The door handle was almost in his grasp when a hand closed tightly around his ankle and in an instant he found himself falling forwards, helpless to save himself, and the impact with the floor sent fresh waves of agony reverberating through his skull.
He lay still. He had to get up, had to escape, but he just couldn't move and the world swam sickeningly in front of his eyes.
"Fuck," a voice said, and he was surprised to realise it wasn't him. Well, the guy was probably worrying that he'd killed him. Odds on that'd be a bit tricky to explain to his boss. The thought was almost amusing, and then there were hands around his shoulders, his chest and he was being picked up and that wasn't in the slightest bit amusing, and visions swam in front of his eyes, being thrown into the back of a van and driven back to Willy and the soldering iron and pain. "I've got you," the man told him, and really the guy needed to work on sounding sinister. If he didn't know better he'd be feeling comforted, not intimidated.
To his surprise the man took him over to the bed and got him sitting on the edge. His hands gripped the covers tightly and he tried to force himself to get up and start running, and there were careful hands checking the bruises on his face and then the bandage on his head was pulled aside gently and he heard the sharp intake of breath above him, and for some strange reason he thought of Cary Elwes being tended to before they put him in The Machine, and for some even stranger reason he had to fight the urge to share the thought out loud. Then the man was kneeling on the floor in front of him and a glass of water was pressed into his hands.
He drank, quickly and greedily, and only considered afterwards that there might have been something in it. He glanced up anxiously but the man was concentrating on shaking out a couple of pills from the bottle the doctor had given him.
"Fell out your pocket when you fell," the man explained shortly, without even looking at him. His lip was split and bleeding. That was something at least. "Here. Take them."
Not a chance. He pressed his mouth shut and shook his head from side to side quickly and the sudden pain of it made him gasp and he was stupid; shouldn't be showing that kind of weakness.
The man glared at him. "Says here 'Take two as required for pain.' I think that what you're experiencing qualifies, don't you?"
"It's your fault. You do remember that, right?" he snapped back and that was stupid too. Shouldn't be trying to anger.
For a moment the man's expression didn't change. Not in the slightest. But it seemed to tighten somehow. Then he sighed. "Yeah. Yeah, I know. You're right. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. But I was scared I was going to lose you again. Fuck, it's been almost a day. You got any idea how worried I've been? And when I got to the hospital and saw Dawson's thugs . . . "
Oh, this guy was good at this. Better than Steven. Fucking with his head. He'd almost believe the bastard was sincere. Would almost believe he was worried about him. Fuck, he hated him.
The man was staring at him. "Danny . . . ?" he said uncertainly.
Oh, very good. A name dropped in like it was nothing, like it was obvious.
"It's not going to work," he hissed furiously.
"Danny, it's me," the man said, sounding soft and pleading and confused. Bastard. "It's Rusty."
He felt like applauding. "Like that's supposed to mean something to me?"
A flicker of something flew over the man's face and he took satisfaction in the sight, in the thought of plans crumbling, in the hurt. "You don't remember me?"
"Oh, let me guess," he snarled. "We've known each other a long time, we work together, we're best friends. I can trust you. That about the size of it?"
The man's mouth shut with an audible snap. "Danny . . . " he began again, after a moment.
" - Don't call me that," he ordered. Last thing he wanted was another fake name thrust on him.
"What's the first thing you remember?" the man asked intently.
He almost laughed at the idea that they were trying to catch him out in a lie he wasn't telling. "Waking up in hospital this afternoon," he said triumphantly. "So you can just run along and tell your boss that."
"You don't remember . . . " The man shook his head slowly, helplessly. "You think I'm lying to you? You think we don't know each other?"
"Just because I don't remember doesn't mean I can't guess that I don't count any badly dressed, blond pretty-boys among my friends." He shot to wound, to insult.
Didn't seem to affect the man in the slightest. "We know each other. You trust me. You've always trusted me. Danny - "
" I said don't call me that," he repeated angrily.
There was a pause. The man sighed. "It's your name. Daniel Ocean."
"That the best you can come up with?" he scoffed.
"Don't blame me, blame your parents," the man told him with a very slight smile.
For a second, before he reminded himself that none of this was real, he desperately wanted to ask. Didn't let it show on his face though.
The man looked at him sadly. "No. I'm sorry. They died a long time ago. Back when you were a kid. I never met them, but they were good people. You loved them."
He stared at the dirty carpet. None of this was real. The man was just making up a life to torment him with. None of it was real.
"You don't have any other relatives, really. Couple of aunts somewhere. No one you've spoken to in the last ten years."
Not real. Not real. Not . . . he had no one?
"No!" the man said emphatically and that was wrong and he should think about that, but the man kept talking and he found himself listening instead. "You've got lots of friends. Lots of people who care about you. Who love you."
"Other criminals," he asked savagely, looking up in time to see the flicker of confusion in the man's eyes. "That's what I was doing when this all happened, wasn't it? Stealing?"
"Yeah," the man said with the slightest of pauses. "Mackenzie was the target. You were in the office, I was downstairs, running distraction, keeping the staff away. Nothing we haven't done before. The floor above the office, we . . . I was sure it was empty. We'd checked. There wasn't supposed to be anyone there."
The guilt in the man's voice was obvious. "And there was," he stated.
The man nodded. "And while I was downstairs keeping a bunch of office workers away from you, those three thugs came downstairs and caught you. And you ran, trying to get them away from . . . trying to get them away."
"From you," he finished the thought. And he could see how he was supposed to be thinking, could see the line the man was luring him down. Apparently, in the past, he'd cared so much for this guy that he'd been willing to get caught and suffer himself in order to spare him, even though it was the bastard's fault that he'd been in danger in the first place. "And now Dawson's sent you - "
"I do not work for Dawson," the man interrupted and there was a note of anger and indignation in his voice, and somehow he thought that maybe the man was sincere.
"You said we worked together," he pointed out.
"You don't work for Dawson!" And the anger and indignation were even more pronounced, somehow.
He paused and tried to think. It was difficult. His head still hurt. He was still so tired.
The man looked at him for a long moment, shook his head and crossed to the phone on the nightstand. "I'm going to call - "
Okay. It was simple. If the man didn't work for Dawson, then that meant he must work for Mackenzie. And that meant . . . He leapt to his feet. " - No!" He knocked the phone out of the man's hands and it hit the wall with a clatter. "I'm not going back!"
"I was going to call a doctor," the man said quietly.
He scoffed openly. "Right. Of course you were. You were going to call a doctor and then your friends turn up and I'm back tied to a chair again - "
" - what? - "
" - and then they're standing over me and they say they'll stop if I just tell them - "
" - What did they do? - "
" - and, what, you're still pretending to be my friend, right? Saying that it'd be better if I told them so that there won't be any more pain, and - "
" - What did they do?" And for the first time the voice – filled with pain, filled with anger, filled with emotion beyond reason, beyond comprehension, beyond imagination – for the first time he truly heard it and it stopped him dead. He looked up and found himself held in the gaze of the most vivid blue eyes he'd ever seen. He shook his head. Couldn't say anything. "What did they do?" the man said again and the words were wild and desperate. Before he had time to think about it he found himself pulling his shirt down. Found himself showing this man, this stranger, exactly what they'd done.
The man stared, unmoving, unblinking, not even breathing and he couldn't even begin to understand the sensation of rage that hung in the air. Then in an instant the man's fists were clenched and he was pacing up and down. "I'll kill them. I'll . . . I'll kill them."
He laughed openly. "That supposed to make me trust you?" he demanded.
The man stopped and stood still and, with a deep, shuddering breath, seemed to get himself under control again. "No. No, I guess not. But I'm on your side. I'm always on your side. Forever. I promise."
Didn't mean anything. Words were easy. And he didn't find himself wondering. Well. Not for more than a minute, anyway.
"Let me see," the man said quietly, and he pulled the shirt aside again, and the man was looking with a frown. "Not much we can do. Been too long. Can clean and cover it though. Better than nothing." He clenched his teeth. "Bastards," he whispered. "I'm sorry."
Now there was an apology he didn't even understand and while he was puzzling it out he found himself following the man through to the bathroom and it took a moment before he figured out what was going on. Yeah. Like he was going to let this guy take care of him. "I can do it myself," he said firmly, and luckily the man didn't force the issue, luckily the man let him push him out the bathroom.
Just as well. The cold water hurt like a bitch, and tears sprang to his eyes. Not something he wanted anyone else to see if he could help it. The pain, staying on his feet, staying awake – it was beginning to take a toll on him.
He stumbled out of the bathroom and the man gave him a slight smile, concern in his eyes. "All right?"
"It's not going to work," he said wearily. "You can drop the act." He didn't look at the door. But he had to think about running, even if this guy wasn't threatening.
"How far do you think you could get?" the man asked quietly.
He froze. He hadn't voiced the thought. Hadn't looked at the door. Hadn't given any clue whatsoever. "How did you do that?" he demanded in a whisper.
The man blinked. "Do what?" he asked.
"You just . . . you knew what I was thinking." It was wrong. Felt wrong.
"Oh. Right." The man stared at him and he could almost see the thoughts passing over his head. "Its difficult to explain."
"Like a bad movie," he muttered.
The man grinned. "It's not the Force. Nothing clever, really. We just know each other really well."
And he still didn't believe that. Just that it was getting more difficult to know what he did believe. Fuck, he was tired. He'd sit down for a moment, then he'd get up and run before the man knew what was going on. That was the best plan.
He staggered over to the bed and sat down heavily on the end.
"Why don't you lie down?" the man suggested lightly. "That would be even better."
He considered it for a moment and really, he couldn't see a downside. Odds on the man would be even more surprised when he ran after having been so obviously resting.
"Right," the man agreed and somehow his shoes were being pulled off and then he was lying down and the blanket was being pulled round him gently. "There you go."
"Gonna read me a bedtime story?" he mumbled.
The man laughed softly. "Nah. You're not up for any of the good ones right now."
He half woke up to find the man's fingers on his wrist and automatically he punched out, and this time the man dodged his fist effortlessly and kept talking into the phone, his eyes on his watch. "A hundred and twenty . . . yeah. Well, he's a little agitated, but . . . exactly."
"Don' touch me," he slurred. "Don' trust you, you bastard."
The man covered the mouthpiece. "It's okay," he promised. "Go back to sleep."
"Need to escape," he explained.
"You can escape in the morning, when you're feeling better," the man said firmly, and really, that made sense.
"You're a nicer fake friend than Steven," he said thoughtfully.
The man blinked. "Go back to sleep," he advised.
Surprisingly, he did.
