Justice by InSilva
Disclaimer: I'm looking after him now, OK?
Chapter Nine: Truth
Danny saw Rusty drop to his knees and finished the phone call abruptly.
"Three hours. Where have you been?" he asked rhetorically, the angry relief showing as he moved to where Rusty had fallen to his knees. He took hold of Rusty's arm to pull him upright and dropped it as Rusty gave a short, sharp yell of pain.
Danny stared down at him for a moment, biting his lip and then swooped down in an easy movement and pulled Rusty up over his shoulder, ignoring the yelp. Kicking the door to, he turned and carried Rusty to his bed and deposited him gently on it, straightening up, breathing heavily.
"You need to work out," Rusty said through gritted teeth as he sat on the edge of the bed, resting his heels on the floor.
"You need to lay off the carbs."
He glared at him.
"You didn't answer your phone. And then, I found your car." He couldn't help himself. The last three hours had not been good.
"Sorry. Otherwise detained."
Danny looked into Rusty's eyes and read the thick, cloudy pain. He turned and headed for the kitchen, rooting round at the top of a cupboard until he found a selection of pain-killers. Selecting two that looked like horse pills, he poured a slug of whisky before heading back to Rusty. Water might be advisable but he could already see the "Do I look like I care" from Rusty.
"Here," he pushed the medicine into one hand and the whisky into the other.
"I can't-" Rusty began and Danny cut across him.
"Take them and stop being so damn stupid!"
Inexplicably, Rusty started to laugh mirthlessly. He looked up at Danny.
"Not I won't," he said, spitting out the words, "I can't."
Danny blinked at him and then pulled the glass and the pills from Rusty's hands. Rusty sucked the pills one at a time from Danny's thumb and forefinger and then sipped the whisky. Danny wiped away the alcohol dribbling down Rusty's chin with his fingers.
He put the whisky to one side and squatted down in front of Rusty. "Tell me where."
"Feet. Shoulders," Rusty said shortly and the fact that he'd actually answered the question told Danny worlds.
Gently, Danny picked up Rusty's right foot and studied it. It looked swollen and sore but there was no skin broken. His glance travelled upwards. There were some seams gone on Rusty's jacket but no blood…
"Let's get you out of those clothes."
"Oh, your lines get better and better. No!" This last as Danny tried to lift Rusty's arm up. "No!" Rusty hissed as Danny tried the other arm. This earned Rusty an exasperated look.
"Fine," Danny said. "Have it your way."
He disappeared back into the kitchen and re-emerged with a pair of scissors.
"Danny!" Rusty protested.
"Hate to break it to you, Rus, but the suit's done for anyway," Danny said, brooking no nonsense and slicing it up the back. He pulled it off Rusty and then having removed the silver tie, attacked the shirt in the same way.
"The pants are fine," Rusty said warningly.
Danny was only half-listening. His eyes were all over Rusty. Smooth, perfect, unblemished skin: no burns, no lacerations, no bruises. He caught one of Rusty's wrists and grimaced as he saw the rope marks.
"Alright," he said, pulling a chair up. "Tell me. And don't even think about leaving anything out."
"They took me on the way back to the car," Rusty began, his voice weary.
"Vincente's men." It was obvious but it needed saying.
"Yeah. There was a van and a gun and-"
"And they left you barefoot."
"As a contessa. Whisky."
Danny helped him to another sip.
"Took me to some sort of warehouse. Meat-packing place." Rusty fell silent then sighed. "Vincente was waiting for a cosy chat." Without thinking, he flexed his left hand and suppressed the wince at the refracted pain further up his arm. It didn't go unnoticed by Danny.
What did he do?
Rusty realised and sighed again. "Little five finger exercise."
"Mmph," Danny bit his lip furiously. "What else?"
"Tied my hands behind my back."
Danny frowned because getting this sort of information out of Rusty was always as easy as taking the house.
"And?" He brought many years of friendship to bear in the look he gave him.
"There was a hook and a chain and they strung me up." The words came out in a run as Rusty bowed to the inevitable.
Danny found himself biting his lip again. Then his eyes widened.
"Your hands were behind you?"
Rusty didn't meet his gaze. "Yeah."
Danny felt his stomach turn as he pictured Rusty hanging, the strain of his full body weight, his arms bent back unnaturally… He leaned forward and studied Rusty's shoulders, running a hand lightly over the skin, feeling the tension and imagining the twisted ligaments. There were absolutely no external marks. The sign of a professional. He buried his mouth in his hand.
"And your feet?" He made himself ask, balling his hands into futile fists.
"Well, they let me down eventually."
"On to your knees," Danny could see where this was going.
"Some sort of whippy, little cane thing..."
"On your feet," Danny said tightly. Rusty… He stared at him and read the little bit of the story Rusty wasn't sharing.
"How many times?"
"Hmm?"
Don't even think about lying.
"How many times?" Stern. Demanding. "How many times did they hoist you up into the air and leave you hanging there in agony then drop you to the ground and cripple your feet?"
"Lost count."
"Pain-killers working yet?"
"Kind of."
"Good, because I may start punching you if I don't get any straight answers." He straightened up. "Now tell me that you're going to drop this crusade."
Rusty stared down at the floor and Danny found the anger buzzing through him.
"He means to-"
"Yep."
"You know he's-"
"Yep."
"And you're not going to-"
"Nope."
"You're seriously not going to-"
"Nope."
The glare from Danny was near-volcanic. With difficulty, he suppressed his temper along with the urge to hit Rusty over the head and run off with him to Mexico for his own good. He leaned forward in the chair.
"You're not going anywhere," Danny warned, "and neither am I. Not until you tell me you're going to listen to reason and drop this, Rusty."
Rusty stared him out for a moment and then said in a low voice, "Right now, Danny, I am the only person standing in between Gino and a twenty year stretch inside for something he didn't do. He's about the age we were when we met and he'll come out near enough the age we are now. Twenty years, Danny. Twenty years."
"The kid had a choice," Danny went on. "He made his choice. He took the money. Now you need to decide what you're going to do."
There was a silence and incredulously, Danny saw the wrong answer forming in Rusty's eyes.
"You want to save him in spite of himself? Is that it?" He tried to bite back on the rage. "Help me understand, Rusty."
Rusty said nothing and now, he was looking anywhere but at Danny. "Maybe he…" he began and tailed off. "Maybe I…"
Oh, to hell with hiding the anger. "Maybe what, Rus? Maybe next time Vincente hurts you permanently? Maybe next time you don't come back to me at all?"
Rusty closed his eyes and Danny could see he was wrestling with something, something Danny didn't understand. Because this should be a cut and dried decision: it was surely about survival. Rusty opened his eyes again and the inner struggle emerged on to his face, travelling across his features until eventually, resignation emerged.
Good, Danny thought and then saw the quick, sad smile as Rusty read his thought and Rusty's next words showed him how very wrong he was.
"Just because he took the money doesn't mean he had a choice."
Hollow-voiced.
Sounding older than Danny had ever heard him.
And this time he looked at Danny and Danny finally got it.
This wasn't about Gino at all. This was about Rusty. This was about before, way before Danny. The days that Rusty didn't talk about, the days that Danny could only piece together from rare comments and occasional, uncommon reactions; the days that Danny knew something about but not all, never all. Because Rusty defined his life in very separate parts: and that particular part was locked away, just as his own spell of four years inside was, as dead time. Time when the other wasn't around to help; to be with; to share; to protect.
Looking at Rusty now, at the truth he was unwillingly revealing, Danny could only bear to hold his gaze for a few seconds before dropping his eyes to the floor, trying to work through the pointless feelings of fury; pointless, because it was about the past. Because once upon a time, Rusty hadn't had a choice either and there hadn't been anyone there to save him.
Danny squeezed his eyes shut for a long moment, trying not to think about it: impossible not to think about it. He opened them again to find Rusty watching him and waiting and looking and knowing and he saw the apology and he almost choked on that.
"I was just-"
"Don't say-"
"-a kid."
"Fuck, Rusty!" The words exploded from him. "Do you seriously imagine that helps?"
Rusty was silent.
Danny tried one last time. "He knows your name – your real name – and he knows where to find you."
Even as he said it, he knew Rusty knew he was going to give in.
Rusty shrugged automatically and winced. "I told you I know what I'm doing."
"But…" Danny tailed off as he realised what Rusty meant.
"It's only a hotel," Rusty said lightly. "Besides I hear the East Coast is attractive this time of year."
Danny sighed. Of course, Rusty would have an exit strategy lined up; just in case Terry Benedict came calling. Play the game like there was nothing to lose.
"I have to do this, Danny."
"I know." And he did and he understood. He still didn't have to like it.