Justice by InSilva

Disclaimer: Saul? Turk? Danny? Rusty? Just borrowing.

Chapter Thirteen: Unease

He knew he was dreaming. The door was wrong for a start. Not nearly dirty enough. And walking through it, he found everything pristine and shiny, just like one of his hotel rooms. MacAvoy was standing just inside, familiar, welcoming smile full of putrescence, but he himself seemed to be an observer, there but not there, and that was new.

The bed was familiar. Faded, worn linen…and the pattern of little roses on the counterpane was one he doubted he'd ever forget. How many times had he counted them?

Then he looked up and saw Vincente, smiling with grey eyes that never looked likely to know anything but calm and intent; eyes that knew only logic and eventuality and the best way to hurt someone. He was kneeling on the bed and he was holding a knife in one hand and the other hand, the hand without the tattoo, was wrapped in a familiar head of dark hair, pushing it down into the mattress.

"I can do worse," he heard Vincente say softly. "And I will if you make me."

And he pulled Danny's head up and before Rusty could say anything, before he had time to exchange more than a dozen thoughts with Danny of guilt and forgiveness and goodbye, Vincente slit his throat. Danny fell on to the bed, lifeless, and the blood oozed out over the roses and Rusty thought it likely his heart might stop then and there and then-

"Rusty, Rusty…" Saul was there.

And Rusty was taken back to his early days with Saul. The days of learning to accept trust, of daring to think there was someone to care, of understanding there was someone with only altruism as a motive.

The first night, he'd sat down at a table laden with food and asked, "You want me to go to church or Bible classes or something?"

Saul's laughter had been rich and loud and his wife, Annie, had been equally uninhibited. He'd joined in, not understanding but liking the sound of laughter. And later when he did understand, he'd laughed again.

The second day, Saul had taken him shopping for clothes. He'd stood and run his fingers over some silk shirts with wonderment and then he'd turned and picked out some jeans and Ts and earned a poignant little smile from Saul for his practicality. (The silk shirts had made a later appearance as a Christmas present).

The third day, he'd watched Annie doing a jigsaw and when she'd smiled and invited him to help her, he'd done just that. In fact, he'd finished it. It was peculiarly satisfying for him to see the big picture materialising as all the little pieces fell into place.

The fifth day, he'd watched Saul and a pack of cards, playing twenty-one. He'd sat in for a few hands and Saul had looked at him curiously.

"Are you counting?" he'd asked. "The cards, I mean. Are you working out how many high cards are left?"

He'd frowned. "Is it wrong?"

"It's…unusual."

He'd shrugged. "It's easy."

And Saul had worn the biggest smile.

That night he'd sat in the bath with the bubbles and tried to make sense of it all.

After a week, he'd stripped off and sat on Saul's bed, waiting. Speechless, Saul had stood in the doorway, looking at him

"If you want me, just tell me. If you want me to work for you, just tell me," he'd said in a low voice. Then he'd studied the carpet. "I-I can't bear the not knowing."

Gently, Saul had picked up Rusty's clothes strewn in a tidy mess on the floor and pressed them into his hands, telling him that he would never, ever want him in that way and that he'd never, ever want him ever to work like that ever again.

He'd slowly been convinced by Saul and he'd slowly convinced himself that it was alright to respond. It had taken a while.

The nights, though… The nights were when his fears and his pain and the horror reached out to smother him. He'd wake up and lie sweating, find his mouth bleeding where he'd been biting his lip to stop himself from crying out, and all the time seeing faces and eyes and hands that he wanted to forget.

Saul hadn't asked. He'd guessed, Rusty knew that, but he hadn't asked, not once. On the occasions when the nightmares were all too strong, Rusty would find him at his side, shaking him awake, taking him out of the slough he was mired in.

Yes, Saul knew some. Not as much as Danny; Danny who had been with him, lived with him, been part of him for so long that it would have been impossible for him not to know more. But Saul knew some. Saul knew different parts of the story. And most importantly, he knew the name.

"Rusty, it's OK," Saul said as he perched precariously on the edge of the couch and smiled down at him. "You alright?"

"Yeah. Yeah…" If dreaming of Danny murdered could ever count as alright.

Saul's eyes narrowed. "Tell me you weren't back with MacAvoy."

Rusty swallowed. Even after all this time, he couldn't deal well with the name being said aloud.

"Not exactly." He looked at Saul and felt a new and old fear and a danger rising up within him and said in a cryptic rush. "Saul, Danny thinks I found you."

Saul blinked. It was a good job he spoke Rusty.

"Danny knows…"

"Oh, Danny knows some."

Danny had been there for some of the nightmares. And Danny knew how much he hated artexed ceilings and lampshades with green tassels weren't among his favourite things either. He'd stared at the man with the fish tattoo on his arm for so long that Danny had asked him outright and Rusty had shaken his head; it was similar; not the same. And Danny knew the need to eat stemmed from the times of less than plenty and wanting to take the taste of that away.

"Danny knows some," he repeated, "but he thinks I got out and found you. He doesn't know…"

"You would have got out," Saul assured him, reading some of what was behind Rusty's words. "I could see it in you. I was just a short-cut." He stared at Rusty. "But you know this. You know you had the drive and the instinct and the smarts to move on. You know you would have done it. Why not tell Danny the truth?"

Rusty looked up at him and there were traces of exhaustion and vestiges of pain and a hint of desperation seeded through his words.

"Because if he knew, he'd know you know details. And I can't have that, Saul. Don't give Danny a name." The name.

Saul understood the concern. "I promise."

Danny and Turk had driven for fifteen minutes before Danny realised Turk hadn't mentioned Virgil once. They'd shot the breeze generally and they'd talked about what Danny thought of as a ridiculously noble streak and what Turk thought of as integrity. Virgil hadn't come into the conversation.

He looked at Turk out the corner of his eye and thought how well and how easily he'd avoided the subject. Excellent at distraction. Even now Danny couldn't think what had made him realise. Probably the fact that he'd rarely been in Turk's sole company; he was so used to hearing him arguing with his brother.

"How's Virgil doing?" He came right out and asked.

Turk's face fell. "He's fine."

"What's he up to?"

There was a pause and a silence and a sigh. "He's got a girl."

"He has?"

"Yeah." And there was a wealth of feeling in that word. Turk didn't like being on his own.

"Is it serious?"

"Asked her to marry him," Turk said dolefully.

"It happens," Danny said reasonably. "It could happen to you. And it still means you can go…"

Somewhere he could hear Rusty suggesting Cow-tipping?

"…and do things together. Being married doesn't mean you cut someone close out of your life."

"Bet you said all that to Rusty. Both times."

Ouch. Very ouch.

"Rusty-" Danny began and then stopped.

Rusty understands was what he'd been about to say. But he hadn't at the start, Danny knew that. It had taken…yeah. It had. Danny's mouth tightened. There was no reason why Turk would come round any sooner than Rusty and every reason why it would take longer. Because the connection he had with Rusty worked on some sort of super-speed-of-light-broadband level and Rusty had looked and known that Danny still felt the same way about him. That that would never change. That nothing could ever change it.

Turk and Virgil on the other hand operated through the bickering rather than the banter. They buried their feelings just as effectively but behind a façade of snipes and pettiness instead of quips and playfulness. They needed and cared for each other but they were never going to be that explicit and looking for reassurance in a cheap comeback was different to knowing someone completely and never needing to ask.

And someone coming in between them was certainly going to take a bit of adjustment.

"You'll get there," Danny said eventually. "You'll both get there. You can't wipe out what you have. It just takes-"

"-time. Yeah." And Turk sounded as if he didn't really believe. Oh, Danny was going to have to get Rusty to work on him.

"Here we are," he said, pulling up outside of Shelleys. "You know the story?"

"Sure," Turk waved a dismissive hand and picked up the camera. "Let's go."

In a move that was quite atypical, Vincente punched the floor.

He'd gone straight from the warehouse to a quick round trip to Frisco, helping to convince a wayward gang member of the error of attempting a double-cross. He'd got in at nine o'clock in the morning and he'd hit the shower and the bed and slept like a baby.

Now, it was mid-afternoon. His eyes had opened five seconds before the alarm had sounded on his watch. Despite the fact that it was several hours later than usual, he'd followed his normal routine, pulled on some sweatpants and embarked on a twenty minute session of Tai Chi. Vincente enjoyed the discipline, the combination of rigour and power contained in deliberate movements. He liked the feeling of absolute control, feeling the energy rise from the balls of his feet, travel up through his body, purging tension, leaving him feel revitalised. It helped him maintain an inner peace.

Today, he'd misstepped almost immediately. He'd started again, concentrating, calculating, drawing in on himself, focusing, feeling the oneness building and he started to move. Graceful, composed, elegant moves, balletic and powerful. This time he lasted until he tried to do the second set of "Step Back and Repulse Monkey" four times instead of three and then he'd sat down on the floor, panting and externalised his frustration. All was not well.

He knew the reason, of course. Robert Ryan. He shook his head. Last night, Vincente believed he'd personally been professional and efficient, well up to his usual standards. Just as he had all the way through this particular exercise. According to everything, Ryan should by now be ready to agree to do what he wanted. So why wasn't he?

Vincente thought back to Ryan's arrival the previous night and how he'd stood there blinking, adjusting to the light, acclimatising himself to the environment. How he'd kept up the banter. How well he'd managed the pain. He'd pushed him a little further than he'd planned to which was unusual but necessary because Ryan's response was so damn controlled. Not too far, of course, because he was a man of his word and besides which, it would defeat the object entirely for Ryan to be hospitalised.

The look in the van afterwards as Ryan had come round had been one of pure, raw defiance, even though he'd been suffering mightily and with difficulty, Vincente had buried his anger.

He'd threatened his hotel. He'd threatened him. And Ryan knew they weren't empty threats. Was there something he was missing? What was it Ryan was afraid of? Because…oh…suddenly, a new piece of the puzzle clicked into place. Vincente thought back to last night. When he'd first arrived, there had been a flash of relief in Ryan's face. Just for a moment. Just for a second. Relief…This hadn't been the first time he'd experienced physical punishment. How many times? Vincente wondered. And who got heavy with hotel owners anyway? So…the relief…something was missing. Something…some fear that he hadn't found…

Vincente checked his watch and frowned. He was booked on to a flight to New York to resolve a territorial dispute. He'd agreed, partly because you didn't say no unless you really had to – that's what self-employment meant – and partly because however good you were, you certainly didn't say no to the people who were asking – that's what survival meant – but mostly because when the call had come through, he'd been convinced he'd have this matter tied up.

He sighed. Well, NYC was not something he could get out of. Hopefully, it would be a quick kill and then he could climb back on the plane to Los Angeles and give this case and Robert Ryan his full attention.

Resolved, he rose to his feet and executed the entire step sequence flawlessly.