Stupid chapter was very difficult to write. *sulks*
The first thing they'd done was head to the strip mall opposite the motel, and he'd trailed after the man – Rusty, and really, he had to try and remember that- as he'd raced through the shop, picking up items of clothing with only the barest consideration. All the time he'd been wondering whether he should try and run, whether he should escape. Somehow he didn't think he'd get very far.
Once he was apparently done, Rusty led him back to the motel and pushed the clothes into his arms. "Here. Take a shower and get changed. You'll feel better for it. Oh, and try and keep . . ." he gestured at the head wound, ". . .out of the water. I'll redo the dressing afterwards."
"I can do it myself," he pointed out tight-lipped.
Rusty nodded slowly. "It's easier if someone else does it though," he said.
It was. Would be. He was uncertain.
Rusty's expression softened. "Do you know what you're afraid I'll do?" he asked.
Really, he wasn't afraid of Rusty doing anything, as such. He just didn't want to be dependent. Didn't want to need. "Okay," he said, as if he was doing Rusty an enormous favour.
"Thank you," Rusty said, as if he agreed.
The shower was wonderful and he did feel better for it. He stayed until the hot water started to peter out, and reluctantly, he wrapped a towel around himself and investigated what Rusty had bought them. Huh. Nice suit, subtle, not like the monstrosity Rusty was wearing, dark blue with a crisp white shirt. Socks. Underwear. He stared. Underwear. He'd been bought underwear by another man. Another man apparently felt confident knowing what kind of underwear he wore. That was . . . that was nothing he wanted to think about. Shaking his head, he dressed quickly.
"You got the right size," he said in surprise, examining himself in the mirror, his fingers running round his shirt collar.
"Yeah," Rusty called through the bathroom door, his voice suggesting that was obvious.
He emerged from the bathroom, frowning. "Yes, but you knew," he pointed out.
Rusty shrugged and looked him up and down. "Better?"
"Yes," he agreed.
"Tried to get something you'd like," Rusty explained. "Selection was a bit limited though." He grinned. "Probably one of the cheaper outfits you've ever worn in your life."
He nodded and wondered at the picture of himself he was building up. The man that Rusty knew.
Rusty held up a dressing and some tape. "Sit," he ordered firmly.
He grimaced and complied. Obedient, for the moment. Just for the moment. He didn't have to go along with anything Rusty said, and he had to remember that.
It was strange. Rusty's fingers were gentle and quick and confident, and despite the fact that Rusty was standing so close to him, despite the fact that he was so vulnerable, he felt relaxed. Cared for. And as Rusty's hand lingered, lay on his hair – just because he was holding his head still, obviously, of course – he had to fight the urge to lean in to the touch. Fuck, he needed to control himself better. This wasn't what he wanted. It was just that Rusty was the only person he felt he knew even a little, and he was confused, and he was frightened, and he was forming a stupid attachment, a ridiculous over-dependence and he had to get past that.
"There," Rusty said finally, smiling at him. "That's done for the moment. Stan will be able to do a better job later."
He checked the dressing. Seemed okay. "Thanks," he said sincerely, gratitude in his voice, and he didn't understand the expression of pain that flickered across Rusty's face.
"Don't mention it," Rusty said shortly. "You ready to head out?"
Frowning, he nodded and wondered if, at some point, he'd understand what was going on.
He followed Rusty to an upmarket neighbourhood. Which was surprising; if he'd thought about it, he'd have guessed that they'd have stayed downtown, close to the streets or whatever.
Rusty glanced at him. "Not the kind of place that Dawson and Mackenzie tend to operate in. We can stay for longer without risking them finding us."
He glared and didn't bother pointing out that he hadn't actually voiced the thought.
"Sorry." Rusty looked abashed. He sighed and looked round. "Let's get this thing done."
He found himself being dragged into a variety of businesses, boutiques and bars, and being told to wait, somewhere out of sight where Rusty could still see him at all times. And he watched as Rusty pulled a variety of cons – a Taylor Hammond here, a pigeon drop there, a Silent Pepper, change raising – each time the names, the hows and whats, were in his head, and he didn't know what to make of that, and all the time the money accumulated.
As he watched Rusty he realised two things. First, Rusty was good. Really, really good; all smiling charm and confidence. Marks were falling over themselves to give Rusty money and really, he had to work harder to remind himself that he disapproved, that just because the marks – victims - were greedy and stupid didn't mean that they deserved to lose their hard-earned money. Second, he realised Rusty was rushing, taking thoughtless risks, pushing the marks further and faster than could possibly be wise. And it was working, but it didn't feel right, and if he had to guess he'd say that most of Rusty's attention was on checking on him, on knowing exactly where he was and what he was doing every single moment. And that was really stupid. And it meant he couldn't hope to escape.
Still, he didn't say anything and the day wore on and the exhaustion crept up on him again, and the cons started running together, and his head started pounding. All his concentration went on staying on his feet, on following Rusty and not showing his weakness. So it came as a surprise when he found himself sitting down in the back of a diner, a glass of iced water and the bottle of painkillers being held out in front of him.
"Here," Rusty said gently. "Sorry."
He glanced at the pills suspiciously for a second, then gave in and took them. Honestly, he probably needed to.
"Thanks," he said, then added "Not your fault."
Rusty sighed. "I'm the one dragging you round the city."
He nodded. "Not because you want to though," he pointed out and Rusty smiled at him little then vanished.
He sipped at his water for a while, resolutely not looking towards the counter, not even wanting to know what Rusty was pulling, and gradually the pain in his head eased a little, and by the time Rusty came back with a coffee and a chocolate milkshake, he was feeling more human. Huh. Maybe Rusty hadn't brought them in here for a con at all.
It was difficult to avoid staring as Rusty slurped at the milkshake. "How old are you?" he asked amused.
Pausing, Rusty appeared to take the question seriously. "Twenty-four," he answered.
"Oh." It was strange to suddenly realised that it wasn't only himself that he knew nothing about. He took a drink of coffee and found himself wondering. "How did we meet?"
Rusty smiled slightly. "Nearly eight years ago," he began. "In New York. You were wandering the country, you told me later. Just looking for excitement. And then you wandered into the wrong neighbourhood, pulled a Canadian Parcel on the wrong person and suddenly you found a lot of it."
"Is there always someone trying to kill me?" he asked, half serious.
"Nah," Rusty shook his head quickly. "And Freddy wasn't trying to kill you. Wouldn't have been pleasant, but he wasn't trying to kill you. Anyway, I was working the lines outside the clubs when I first saw you." He hesitated. "I mean - "
" - lifting wallets from drunks," he cut in.
Rusty looked at him sharply and he shook his head, almost apologetically. Not memory. Just knowledge.
"Yeah," Rusty went on after a pause. "Few card tricks as well." He stopped, and it was impossible to imagine what he was thinking of.
"You in the neighbourhood for excitement too?" he asked lightly.
Rusty grinned. "I grew up there. Which is why I knew, when you came running round the corner with Freddy's goon after you that you were in trouble."
"So what happened?" he asked, interested and still hoping desperately that some of this would spark a memory. "Did I ask for help?"
"Never really been your style," Rusty said, with a slightly sad smile. He sighed. "See, this is where it gets difficult. I looked up at the excitement – everyone did – and our eyes happened to meet."
"And what?" he asked, semi-sarcastically. "The bolt from the blue?"
Rusty shrugged uncomfortably. "I tripped the guy. Just because I could, and you looked at me. Surprised, I guess. Then another three of Freddy's people came running round the corner, saw us standing over their friend, and we both had to run for it. Spent the rest of the night running and hiding. And talking. There was a lot of talking. Lot of jokes. Lot of . . . there was a lot of a lot of things. After that we just stayed together. We never discussed it, just seemed inevitable. Working together. Partners. Friends. Everything was suddenly easier. And more fun. Much, much more fun. Like we could do anything. Go anywhere. Be anything. Like we had everything we could ever want. Like we couldn't be stopped. It's like . . . the world's brighter because you see it. Because you see me."
He hadn't wanted to interrupt somehow, as Rusty's voice grew more wistful, more distant, but as Rusty started talking about something that he couldn't believe and couldn't imagine, he cleared his throat abruptly.
Looking at him sharply, Rusty grimaced. "Sorry. That got away from me a little. Didn't mean to sound so Disney."
He shrugged. "Yeah, well."
"We were friends," Rusty said simply. "And we liked each other and we understood each other from the start. That better?"
More believable, certainly.
Rusty sighed. "Still got a little more time before we meet Stan. Still got a little more money to get. You feeling up for it?"
"What would you do if I said no?" he asked wonderingly.
"Give Stan what we got so far. Tell him we'd get him the rest later," Rusty said easily.
"But that's not what you'd prefer," he stated.
"No," Rusty shook his head. "As I said, right now, I'd feel happier paying him up front."
And he didn't like the implications of that, not even a little, but at least Rusty was honest with him, wasn't trying to sugar coat everything. "Yeah, I'm okay." He hesitated, wondering if he should say anything.
"What?" Rusty asked sharply.
"You're rushing, aren't you?" he said eventually. "Taking risks. Because you're watching me."
Rusty looked at him thoughtfully. "You noticed that, huh."
"I noticed that," he agreed.
"It's nothing," Rusty said simply.
"It's stupid." And he was firm and he was definite and it didn't matter that he didn't know everything, he knew enough for that.
And Rusty shrugged, and he knew, knew, that meant that there was nothing Rusty thought he could do about it.
He sighed. "If I promise not to run. If I say I'll stay with you, do what you say until after we've seen this Stan guy, will you be more careful?"
Rusty looked at him.
He felt compelled to explain further. "Just because I don't trust you doesn't mean I want to see you arrested." And besides, it was in his best interests to stick around in order to see the doctor. After that, he could see what he thought was best.
"You promise?" Rusty asked intently.
"I promise," he agreed seriously.
Rusty smiled at him, sudden and brilliant and the world was somehow brighter and he didn't understand why.
Two hours later and they were standing outside the hospital – a different one from the one he'd woken up in, and he wasn't sure exactly why that surprised him – and he watched as Rusty smiled at the man who approached them, and he was more than capable of understanding the relief.
"Good to see you," Rusty said warmly and turned back to him. "This is Stan."
He held his hand out. "Nice to meet you," he said ironically.
Stan smiled at him. "Good to see you again. Rusty said you weren't using your name. Got anything you'd like me to call you?"
Not something he'd actually thought of. He just knew he didn't want to go by any name he didn't recognise. "Nah," he shook his head. "You can call me Danny if you like."
"Okay then," Stan said cheerfully, in a voice that exuded confidence and reassurance, and he knew he was being studied, considered, and somehow he couldn't find it in himself to object. "Rusty, can you get us the room?"
"Got paperwork? A lab coat?" Rusty asked.
"In the bag," Stan nodded, and he watched as Rusty pulled on the white coat, scribbled something over a stack of forms and headed for the entrance.
"Give me five minutes," he called over his shoulder.
He stood around awkwardly with Stan as they let the time pass.
"Don't worry." Stan sounded reassuring, and he had no idea whether he'd looked as if he was worrying. "He's good. He'll be fine."
He looked away. "He's a criminal," he pointed out.
Stan frowned at him. "You don't remember," he said slowly.
"Isn't that the point?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
"But you don't remember him . . . sorry," Stan smiled and shook his head and looked worried. "It's just strange."
He nodded and tried not to wonder why it was stranger for him to forget Rusty than for him to forget himself.
Five minutes and they strolled into the hospital and Stan, frowning and abrupt made enquiries at reception and they were hastily escorted through twisting corridors by a nurse who was wide-eyed and deferential and they found themselves in a little consulting room where Rusty was waiting.
"Figure we got a couple of hours before anyone catches on," he told Stan as soon as they walked in. "Think that'll be long enough?"
"Should be," Stan nodded. "You can always get us a little longer if need be, right?" He smiled widely as if his confidence in Rusty could never be misplaced.
Rusty grinned. "Probably," he agreed.
"You want me to look you over afterwards?" Stan asked casually. "You hurt anyplace else?"
"I'm not . . . " Rusty began, frowning, and then his hand drifted to the bruise at his lip. "Oh. That. It's nothing." He smiled. "Walked into a door. Well. Ran into a door, actually. There were some guys chasing me. They didn't exactly seem - "
" - I hit him," he interrupted quietly, not able, for some reason, to hear the lies and excuses.
Stan was staring.
"Before he knew who I was," Rusty said, tight-lipped and insistent. "He thought I was there to kill him."
"Right." Stan nodded slowly and turned to him. "Okay, you want to sit on the couch there?"
He hesitated and glanced at Rusty. "You're staying?" he asked slowly, thoughts of privacy and confidentiality echoing through his head.
There was a long pause and Rusty's expression was neutral. "You'd be more comfortable if I didn't?"
"Yes," he said, and he was almost sure it was the right answer.
Rusty nodded and he told himself that he was imagining the pain behind the blankness. Maybe they were friends. Partners, whatever that meant. That didn't mean Rusty had any right . . . didn't mean that he should just assume . . . It was the right decision. "Okay," Rusty said brightly. "Stan, you need anything?"
"Time for a CT scan?" Stan suggested, his eyes on a bundle of notes he'd pulled from somewhere, and somehow, for some reason, he seemed uncomfortable.
"You got it," Rusty said cheerfully, confidently, and he left. Which was good. Wasn't like he missed him. And even if that wasn't exactly true, he had to wean himself off this desperation, this dependency. Wasn't fair to either of them.
Stan looked up and smiled at him reassuringly. "Well, let's take a look at you then," he said, and he submitted willingly to the examination.
Stan talked as he worked. "Retrograde amnesia. Means that you're missing parts of your long term memory. Normally specific classifications of memory. In your case your identity."
"I still remember how to do things," he put in. "You know, what doorknobs are for. How to use a phone. Names of cons. How to pick locks."
"That's good," Stan nodded. "That's a good sign." Didn't really feel like a good sign. Still felt like he was a person he maybe didn't want to be. "You been having any trouble remembering things after you got hurt?"
He shrugged. "Don't remember what happened immediately after," he offered. "The doctor at the hospital said I'd been conscious, but I don't remember it."
"Hmm," Stan murmured, shining a flashlight in his eyes. "Not that surprising . . . your pupils are responsive . . . you really don't remember Rusty though?"
"That medically significant?" he asked after a pause.
"Personally significant," Stan told him. "Legally, he's your next of kin. You want me to keep him in the dark, that's your right. But technically it's his right to challenge that, if he thinks your incapable of making that decision."
And he could see where that could be valid. Still. "Challenge? Like in a court?"
"Yeah," Stan agreed with a grimace, and it was pretty obvious that would never happen.
"He's my next of kin?" he asked with a frown.
"He is," Stan confirmed. "Your best friend and no one knows you better. You want to remember, he's the one who's most likely to help you."
(Did he want to remember?)
After the exam, after the thousand and one tests that Stan had run and Rusty had found ways of expediting, after Stan had attended to, tutted over, the burns on his chest, after his head had been dressed and rebandaged, after all that they were sitting in the consulting room, and he'd agreed to let Rusty in, agreed to let Rusty know what was going on.
"You want this in layman's terms?" Stan asked, looking from one to the other.
"Yes," he nodded.
"Please," Rusty added. It was difficult to say which of them sounded more nervous.
Stan smiled, and that seemed to suggest that it couldn't possibly be that bad. "First of all, there's no permanent damage. Nothing seriously wrong."
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Rusty sag with relief, and he wondered just what worries he'd been carrying around. "But I still can't remember," he pointed out.
"That's almost certainly temporary," Stan said reassuringly. "Unfortunately there's no actual cure. What you need is to be exposed to familiar places and people, and your memories should start to return on their own."
Right. That was good. Meant he'd go back to being the person he was before. Which was good.
"Thanks, Stan," Rusty said gratefully, and he pulled the envelope with the cash out of his jacket pocket. "Here."
Stan blinked and took it. "Wasn't expecting . . . I thought I'd stick around for a few days. Make sure you're all right."
Rusty smiled tightly. "Not a good idea. You should get out of town as quickly as possible."
"Right." Stan looked uneasy. "Right. Rusty, maybe you should call - "
" - not going to happen," Rusty interrupted firmly.
He sat still, listened to the argument and kept quiet. He was the cause. He was the one the bad guys were looking for. He was the one who was bringing danger to the people who apparently cared for him. (Rusty)
They watched Stan's taxi drive away and Rusty sighed and turned away to walk back along the street. "Come on."
"Where are we going?" he asked. Seemed a valid question, and he looked ahead, watched the street, the crowds of people, the bus idling at the bus stop. Looked anywhere but at Rusty.
"We need to figure out what we're doing next," Rusty told him. "Dawson and Mackenzie are still looking for you, and they're not going to stop and they're not going to give up. We need to figure out what they want and how we're going to deal with them."
Probably that meant that Rusty thought he had to remember where the list was and give it to one or other of them. He wondered which. "Sounds tricky," he said, and they drew level with the bus and he wasn't looking, wasn't looking at all.
"Yeah," Rusty agreed. "I think what we need to do is - "
He wasn't listening. At the last possible moment, just before the doors closed, he stepped sideways, stepped onto the bus and let the crush of people separate them.
"Danny!" He heard Rusty screaming his name as the bus drove off and he cringed and told himself again that he was doing the right thing. For both of them.
Thanks for reading, please let me know what you think. ;)
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