A/N: Happy Monday!

He could hardly believe he'd slept. Saul had been right there for pity's sake. And Danny...he shuddered to think about what could have happened. He hadn't even woken up when Saul came back in, and that frightened him.

It was getting harder and harder to stay awake. He was so tired all the time. Tired and weak, and he knew that was probably cos of his injuries, and a lack of food, but the knowledge didn't exactly make it any safer.

Bad stuff happened while you slept. Terrible, awful stuff, and he didn't want to be vulnerable like that. Not ever, if he could help it.

Chewing on his lip, he edged back on the sofa, watching Saul carefully out of the corner of his eye. Danny was gone now and it was just them and the apartment suddenly felt much colder and Saul suddenly looked much more threatening. He didn't know what was going to happen now, but he was afraid.

Danny had gone to the cops and the thought made him feel numb and sick inside. He didn't think...he thought Danny would be safe. Surely the cops wouldn't hurt Danny; Danny was good and special and real and he didn't deserve to be hurt. But he was gonna be talking to them about Rusty, and he'd think that he was helping, that he was going to somehow get Dr Mayhew in trouble, but all Rusty could think about was Danny telling them what he'd...what he'd seen Rusty doing...and this time they were going to lock him up and throw away the key.

He pulled anxiously on his shirt, squirming slightly on his seat. The bath had been hot, and he'd scrubbed and scrubbed, but he still didn't feel clean. And he could still smell the filth and sweat on himself. It was like every time someone used him they left behind a special sort of dirt. Something that never washed off.

"There's some clothes in the bedroom if you want to get changed into something fresh," Saul told him, watching him keenly. "You've been wearing them since last night. It might make you feel better."

Clothes? He bit his lip. He didn't have any clothes of his own, so where had they come from? The unease crept up on him.

"Why don't you go get changed and I'll get some lunch sorted?" Saul suggested.

He could take a look while Saul was eating. That would make it less likely that Saul would think to give him anything. And he had to find out what Saul was talking about.

He limped through to the room. Sure enough there were clothes in the drawers and wardrobe. New clothes. Brand new. And loads of them.

(No, no, no, no, nononono.)

His hands were clamped tight over his mouth and he bit down hard on the heel of his hand, desperately trying to manage the panic. This was wrong. This was very, very, very wrong.

He hadn't done anything to earn this. He didn't deserve this. And Saul had already bought them. So he couldn't just say no...maybe if he just refused to wear them Saul would take them back? But then he'd be openly bad, and that would mean Saul would have to punish him, and he didn't know if he could physically take that right now. He already hurt so much and everything was strange and confusing...he felt so tired. It was as if he had nothing left.

He didn't want this. Why couldn't Saul have just left him alone? Why couldn't everyone just leave him alone? He just wanted to find someplace to hide. To not think, to not feel, to not remember...to not exist.

Staring wildly around the room he caught sight of a pair of sneakers left lying neatly in front of the dresser. They were new and they were fancy and they looked his size. They even had a brand name on the side. Shoes were expensive. Shoes were always expensive, and these ones even had velcro on them. Saul must have picked them out especially for him, and there was a sledgehammer pounding against his ribcage, and he couldn't breathe, and the walls were closing in around him, and he couldn't breathe.

With a choked gasp, he flung himself under the bed and lay huddled and shaking against the wall. The only sound was his own breathing, fast and ragged, and still it didn't feel like he was getting enough air, like he was right on the edge of suffocation.

He closed his eyes tightly and imagined Danny there, imagined Danny's voice soothing him, imagined Danny's arms around him, Danny's hand on his face and -

No!

Savagely, he banged his head hard on the wooden floor, wincing more at the noise than the pain. No. He didn't want to be touched. He didn't like being touched. And he didn't deserve new shoes or clothes, and he certainly didn't deserve Danny.

Fists clenched, he struggled, trying to get his breathing under control. The room was strange and unfamiliar, and even hiding under the bed wasn't safe like hiding under his bed was.

His bed. Where he could hide, where there was no confusing kindnesses. He tried to fill his mind with the sights, sounds, smells, like he was hiding under his own bed, but the problem with that was he could imagine Dad's footsteps coming closer, and he could taste the bitter panic at the back of his throat, and he remembered again the nightmaredaydream from last night, and for a second he thought he might throw up.

(No throwing up. Not ever again.)

His nails tore into his palms as he fought for air, fought to ease the burning in his lungs. He just wanted somewhere safe to hide, if only in his head. Just somewhere familiar. With an effort, he thought about his cell in the basement. Thought about the rough walls and floor, the overwhelming stench that didn't fade, even when Stuart hosed the place down. It was awful, but this was his head, and he put the bolt on the inside. Keeping him safe from the outside world, anyone who would hurt him or use him.

He hid himself inside his head, and as he slowly felt himself calm down, he tried not to wonder how it was that he'd lost the ability to imagine anything nice.

Even as he felt like he could breathe again, he still felt sick, shaking and completely incapable of moving.

The knock on the door nearly sent him spiralling back into panic. Worse, when the door was slowly opened.

"Rusty?" Saul's voice rang out in the silence.

He pressed his fists tightly against his mouth, trying not to make a sound, every breath choked and shallow. All these clothes...and he'd gone and hid like a baby...he was going to have to...Saul was going to make him...

Saul's feet stopped a couple of feet from the bed. He wasn't wearing shoes, and one of his socks had a hole in the toe, and Rusty was seized with an urge to giggle, even as he was drowning in unthinking panic.

He shrank back as Saul bent down and looked straight at him, and he closed his eyes hurriedly, waiting for the moment when Saul reached down and dragged him out, waiting for the anger and the rough hands, and the pain, and he was shaking.

"Rusty?" Saul's voice was soft and uncertain. "Rusty, can you hear me?"

He bit his lip hard, worrying at it until he tasted blood.

"Rusty if you can hear me, let me know. Please."

After a moment, reluctantly, he lightly rapped his hand on the floor twice.

"Well done," Saul said, sounding relieved, and was he really being praised for something that should be so simple? "Do you think you can come out of there?"

The thought made him shiver and draw back further. He wasn't rushing to be used and he certainly wasn't rushing to be punished. He'd done too much wrong, and Saul had forced him to be too grateful and nothing outside was safe.

"You're safe here," Saul went on, contradicting every truth Rusty knew. "I won't hurt you."

He shook his head automatically, almost angry at the lie. He wasn't good. He wasn't obedient. He deserved to be punished, he understood that, accepted that, but that didn't mean it didn't hurt.

Swallowing hard, he thought of everything he'd done wrong. Saul had to hurt him. It was...necessary. But just because it was for his own good, just because it would, somehow, make him better didn't mean he found it easy to submit. Dr Mayhew said it was because he was wilful. Too stubborn. And that meant Dr Mayhew had no choice but to use the cane. He pressed his hands against his mouth hard, ruthlessly choking back even the smallest sound. Did Saul have a cane?

The cold tile rough against his palms. The ache in his back as he stood, arched and braced and still. Counting the little specks of blood ground into the concrete, wondering how many were his. The taste of blood filling his mouth where he'd bitten his tongue too hard, and knowing he'd regret that when it came time to use his mouth. The feeling of cold air swishing across his back in the split second before the pain came. The pain itself, each lash a trail of fire across his back and shoulders. The heavy smell of blood rising as Dr Mayhew carefully worked his way down Rusty's body, each stroke laid out in a pattern, right down to his calves and feet. The soft little sighs and tuts of disappointment as Dr Mayhew worked...he didn't like punishing Rusty, he said, and Rusty felt lost and ashamed, even while the pain threatened to engulf him, leaving him weak and trembling with agony and the effort to stay on his feet. It hurt. It hurt and he was sorry, and he'd try to be in good future, if only it stopped...

There was a voice and he slowly fought his way free of the memory, focusing on the soft and the gentle.

Saul, he suddenly realised. He was still under the bed. Stupid. He punched himself urgently. He was so stupid. He couldn't risk indulging himself, wallowing in the past.

"Rusty?" Saul asked softly. "Are you okay?"

He rapped on the floor again with an effort, figuring Saul could interpret it however he wanted.

"If I back off a little, do you think you could calm down enough to come out of there?"

Could he? Did he even want to? If he went out there, Saul would punish him. But if he stayed here, Saul would get angry and drag him out and then punish him. Maybe hiding under the bed wasn't such a great long term strategy anyway.

As he watched, Saul's feet moved out of view.

"I'm just outside the door," Saul called through to him.

He closed his eyes and resolutely turned to the wall. He didn't know what was going on, but now that Saul was further away, he felt safer. He lay still and gradually, as nothing bad happened, the shaking subsided.

It must have been over an hour later that he crawled out from under the bed, feeling ridiculous and uncertain. True to his word, Saul was sitting on the floor in the hallway, just outside the bedroom door. He stood up when he saw Rusty, slowly enough that Rusty only shrank back, not running. Saul had been waiting for him...he was ready to be punished, but even so, when Saul frowned sharply and reached out towards his head (too quickly, too suddenly) he flinched back, flinging his arm up in front of his face.

There was a long moment of silence and he cursed himself for showing defiance (weakness) and cautiously he looked up to see how angry Saul was.

But Saul was looking at him sadly and he quickly dropped his eyes to the floor.

"It looks like you bumped your head," Saul said, slowly reaching out his hand, hovering near Rusty's forehead, and Rusty tensed up, ready for the blow. "Did you fall?"

He nodded immediately, leaping on the safe answer.

"Was that what scared you?" Saul went on.

He shrugged uneasily, and couldn't quite stop himself glancing at the shoes, still lying by the door.

"The clothes," Saul said with a sigh. "Rusty, you need things to wear. I'm your guardian right now. It's my duty to provide for you."

Duty. But duty took its toll, and Rusty was good stress relief.

He nodded, his head still ducked.

Saul sighed again. "Come on. Why don't you get washed up and we'll get a cold compress on that?" He crossed to the dresser and pulled out a selection of clothes. "Here," he said gruffly. "I think these should fit you. Why don't you get changed?"

He wasn't getting a choice. Hesitantly, he looked at Saul, wondering if Saul meant for him to get undressed here, like some game of pretend, where they'd both play act that they didn't know what was going on. It was the sort of game that Lucas might like, or even Dr Mayhew. It was the sort of game that made Rusty feel like he was wrong inside. Like there was a massive hole in his chest that was slowly being filled up with something filthy, something stunted, something dead.

Still, he knew his part, and slowly he reached up to his shirt button, casting an obvious reluctant look towards the bathroom as he did so. Lucas had asked him to look at him 'seductively' at this sort of point in the proceedings, and Rusty hoped that wasn't what Saul was expecting. Truth was, even if he was willing, he wasn't sure how. But Dr Mayhew had once said he liked Rusty's awkward reluctance when they played. He'd said it was endearing. Cute. Though that only applied as long as Rusty still eventually did what he was told.

"I'll let you have your privacy," Saul said hurriedly, moving for the door. "Or you can get changed in the bathroom, if you'd prefer."

The bathroom door had a lock. But maybe it was a trick? Maybe Saul would grab him as he went past?

But he didn't, and Rusty stood in the bathroom, staring at the door and wondered. Getting cleaned up before he got punished seemed backwards. Not that he was going to turn down a chance for a wash, and even as he thought he was filling the basin with cold water and stripping off his shirt. He could smell the filth on himself, maybe Saul could too. Maybe Saul found him too disgusting to touch even for punishment.

This waiting was killing him. That was the best thing about Dad, when Rusty was bad he just got hit and that was an end to it. This was torture. He knew he'd done wrong, he knew Saul was going to have to hurt him, and he just wished he could get it over with. Saul was being too nice and he didn't feel safe.

And he hadn't even had the sense to stick the pancake and cookies somewhere hidden in the room, he realised suddenly. He was so stupid. Grimly he transferred the food to the pocket of the new slacks Saul had picked out for him. They were smart. Sort of thing Danny would wear if his parents were taking him out, and he shuddered at the comparison.

Alright. He scrubbed at his face and neck one last time, hoping it would make the difference, then dressed and clean as he could get, he walked out, the dirty laundry clutched in his hands.

"The laundry basket is in that cupboard there," Saul directed him with a nod, and Rusty slipped past him, careful not to get too close, and dropped it where he was told. "Here," Saul added, passing him a tall glass of water.

He took it automatically, staring at it anxiously for a moment. Was this the punishment Saul had in mind? He remembered Brent Dalmuir, strapped down to the chair in the dining room in front of everyone for wasting water. Five pitchers of water later, and Rusty had sworn he'd never do anything to deserve that. He could remember the uneasy laughter and the cruel jeering. The way Brent had squirmed desperately, his face red...Rusty had decided that he'd rather be beaten any day.

His knuckles were pulled white around the glass.

"Sip it slowly," Saul advised him anxiously, looking for all the world as though Rusty had done nothing wrong.

Right. He sipped at the water and it did help.

"Okay then," Saul said, smiling briefly. "Let's go get some lunch."

He found himself sitting at the kitchen, table, holding a cool damp cloth against the bump on his forehead, staring down at a roast beef sandwich, a bowl of apple slices and grapes, and a glass of chocolate milk. He swallowed hard, shaking his head in denial, but Saul wasn't looking at him.

"Before I forget," he said slowly, almost casually as he turned back around. "You need to take these."

He looked over to see a collection of pills at the bottom of a cup.

More medicine to make him better. His mouth twisted.

"You were supposed to get these this morning," Saul went on. "But what with everything...it slipped my mind. I'm sorry."

He continued to look stonily into the cup. He might need the pills, but he hated them. They made it harder to think. They made it harder to hide his reactions. And they made it harder to feel, and maybe that was worst of all, because sometimes he found himself craving that, the nothingness was...soothing. Welcoming.

"Hopefully soon you won't have to take any pills at all," Saul went on.

That was unexpected. He looked up at Saul sharply.

Saul reached over and tilted the cup so they could both see it. "That's a high concentration vitamin C pill, that's vitamin D and that's iron and folic acid. You need them to try and get your system back to normal since...you haven't been eating enough. That's an antibiotic. You need to take two of them a day for the next ten days – a few of your injuries are infected and they should stop you getting sick. These are both painkillers. They're relatively mild, and they're non drowsy. So they shouldn't knock you out or anything, but if you find that you're still in pain, they gave me something stronger for you if you need it."

Huh. He tried to figure out if Saul was lying, but he couldn't see any sign of it. All that sounded...reasonable. Like this was all to help it.

For a moment he wondered, but then common sense reasserted itself. It was so much medicine, and medicine was expensive, and he was going to need to pay Saul back, and the doctors from yesterday too.

He looked at the last two pills.

Saul sighed. "That's a mood stabiliser and an anti-depressant. They're the ones that...they're the ones that Mayhew had you on. The doctors...we...don't think you actually need to be on them, but because of your current condition, the doctors say it might be dangerous if you stop taking them right away."

His current condition?

"You're injured and underweight," Saul told him bluntly, as if he'd caught Rusty's confusion. "And even though you don't need the medicine, your body is used to having it, so if you stop too quickly it could make you very sick. Do you understand?"

That actually made sense to him. When Mom stopped taking her...'medicine'...she'd get sick. This sounded like the same thing. But it also sounded like Saul was serious about letting him stop taking them, in the long run, and that was something he couldn't understand. Dr Mayhew had said the medicine was for his own good. He'd said Rusty needed it, and he'd hinted darkly that without it Rusty would get sick and lose his mind. Like Mom, he figured, and he'd shuddered at the thought, imagining himself that lost, that...dead inside...not knowing or caring where he was, who he was, not remembering Danny...And maybe he'd never felt he was getting sick like that, but would he actually be able to tell?

The point was, as much as he hated the way the medicine made him feel, there was a reason he was grateful for it, and now Saul said he didn't need it, and he wasn't sure whether Saul really thought he didn't need it, or if he just didn't deserve it. Like Dr Mayhew, telling him what he could do to earn the bread so long ago, and he knew that if things got bad enough he'd crumble.

But right now, things weren't that bad. Saul said he'd still get medicine for the next few weeks, until he could quit without getting sick and needing to be looked after, and he wasn't starving and he even had some food squirrelled away. Right now, he had every intention of resisting as long as he could.

Expressionless, he picked up the cup of pills and swallowed them, washing them down with the glass of water.

"Good boy," Saul said, sounding relieved, and he tensed at the unexpected praise, not sure what was behind it. "Now eat your lunch," Saul went on. "And then we'll go through to the lounge and talk."

He shook his head quickly, not looking anywhere near the food.

Saul frowned slightly, and he forced himself not to shrink back. "I didn't mean I was going to make you talk," he clarified, and Rusty blinked. "Not what you meant?" Saul said, the frown deepening. "I was just going to tell you what the doctor said. You're not in trouble of any kind."

That was...unexpected, but he was beginning to suspect that Saul was saving all his punishments up for later. And anyway, that hadn't been what he was saying no to.

He could see the frustration building in Saul. Not like he wasn't used to that. When he didn't talk, people got angry. Lightly, he touched the very edge of the plate with one finger and pushed it away, shaking his head.

"You don't like the sandwich?" Saul asked slowly, his eyes narrowed. "Or you're not hungry?"

He nodded eagerly at that, seizing the easy excuse. He was slightly hungry, but nowhere near the level he was used to. He definitely didn't need to eat.

"I know you're not used to eating regularly," Saul said coaxingly. "But you need to try. You're underweight, if you don't eat, you'll get sick."

He wasn't gonna fall for it. He wasn't even gonna listen to the gentle concern in Saul's voice, and he didn't know why he was thinking of the pain in Danny's eyes, when he shared his lunch with him all that time ago.

He shook his head stubbornly, not meeting Saul's eyes. No food, no gratitude, no letting himself be used. He couldn't control anything else, but he could draw a line here.

"Just try and eat a little," Saul urged. "Eat the fruit at least. It's good for you."

The echo hit him unexpectedly hard and he shivered. That was what Dr Mayhew said. Danny had asked him last night when he'd last eaten and he'd remembered. A bowl of strawberries dipped in creamy yoghurt. Dr Mayhew had been kindly sharing some of his own lunch with him, as Rusty had entertained him last time, finally managing to play the pony game properly. He'd been naked, of course, curled up on Dr Mayhew's lap, his hands clasped obediently behind his back, pulled in cuddled against Dr Mayhew's chest, his legs wrapped around Dr Mayhew's waist while Dr Mayhew slowly handfed him the strawberries, stroking his hair with his other hand and telling him that the fruit was good for him, that he should eat it all up, because he – Dr Mayhew – was being so generous, and if anyone knew he was treating Rusty so nicely he'd be in trouble. His fingers lingered on Rusty's lips. The strawberries were sickly sweet and the yoghurt was thick and fell in his mouth in creamy globs that made it hard to swallow.

"Wrap your arms around me," Dr Mayhew instructed him, and he obeyed quickly, lying so close against him now that he could feel Dr Mayhew's heart beat through his shirt. "There now," Dr Mayhew murmured, holding Rusty's head against his shoulder. "Boys like you don't get cuddled enough. You like this, don't you?"

He'd learned that the lie was always the right answer, so he nodded, every inch of his body awash with revulsion, trying so hard not to shudder, because they were so close, and Dr Mayhew would feel it, and Rusty would be punished for his ingratitude.

Finally, Dr Mayhew gently pushed him back up, pressing him lightly further onto his lap. "Open your mouth," he said, and when Rusty did he placed a small strawberry on his tongue. "Now, just hold that right there," he murmured, and a moment later his hands were all over Rusty's body, rubbing and tickling, pinching and tweaking, and he tried to stay still, but then Dr Mayhew's mouth was pressed against his, his tongue demanding entrance, and there were thick ropes of bitter yoghurt dripping down his throat, and the strawberry was crushed against the roof of his mouth, the pulp everywhere, and he couldn't help but squirm and struggle, and the more he moved, the harder Dr Mayhew got.

"That's my special boy," Dr Mayhew breathed, his face flushed pink. "You taste so sweet. You do like this, don't you?"

He was going to be sick, he realised with sudden horror. No. Please no. He couldn't be. That hadn't happened in so long...he'd got so good at suppressing his gag reflex, no matter what.

But not this time, and he scrambled off Dr Mayhew's lap, his hands defiantly pressed against his mouth, and he fell forwards, crawling frantically over to the corner to pitifully retch up everything in his stomach.

When he was finished, he looked up to see Dr Mayhew standing over him, a look of severe disappointment on his face. "Really, now," he began sharply. "Is that any way to behave?"

Limbs trembling with exhaustion, Rusty hung his head, not able to even try and hide his shame.

"Just look at all that food you've wasted, you ungrateful, filthy little beast," Dr Mayhew went on, his voice deceptively mild and his eyes narrowed.

He shuffled round to face Dr Mayhew, his hands flat on the floor, his head bowed, trying to show contrition.

He didn't look up even when he heard Dr Mayhew moving around. A couple of moments later a metal spoon clattered to the floor in front of him.

"Eat it," Dr Mayhew said softly.

He was put in mind of a slice of pizza stamped into the ground on a summers day. This was so much worse.

"I'm not going to stand for you wasting food," Dr Mayhew warned. "Eat it."

Rusty looked over at the puddle of bile, half-digested mushy fruit, and stringy white lumps. Slowly he shook his head.

Dr Mayhew took a step forwards towering over him. "If I document that you're refusing food, I can get Stuart and James to bring down the naso gastric feeding set and make you eat it that way. You've seen that before, haven't you? Remember little Lindy?"

He did remember. She'd screamed and cried and bled, and then she'd gone very, very quiet.

For a second in the depths of his own head, he whispered Danny's name like his own private prayer.

Then he picked up the spoon and turned to face his mess.

"There's a good boy," Dr Mayhew breathed, his voice husky and hungry. "Rusty..."

(He frowned. Dr Mayhew didn't use his name.)

There was water on his face. Had he been crying? No. He hadn't cried in so long, and this was cold besides.

"Rusty!"

Blinking, it was like he was opening his eyes onto a completely different world. Saul's kitchen and Dr Mayhew was nowhere in sight, but Saul was standing in front of him – thankfully not too close – and looking at him anxiously.

There was water on his face, he realised, reaching up and checking. But there was a glass of water in Saul's hand.

"Rusty?" Saul said again urgently. "Can you hear me?"

He nodded slowly, still shaking. That had been so real. It had been like he was living it all over again. He was shaking. Saul had seen that. Saul had seen him weak and helpless, but he hadn't...he was shaking.

Trying to act normal, he scrubbed the water off his face with the back of his hand.

"I flicked some water on you when you didn't respond," Saul told him quietly. "I wanted to bring you out of it, without hurting or frightening you." There was an odd tone to his voice to his voice that Rusty didn't understand.

He bit his lip and tried to look apologetic and ashamed – not difficult – and waited.

With a sigh, Saul knelt down on the floor beside the chair and gazed up at him seriously. "You are not in trouble. You have not done anything wrong."

Oh. It certainly felt like he'd done something wrong.

"It was a memory, yes?" Saul asked quietly.

He stared, not sure how Saul could know that. Very slowly, he nodded.

"A bad memory?" Saul pressed. "Was it about Mayhew?"

He shook his head quickly, knowing he wasn't allowed to talk about it.

"Okay," Saul said gently. "But I'm here, Rusty, For whatever you need."

The understanding and...and kindness in Saul's voice was more than he could bear. Unconsciously he shook his head, refusing to accept it.

Saul stood up slowly. "Are you going to eat your lunch?"

He shook his head again, this time absolutely certain. He would stay strong and that meant not eating.

"Alright then," Saul said with a sigh. "I'll put it in the fridge. Maybe you'll want it later."

No. But as Saul turned his back, putting the sandwich in the fridge, he reached out quickly and clumsily managed to grab a handful of grapes and bits of apple, stuffing them in his pocket.

He waited, on edge, as Saul turned back round and picked up the bowl of fruit. For a second, Saul seemed to stare at the fruit, and Rusty was afraid he might have noticed something, but then the moment passed and Saul put the fruit in the fridge without comment. Relief, mixed with exhaustion and the remains of the memory made him shake.

"Why don't we go back through to the lounge?" Saul suggested, eyeing him keenly. "You can lie down on the sofa for a bit."

He nodded and stood up obediently ready to follow Saul, but first Saul pulled a packet of oreos out the cupboard and emptied them all onto a plate. He stared at them for a long moment, surprised and blinking. Honestly, he wasn't sure he could eat all those if he tried, though his mouth was watering at the thought. Surely he'd be able to sneak a couple off the plate without Saul noticing.

"In case you feel hungry later," Saul explained, carrying the plate and the glass of chocolate milk through, and placing them on the coffee table in easy reach.

He felt sort of like Jerry the mouse, knowing that the food was just part of a trap but struggling to resist.

At Saul's nod, he carefully sat down on the cushion on the sofa, and a moment later, to his discomfort, Saul picked the blanket up and tucked it carefully around him. He tensed as Saul's hand rested on his shoulder for a fraction of a second.

"You looked cold," Saul mumured. "How are you feeling?"

"How was he feeling?" The question was surreal. Unheard of. He shrugged.

Saul sighed. "Maybe you should get some rest," he suggested. "I could put the TV on for a while, if you like?" When Rusty didn't react, he went on hesitantly. "I'd been planning on talking to you about what the doctors said, but if you aren't feeling up to it..."

He nodded hastily. He needed to know that desperately.

Glancing at him, Saul nodded. "Of course. Okay. Please stop me if you find this too upsetting."

Again, the wrongness struck him. Saul shouldn't care whether he was upset or not. Still, he nodded and settled back.

"Okay," Saul said heavily. "I mentioned the stitches earlier." He paused for a long moment, as though struggling with what to say. "There was...a couple of tears inside your bottom," he said at last carefully. "The doctors had to stitch them back together. It will hurt a lot for some time, I'm afraid. And it will probably be uncomfortable to go to the bathroom. If there's a lot of pain, or you notice much bleeding, you need to let me know."

He blinked. He was used to the hurt and the blood. He expected them; after the first time Dr Mayhew had told him it was normal to bleed a bit, and he'd helped him clean up and praised him for not making a fuss.

But Saul said it like it was something horrible. Like Rusty being in pain was wrong, and that had to be a trick...didn't it? But there was a look in Saul's eyes, that he had only ever seen on Danny before, and he didn't want Saul looking at him that way.

"The doctor said they will take the stitches out in about ten days. I'm afraid it will be just as uncomfortable as when they put them in," Saul went on.

Right. It made sense that if they were going to take the stitches out that they'd get to use him, same as when they'd put them in. But that wasn't what was bothering him.

Tears, Saul had said, and he could imagine them. Like he was a damaged toy that needed patched up. He was broken inside, and that meant he was useless. Suppose he couldn't be fixed? What would happen? Would he just be thrown away? He didn't know...

"Most other things aren't too serious," Saul added quietly, and Rusty forced himself to listen. "Cuts and bruises and scrapes...they'll all heal with time and rest. Your hand though."

Automatically, Rusty hid it behind his back, ashamed.

"When it was broken, the bones weren't set like they should have been," Saul said. "That's why you can't use it properly. Now, they aren't sure – they'll have to call a specialist – but there's a chance it can be fixed. They'll need to operate to move the bones into the right place, but there's definitely a chance."

Operate. A specialist. That sounded like it would cost a lot of money. He curled his fingers as much as he could, and knew he would never be worth it.

"I'm sorry," Saul said, his voice sounding very far away.

Rusty tilted his head, wondering why.

"You should never have had to deal with this. You should never have been hurt like this. But I swear it's over, Rusty. It's not going to be like that any more."

The words just bounced off him.

A/N: Thanks for reading, please review.