.
The image rose up in his mind, leaving him choked and nauseous. Dad, sitting on the sofa at home, his pants unbuttoned, a glass of vodka in his hand. Rusty kneeling between his legs, naked and shivering, his mouth open, and he could see and he could smell and he could taste...no!
No. But he knew that if he went home and Dad did expect that, he'd have to go along with it.
So he couldn't go home and he couldn't go to Danny's. He didn't really have any options. Anything else put him right back in the institute. And in the meantime, it was freezing and he was tired.
Mechanically he started rubbing at his arms and chest, and even his own hands on his body made him feel dirty.
Maybe he shouldn't have ran away from Saul's. At least he'd been warm there and there'd been a roof over his head.
He gritted his teeth; that was weakness. Just more things to lull him into a feeling of blissful gratitude. And no matter how...nice...everything had been, no matter what that look in Saul's eyes had meant, it was much better that he left before Saul came back.
The taxi ride had been difficult enough. Saul had surreptitiously laid a doughnut shaped cushion on the seat, murmuring that the doctors had said he should use it to sit on for at least a week. Rusty wasn't sure if it was meant to help or humiliate him. It had taken the pressure off and eased the pain, but it had left him vulnerable and ashamed. And then the apartment and the room Saul had shown him to, and he didn't know exactly what he'd been expecting. Somewhere he'd be out of the way. Somewhere without things he could break or ruin.
A filthy cell in the basement...was that really what he thought he deserved? He could imagine the look on Danny's face, could imagine – remember – Danny telling him that the way he was treated wasn't right. His head was spinning. No one else agrees, he told Danny silently.
The room hadn't been a kindness anyway. Hadn't been about making him comfortable, it had been about ease of access. The large bed proved that, and Saul's soft order to get ready for bed.
There'd been a lock on the bathroom door and he'd stared at it for a long moment, ridiculously tempted to lock the door and never come out again. A kid's plan of course. What was he going to do next? He might be able to squeeze out the window, but they were on the fourth floor and he seriously doubted he'd be able to do any climbing in his current state. And if he jumped...he might die and that would be bad – it would – but he might just break his legs or something, and that would be far worse.
Besides. If Saul realised Rusty had locked him out, there'd be bad trouble.
Instead he undressed and briskly started use the cold water to wash as much of him as he could. Anything Saul might want to touch or kiss or lick. It was his own fault he couldn't keep himself clean. They'd told him that his first week of school and Dr Mayhew had repeated the lesson. Not having any water or soap was no excuse. If he was good he'd be allowed those things, but he was bad and he made the adults who had to touch him dirty, and that meant he was even more bad, and so he really didn't deserve to get to wash. It only ended when he grew too disgusting to touch, as Dr Mayhew had told him in a disappointed sigh, and he'd given him to Stuart and James for punishment. But then he'd brought a bowl of lukewarm water and a bar of scented soap down with him the next time he came for Rusty, and he'd watched Rusty wash his hair and body, telling him to take his time, warning him when he'd missed a spot.
He'd been so thankful and grateful and happy to be forgiven that he hadn't even tried to pull away from the deep kiss that followed. Dr Mayhew had smiled at him and told him he was a good boy...
He smelled like flowers and it made him feel sick.
Point was, he was supposed to keep himself clean. And even if he'd already been planning on sneaking away, he didn't want to disappoint Saul let alone make him angry.
Briefly he'd considered using the hot water. Would make him a lot cleaner, after all, and just the luxury of it would make him feel better, and really, he didn't see how Saul would ever find out. Trouble with that was, if Saul did find out there'd be hell to pay. Just like with Dad when he'd found the bathroom full of steam. Hot water was expensive and wasting it was bad and far, far more importantly, it wasn't worth getting caught over. He had to pick his moments of defiance carefully.
Cold water and soap was fine, and he dried himself quickly, not wanting Saul to think he was trying to delay this.
On the other hand, there was toothpaste on the shelf and he put a tiny bit on his finger and scrubbed it over his teeth as best he could, but that had been the closest he'd come to getting to clean his teeth since he'd been taken downstairs, and it took a little of the filth in his mouth away. Worth it. Of course, if Saul kissed him, he'd realise that Rusty had stolen the toothpaste but he could at least try to claim that he'd thought Saul had meant him to. 'Get ready for bed' was vague enough that most things could be reinterpreted at least a bit.
Most things.
Everything else done, he cast his eye around the bathroom, looking for anything he could use, checking out the shelf and everything around the bath. Shampoo, deodorant, aftershave...no. Shaving foam – he tried a pinch but it wasn't right. There was nothing suitable, he realised, with a sense of despair. Hell, was Saul actually setting him up to fail here? Maybe it was an excuse to punish him. Desperately he picked up a bar of soap. Nothing else for it, this would have to do.
Grimly he lathered up his fingers, and propping a foot up on the edge of the bath for balance, he carefully inserted a finger inside himself.
It hurt. Oh, God, it hurt. Whatever the doctors had given him earlier to numb him, it had long since worn off, leaving him as raw and tender as ever.
Don't be a baby, he told himself fiercely, working another finger inside and starting to stretch himself as best he could. As long as he did this now, it would hurt less later. Saul was being kind to make him do this. Saul had said, after all, that he wouldn't hurt him unless he had to.
The soap stung, he noted absently, and he figured it would get worse as it dried out. And weirdly he could feel something inside himself that hadn't been there before. Sort of like hard little lines, like wire or thread or something. He felt over them carefully – there had to be at least twenty, and there was a sharp ache beneath each one. Something left inside him. He bit his lip hard, trying to resist the urge to tear them out. Whatever they were, odds were good Saul knew they were there. Probably he'd even asked the doctors to put them there. So taking them out was a no no. At the moment, anyway. Besides. They seemed pretty firmly attached.
Leaving them alone he set about adding more soap. Problem was, he had no idea how big Saul was, or how he'd want Rusty. Better to be safe than sorry, and he added a third finger and then a fourth, clawing at his arm with his other hand to suppress the pain.
There. If he wasn't stretched enough now, there really was nothing he could do about it, and he washed the blood off his fingers. Whatever happened now, he'd just have to deal with it.
He looked at the pyjamas he'd left on the floor for a moment, unsure if he was actually supposed to put them on. He would have thought Saul would have wanted him naked. Except Saul had helped him cover up before...maybe he really did want Rusty to feel comfortable.
He laughed silently; some things really couldn't be done through clothes. Though other things could be, he considered, the thought sobering him rapidly. He shuddered.
At any rate, the clothes were there so he dressed quickly and headed back to the bedroom.
Saul wasn't waiting like he'd expected, and he stood awkwardly in the doorway, unsure of what to do until Saul appeared from behind him and directed him to the bed.
He'd bent over slightly, waiting for directions, and Saul had told him that it wasn't going to hurt.
(It always hurt. He knew that was his fault, knew that was because he was weak and bad, but it always hurt.)
He laid down like Saul told him to and waited, but instead, Saul had pulled the blankets over him, placing a hand on his shoulder, and offering more nonsensical promises before he left.
He actually left.
It made him uneasy and he'd lain completely still, uncomfortable and unsafe, certain that Saul would come back any minute. Like Stuart and James perhaps, who liked the shock and fear, or maybe more like Lucas who liked to pretend in the cold light of day that what they'd done the previous night had never happened.
But eventually he'd been certain that Saul wasn't waiting just outside the door and he'd seized the opportunity to sneak away before Saul did come back.
And now he had nowhere to go.
There was the sound of shouting and breaking glass somewhere nearby, and he huddled back further behind the dumpster, afraid of the rats but more afraid of people.
He had spent time on the streets before, of course. Just before he'd met Danny, when Mom had come at him with the knife. But that had been in the summer and it had only been for a few days. This would be forever, and already he couldn't feel his fingers. That was going to be a real problem when it came to getting money.
There was another option open to him, of course. He could try and charge men money or food to use him. Only problem with that was, if it was just him on his own, he couldn't see any reason why they wouldn't just take what they wanted.
And he could expect too the curious looks and the questions. He'd be a target for any do gooder who wanted to send him back.
Really, he'd be a target full stop.
It started to rain and he curled into a ball on his side, his head buried in his arms. Impossible to imagine that people wouldn't be able to tell what he was just by looking at him. And once they knew that, well. All men have frustrations and he made for good stress relief. And as long as it was just him, they could take what they wanted whether he was selling or not.
Almost enough to make him wish he was back in the basement. At least it had been warm and dry there, and sometimes, if he was good, Dr Mayhew could be kind.
Saul ran frantically through the streets, doubling back on himself, quartering the neighbourhood. Rusty couldn't have got far. He was on foot – he was nine for God's sake.
But Saul had been searching for almost two hours now and if Rusty had kept moving...damnit, he didn't even know which direction Rusty had headed in.
Every time he saw someone he asked if they'd seen Rusty, describing him to the best of his ability, and each time he was met with a blank stare.
He was growing increasingly desperate. It was so cold tonight and Rusty didn't even have a sweater on, let alone a coat. How in God's name had he let this happen? How was he this stupid?
He should have been more careful. More vigilant. Hell, he should have been able to reassure Rusty that he was safe now, that there was nothing to be afraid of. Apparently being alone in a house with Saul was more terrifying than braving the dark and the cold...he hadn't done enough.
It started to rain and he cursed himself even more.
The problem was he didn't know where Rusty might be going. He didn't have a note of Rusty's old address – they'd gave him a file but that was blanked out, as if they were afraid he might go round there and cause trouble. (There were photographs of Rusty from the night he was brought in. Saul might just go round there and commit murder.)
And he didn't know if Rusty would go there – it seemed an irrational, awful thought, but he knew what could happen when people felt trapped and out of options, and he couldn't imagine what was going on in Rusty's head. He wanted to be able to check. Even more he wanted to check if Rusty might have gone to Danny's. It seemed the most obvious sanctuary. He'd seen how impossibly close the two of them were. Rusty had seemed a hundred times calmer when Danny was there, holding his hand, and he didn't think Danny had stopped to think about anything else since...actually, he doubted Danny had stopped to think about anything else in five months.
But he didn't know where Danny lived and that was something he should have checked on too.
Soon he was going to have to go and call the police. Probably he should have called them the moment he realised Rusty was gone. More people searching...it should be a good thing. But it wasn't only the force of habit that kept him from getting the cops involved. Back in that hellhole of a basement, he'd been afraid that the cops would be too rough, would frighten a child too exhausted and traumatised to understand he wasn't the one in trouble here; and that fear hadn't gone anywhere. Rusty saw cops coming after him and he'd run, Saul was sure of that and he couldn't see how that would end well.
And the other part was, no one was going to give them another chance. He had to do the right thing and call the cops, that was the game. They'd take Rusty to that new institute, somewhere else in the state, and Rusty would be locked up and drugged up and he'd be just another statistic. Just another victim.
Maybe things had changed in the last few decades, but when Saul was a kid, the ones that got labelled, the ones that got taken away – they didn't get to come back.
Tonight, this was his problem. And nothing had ever been so important.
There was a guy standing on the street corner, holding a bottle in a brown paper bag. Drunk enough that the sensible thing to do was stay well away. Saul walked right up to him. "Good evening," he said, trying to sound as polite and non confrontational as he could. "Have you seen a kid around here? Nine years old, about this tall, thin and wearing a red shirt and jeans..."
For a long moment the guy just stared at him. "Yeah..." he said at last. "Yeah. I might have seen someone like that."
Might have. The money was in his hand in an instant. "Where?" he demanded urgently. "When?"
"Down that alley there," the guy nodded. "He was lying behind the dumpster. I kicked him a couple of times to see if he was alright and he took off running." He laughed. "More waddling than running, I guess."
Saul handed the money over. "When was this? Which way did he go?"
The guy shrugged. "Dunno. A while. And that way," he said, pointing down the alley and across the street."
"Thanks," Saul nodded, already up and running. Rusty had been seen. Rusty had been here and he could find him.
The sky grew lighter as he carried on searching, checking every doorway, every nook – anywhere a child might find to hide and sleep. There were more people around and he still stopped everyone he saw, being polite and persistent and asking the question. Most of the time he was met with a lot of nothing, but a couple of people pointed him onwards.
He wondered where Rusty was going. Had his encounter with the man earlier driven him further into flight? Saul didn't know. He didn't know what he was going to say to Rusty either. All that mattered was catching up with him.
When he did, the urge to run right over was almost irresistible. The sheer relief was overwhelming. Rusty was safe. But he didn't want Rusty to run again, he reminded himself, and he hung back and watched.
Rusty was standing in the shadows, scanning the street, almost like...Saul frowned.
A couple of women walked past apparently on their way to work, talking animatedly to each other and Rusty's gaze sharpened. He looked around himself and quickly stepped out behind them, silently trotting along a step behind and it was only because Saul was looking for it that he spotted the instant Rusty's hand dipped into the woman's purse and came out clutching a wallet.
Well. That was unexpected.