Quick update. Mostly in order to annoy InSilva. What?


He was woken several times during the night. The man shook him awake – gently, admittedly – and waited until he swore or punched at him or offered some sort of semi-coherent reaction. Head injury, of course. Not supposed to let the person sleep too long. And every time he saw the concern in the man's eyes and every time he doubted what he knew a little more.

When he finally woke up on his own, daylight was streaming in the window. Late morning, he'd guess. He'd slept a long time and he was feeling better for it. The pain was a dull ache and the terrible feelings of lethargy and dizziness had all but gone.

Of course, he still couldn't remember a thing. Not time to start celebrating just yet.

He sat up and glanced round the room quickly. The man was curled up on an uncomfortable-looking chair, asleep. His head was hanging down at the sort of angle that would make anyone wince to see. Oh, that was going to hurt when he woke up. He found himself studying the man carefully. His face was drawn and exhausted and his lip looked swollen and sore. To his surprise, he felt guilty about that and he found himself considering; the man had taken care of him, had stayed with him and no one else had showed up to hurt him or kill him. Maybe . . .

No. No. He couldn't assume that the man was for real. Had to believe that it was a trick. A long game to win his trust and be in the perfect position if he suddenly remembered where the list was. As long as he was with this man, he had to assume that he could be betrayed at a moment's notice. He had to leave. The only person he could, should, count on was himself.

Silently he put his shoes on and headed towards the door.

"I'll just find you again," the man said quietly.

He turned slowly. The man hadn't opened his eyes. Oh, that wasn't fair. "Why?"

"Your company is irresistible," came the deadpan answer. The man sat up and stretched and yawned. He winced to hear bones crack. The man smiled slightly. "Guess that still bothers you. Sorry."

"So I'm stuck with you?" he demanded.

"Yeah," the man agreed and sighed. "Do you even know where you were going to go? In case you've forgotten, Dawson and Mackenzie still both have people out looking for you."

He ignored the first question. He really didn't have any idea where he was going. Just away. To would probably take care of itself eventually. "Guess they really want that list," he mused idly, turning away and sitting back down on the bed. Since he wasn't going anywhere quite yet.

There was a pause and he turned to find the man staring at him blankly. "What list?"

Wait, what? "The list," he explained slowly. "The one I stole from Mackenzie. You said yesterday we were stealing - "

" - a pot," the man interrupted, shaking his head. "We were stealing a little Ancient Greek pot from Mackenzie's office. It's worth twenty thousand at least and he doesn't even know it. Uses it to keep paperclips in."

"You're kidding," he said. That didn't make sense. None of that made sense.

"I'm not," the man said simply, and looking at him, he could almost believe that.

He bit his lip. "That's not - "

" - oh, not in the slightest," the man agreed.

He glared at him. "Don't do that," he ordered.

"Sorry," the man said with seemingly genuine contrition. "But I know what we were stealing. We were even going to replace it."

His mind was racing. It was getting really difficult to figure out exactly where the man was going with these lies. Though that must be the point. Confuse him into trusting. Make everything seem so unlikely that it must be true. He'd done it himself . . . hadn't he? "With a counterfeit?"

"No, with a mug with a smiley face on it," the man answered absently.

He grinned. Couldn't help it. "Really?"

"A victory for taste," the man said solemnly.

"Good taste?" he found himself asking, looking at the man's shirt. It looked like a roll of popped bubble wrap..

The man grinned at him like he was sharing in the best joke ever and somehow he was smiling back.

"So," he began presently. "Why do they think I have the list?" He wanted to know what the man was going to say.

He didn't answer right away. Just sat and his fingers rubbed round the outside of his mouth. "I have no idea," he said at last. "Don't even know what it is. Don't know why it's important."

"Steven said whoever had it would win the turf war," he remembered out loud.

The man looked at him keenly. "Well that's - " he left the thought trailing in the air and blinked and shook his head after a second. "Not good," he finished finally. Then his expression shifted. "Who's Steven? You mentioned him before."

He paused. "One of Mackenzie's people," he said finally. "He was . . . he . . . "

"The one who burned you?" the man asked with a razor-sharp edge to his voice.

"No." He shook his head. "That was Willy. Steven came after. He . . . he pretended to know me. Pretended we were friends. Told me my name was Harry Smith, that I worked for Dawson. Then once he was sure that I was telling the truth he told the others that I didn't know anything." He remembered the feelings of betrayal, of desperation, of hurt.

For a long moment the man's face was blank. Somehow though, somehow he thought that there was a lot going on somewhere he couldn't see. Somehow, he thought he should be worried. He just didn't know why. Or for who. "And that's what you think I'm doing?"

"Yes," he said immediately, and felt ashamed.

"Right." The man nodded slowly. "Right." He suddenly flashed a dazzling smile. "You hungry?"

He hadn't eaten since the diner yesterday. "Yeah," he said in surprise.

"Okay then. Pizza." Clearly a decision had been made and clearly he wasn't getting a say in it. The man must have spotted and correctly interpreted his look."You can choose the toppings," he offered generously.

Oh, really. "Just one small problem with that," he said through gritted teeth.

The man blinked. "You don't know what you like?"

He shook his head. He could imagine tastes, could say what they were, and he couldn't say for certain which of them he'd like. "We're supposed to know each other, shouldn't you be able to tell me what I want?"

To his surprise, the man smiled. "Nice tactic," he approved. "Though I got to say, I'm really tempted to say you like anchovy, olives and banana."

"You don't know . . . " he trailed off. If the man didn't know something so simple he'd know where they stood.

Huh. Probably that was the most serious look anyone had ever worn when discussing pizza toppings. "Chicken, bacon and mushroom, normally. Sometimes red onion. Mostly only when you've been drinking."

"I haven't been," he said, thinking of the bottle of Scotch that was still in the coat pocket.

"You're not going to be," the man said firmly. "Not with a head injury."

He felt himself pout slightly. "Spoilsport."

The man stared at him disbelievingly. "Terrific," he muttered. "You get hit on the head and wake up as me."


Once the pizza was ordered they'd sat in silence. Well, actually that wasn't true. He'd turned the ancient TV on and quickly found himself lying on the bed watching Top Cat in fuzzy black and white. For a brief moment he'd thought the man was planning on lying down next to him, but fortunately he'd misunderstood and the man settled back down on the chair. Just as well. Some things would just be creepy.

The pizza, when it arrived, was hot and delicious and huge and he tore into it like he hadn't eaten for a month. Surprisingly, so did the man, and he found himself with the irrational idea that the guy probably hadn't stopped since he turned up missing, not even for a moment, not even to eat or rest.

"I called a doctor," the man said casually once half the pizza was gone.

He paused with the slice halfway to his mouth. "Really." Thinking about it he vaguely remembered the phone call.

"Yeah," the man nodded. "Guy we know. Stan. He's good. Discreet. He's arriving in town in a few hours. Says we'll probably need to con our way into the hospital to get the tests we need, but apparently we don't need to be worrying any more than we are."

"I don't need to be worrying." Too many plurals and he wanted to be clear on that point. "It's my head."

The man nodded. "Yeah. You don't need to be worrying." He gave the man a suspicious look, somehow feeling as though there'd been something else behind those words but the man looked entirely innocent. Like that could be trusted. "Anyway, I want to go pick up some money before we meet him."

His lip curled. "You mean steal some."

To his credit the man met his gaze. "Yes."

"What, this guy won't help unless he gets paid immediately?" he asked.

The man looked vaguely irritated for a second. "No. No, Stan would help us anyway. He'd know we'd pay him back as soon as we could. Hell, he'd probably help us for free if he thought we'd ever let him. Way things are going, I want to make sure he's paid in advance."

"Honour among thieves?" He made his voice as light as he could.

"Stan isn't a thief," the man said immediately. "He's a doctor. The sort of doctor you call when people are looking for you and its too dangerous to just go to the hospital. Sort of doctor you call when you need to stay out of sight."

He nodded and felt the urge to change the subject. "But you need to get money? You don't have any?" Or did he just not want to spend his own money on his medical treatment?

"Yeah. Yeah, I got money. In the bank, well mostly. Thing is, Mackenzie's people had you for a while. Twice. And you were in hospital . . . now, these guys are stupid but it's not entirely implausible that they thought to get your fingerprints. And if they've got your fingerprints, they can get your name. And if they've got your name they've got my name. And probably I'm overestimating them. But until I know for certain, I want us completely off the radar."

He nodded slowly. "I have a record." Somehow, that was what he was focusing on.

"You've never been charged with anything," the man said neutrally. "But you've been implicated a few times in a few different things. Nothing that stuck."

"Oh," he said quietly, and he wasn't sure that he wanted to think about that too hard. It was one thing to think that he was probably a bad guy. It was another to hear someone agree he was a criminal. A criminal the police knew. He sighed and changed the subject again. "So, tell me about myself." He held up a hand as the man leaned forwards eagerly. "Nothing fanciful. No stories. Just the basics." He didn't want to get sucked in to reminisces of a life he wasn't sure he believed in. Too easy to adopt a well-told lie as a personal truth. And he was certain this man could tell a very good lie.

"Right," the man nodded. "Well, as I said, your name is Daniel Ocean. Danny to everyone except Saul when he's annoyed with you."

"Saul?" he asked as he was clearly meant to.

"Saul's a friend of ours. A mentor, you might say. We met him when we were kids, just starting out. We were working on the same mark. Our play would never have worked if he hadn't intervened. Think we amused him. Think we still amuse him. But we'd do anything for him. He'd do anything for us."

He nodded. "And he's a crook."

The man looked thoughtfully at him. "Con artist, almost exclusively. We're a bit more varied. Honestly, we'll turn our hands to most things. We've been con men, card sharps, art thieves, bank robbers - "

" - cattle rustlers," he suggested sarcastically.

The man grinned. "Closest we ever got was in Memphis last year. Getting ten thousand dollars worth of jewels out of the city inside an eight foot tall pink plastic cow, both of us garlanded in flowers."

He wasn't smiling. Didn't find the mental image amusing in the slightest. Wasn't in any danger of relaxing into the man's presence.

"Right," the man continued. "So, your name is Danny Ocean. You're twenty seven years old. Your birthday was last month. July 3rd." He smiled. "We crashed a movie premiere to celebrate."

"Any good?" he asked.

"Canapés were wonderful," the man reminisced with what was possibly a disturbing light in his eyes. "Plenty of champagne. Movie was Die Hard 2 though."

He frowned. "Oh, that's - "

" - airports don't even work that way," the man nodded.

There was a pause and he could see the man wince even before he scowled and gritted his teeth. "I said don't do that."

"Sorry," the man apologised, sounding sincere. "Sorry. I'll try. It's . . . a little difficult."

"How hard can it be to not read someone's mind?" he demanded.

The man shrugged awkwardly. "We got to meet Bruce Willis," he offered suddenly.

Okay. He was slightly intrigued. "What was he like?"

"He was nice," the man said, after a moment's consideration. "Mostly we talked about 'Moonlighting'"

He smiled. "Oh, I love that show!"

"I know," the man nodded. "Except for the one where - "

" - he's his own unborn baby - " he agreed, with a grimace.

" - wearing a diaper for the whole episode - " the man interrupted.

" - the Clarence wannabe with the staircase," he remembered. "Still. The way they always - "

" - talk over each other - " the man grinned.

" - and still know exactly what the other one's saying." He laughed and shook his head. "Good show. Completely unrealistic.

"Yeah," the man agreed, smiling.

"So that's my life?" he puzzled, looking round the dingy motel room. "Hollywood premiere on month, robbing low-lifes in St Louis the next?"

The man just looked at him and he was left with the distinct impression that the man didn't see anything wrong with this picture at all.

"Right," he nodded after a moment. He looked at the man and sighed. "It's not just that I don't know you."

"I'm getting that," the man agreed dryly.

"I'm not sure that I want to." He managed to ignore the spasm of pain that crossed the man's face. "I woke up and there are people trying to kill me, and I tell lies as easily as I breath, and I can pick locks, I steal, and you tell me I'm a career criminal . . . I'm not sure that I want to be one of the bad guys anymore."

"You're not the bad guy," the man said softly, an edge of horror and anger in his voice.

He smiled sadly. "But you would say that, wouldn't you?"

"Because you think I'm one of the bad guys?" the man asked slowly.

"Even if you're exactly who and what you say you are, you're still one of the bad guys," he pointed out.

The man stared up at the ceiling. "Think we have a comparative morality problem here." He looked back down and faced him with a steady gaze. "We're not the bad guys. We don't steal from anyone who can't afford it. Not just because people who can't afford it don't have anything worth stealing. We try and target people who deserve it. Like Mackenzie. We don't hurt anyone - "

" - really?" he interrupted. "You can look me in the eyes right now and tell me I've never hurt anyone?"

The man looked at him. "Sometimes there's been fights," he said eventually. "And sometimes things have been necessary. Things we would never want to do."

"The ends justify the means?" he asked mockingly. "Or was it all okay because I was really sorry afterwards."

"You thought so at the time," the man said evenly. "And yes. You were devastated."

"Oh, that makes everything all right, doesn't it?" He sighed. "Tell me . . . tell me I've never killed anyone."

"No!" the man exclaimed and his eyes were wide, but there was something else . . .

"But you think I would?" he persisted. "Under the right circumstances?"

"Anyone could. Under the right circumstances," the man said, reluctantly and uncomfortably. "You'd kill for . . . you'd kill for your family."

He froze. "You said . . .last night you said I don't have any family," he whispered. Fuck. Fuck, he'd caught the man out in a direct lie. And he'd really been starting to believe.

"There are all kinds of family. You have a lot of people who'd probably count you as family. Who love you like family."

He narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out if this was more than a clever save. "You?" he guessed.

"Yes," the man replied instantly. "Oh, yes. I'd do anything for you."

"Anything?" he asked softly.

"Yes," the man said, without the smallest trace of hesitation.

"So if I see this doctor, and he says my memory's never coming back, and I decide I want to start a new life . . . you'll leave, will you? You'll leave, and never come near me again?"

There was a pause. "Let's cross that bridge if we come to it, okay?" the man suggested eventually.

He shook his head. "You said you'd do anything," he reminded the man.

The man closed his eyes. "If . . . " He swallowed hard. "If I was sure you were safe, from Mackenzie and Dawson. If it was what you really wanted. Yes. Yes, I'd leave and never see you again."

There was silence. For a very long time there was silence. "Okay then," he said at last. "What did you say your name was again?"

The man smiled at him. It didn't reach his eyes. It really, really didn't reach his eyes, and he could understand the hurt. "Rusty," he said. "Rusty Ryan."


Hope you're still enjoying; thanks for reading.