Sorry this chapter took longer than has been. Keep getting distracted. In magpie kind of ways.


The blade was sharp and in front of his face and keeping the fear from his eyes proved impossible.

He swallowed hard and looked up at Rusty. "You sure you know what you're doing?"

Rusty smiled reassuringly. "It's a haircut, Danny. Not a national disaster."

He was pretty sure it could be both at once. "And you've done this before, right?"

"Few times, yeah," Rusty nodded. His voice was gentle. Mocking but gentle.

Sighing he turned back to look at himself in the mirror. Hair wet. Towel round his shoulders. Rusty hovering behind him with a pair of scissors. He looked away hastily; his own face was still frighteningly unfamiliar. He sat tight and said nothing and Rusty snipped at his hair, an expression of deep concentration on his face.

Eventually Rusty stood back. "There."

He looked back up quickly. The haircut was not inspiring. He had a middle parting and a straggly fringe and generally looked even less familiar than usual. He nodded and said nothing for a few moments. Rusty was looking at him thoughtfully and he forced a tight smile in the mirror. "Thanks," he said, as lightly as he could.

Rusty nodded and turned to the sink, busying himself with the inordinate number of bottles he apparently required.

"What colour are you going for?" he asked absently.

"Brown and greying," Rusty told him without looking round.

"Greying?" he repeated involuntarily.

Rusty grinned at him fondly. "We want you to look different. Older is different."

He sighed. "Fine. But I want to at least look distinguished," he requested plaintively.

"Distinguished isn't the object here," Rusty said. "We're aiming for nondescript." Then Rusty took a step back, looked him up and down and sighed. "We may need to settle for debonair."

He tried not to smile. "Is all this really necessary?"

Rusty leaned back against the sink, his hand rubbing against his side. "I don't want to take any chances. Anything that we can do - "

" - I know that," he interrupted. "It's just . . . can't I just wear a false moustache or something?"

To his surprise and annoyance, Rusty actually laughed. "Fake facial hair is not the solution to all of life's problems, Danny."

He blinked slowly. "You've said that before . . .?" he asked uncertainly. Not that he remembered. Just that it had been in the tone.

"You've wanted a false moustache before," Rusty told him. "You don't wear them especially well."

He felt a moment of stupid annoyance. The things he didn't know. "Well, why don't I dye my hair blond or something?" he asked frustratedly.

"The grin was wide and disbelieving and helpless. "Blond?" You?"

"Suppose I've tried that before too?" he snapped peevishly.

"No, but I can picture it," Rusty said dreamily, laughing and clutching his side tightly.

"Glad that one of us can," he spat, and in an instant of restless anger, he was on his feet, his fists clenched, leaning against, the door, turning away from Rusty.

There was a few seconds of silence and then Rusty's hand was on his shoulder. "Tell me," he said softly.

For a moment the hand on his shoulder was warm and comforting and everything he wanted, and it was with a strange heaviness that he shrugged it off. "I look in the mirror and . . . and I don't recognise myself," he explained wildly. "Can you even imagine . . . I hate it. I hate it and I'm scared." He hadn't meant to say that. Hadn't meant to admit that out loud.

"Oh, Danny," Rusty murmured. He didn't say anything more. Didn't make another move to touch him. But he could feel, somehow, feel how close Rusty was, feel the reassurance, the sympathy, the helplessness, and eyes firmly shut, he let himself feel let himself surrender, melt into warmth and comfort and understanding. Just for a moment. Only for a moment. And just for that moment he thought that everything was going to be all right.

With a deep breath he stood up straight, turned round and smiled at Rusty. "I'm - "

" - don't," Rusty cut him off.

He nodded. No apologies. No gratitude. Not vocally, anyway.

"We don't need to do this," Rusty suggested hesitantly.

"We need to do this," he said with a frown. They did.

"Yes but . . ." Rusty shook his head. "We don't need to do this. I could - "

" - no!" he said firmly. Not an option. "Not happening."

Rusty was rubbing at the corner of his mouth, watching him carefully. "I didn't take that much off your hair. Be easy to get it looking back to normal. And you could stay here. Not go anywhere near the place. Would be better." He sounded like he was trying to convince himself. "Stan said that you should stick to the familiar. Making you look like a different person is - "

" - necessary," he interrupted, frowning and determined. "You said it was necessary. I agreed. It's what we're doing, Rusty."

"Okay," Rusty nodded, looking unhappy. He held up a brush and a bottle. "I'll - "

" - yeah," he nodded and braced himself.

Half an hour later and a different stranger was looking out of the mirror at him. An older man, a man with greying hair and eyebrows, a man dressed in unflattering, unfashionable clothes.

"Here," Rusty said shortly, passing over a pair of thick glasses.

He tried them on. They made his eyes look duller, somehow. Made him look less alive.

"Good," he said wonderingly. As transformations went, it was impressive.

Rusty looked at him critically. "It should all be easy enough to reverse," he commented. "We'll need to dye your hair back, but it shouldn't cause any problems . . . "

He trailed off abruptly. Danny blinked. "What do you mean this time?" he demanded.

Looking surprised, Rusty shrugged uneasily. "There was . . .you ended up with green hair once. Briefly. Very briefly."

"Green?" he asked, maybe a little louder than he should have.

Rusty grimaced. "It was more flattering than you'd think," he said defensively. "Some people just lack vision."

"Really," he began warningly. "Because - "

" - I should phone Bobby now," Rusty interrupted hastily.

He sighed and followed Rusty out of the bathroom. Green. Well. That could be a problem for another day.

Settling himself down on the bed, he listened to Rusty's phone call.

"Hi Bobby, it's me . . . well, we're not getting caught. That close enough? . . . yeah . . . yeah," He watched Rusty smile slightly, then grow serious. "Listen, Bobby, we need a favour . . . " A frown. "He's fine. Why? . . . " A deeper frown. "Oh . . . No, he's just caught up with something else. We didn't think you'd mind talking to . . . yeah, I know, I know." Rusty glanced up and looked at him, tension and unhappiness in his eyes. "Okay, we're looking for someone in St Louis police department who might have an interest in Harvey Mackenzie and Joe Dawson. Someone honest and competent . . . right. Right, not too competent . . . yeah? Okay . . . right . . . no, I don't know where we'll be . . . I'll – we'll – phone you back in a few hours. Bye, Bobby."

Rusty hung up the phone. "Fuck," he sighed.

"Problems?" he asked quickly.

"Apparently you'd normally be the one calling Bobby. I never thought of that. Never even noticed. But when it was me, he thought that you were in trouble. Don't know how far I was able to convince him. He's concerned." Rusty sighed again and rubbed at his side absently. "He's going to find out what we need. I'll call him back when we're done."

"Maybe I could?" he suggested. "Just a phone call. I might be able to - "

Rusty looked at him consideringly. "Probably not," he said regretfully after a moment. "Bobby's good. And he knows you. He'd figure out there was something, even if he didn't figure out quite what. And he'd think there was something wrong."

"There is something wrong," he pointed out sharply.

"I know," Rusty said seriously after a second. "And Bobby's our friend. And we trust him absolutely. But do you really want him to know?" Rusty's eyes were on him, questioning and wondering and waiting.

"No," he admitted without even hesitating.

"Yeah," Rusty agreed with a slight, sad smile. "That's the way it works." He sighed and gestured at himself. "I'm going to go - "

" - sure," he nodded.

Once Rusty was safely in the bathroom, presumably transforming himself into a caterpillar, he switched on the TV and stared blankly at the screen, not even bothering to figure out what he was watching. He tried not to think about what he was going to do next. What he needed to do next. Because he needed to know. He needed . . . something. Answers. Reassurance. Something. He needed to.

Eventually, Rusty re-emerged, and he turned to get the impression of longer brown hair and a far less memorable man.

He turned back to the TV silently, aware of Rusty watching him, aware of curiosity and concern. He didn't look round. Couldn't look round. Couldn't bear to look at Rusty. Not when he was preparing to offer hurt and betrayal and cruelty.

"You remember what you said?" he asked vacantly.

There was a hesitation. "I say a lot of things," Rusty commented lightly. "You want to be more specific?"

Somehow, he thought that Rusty had a fairly good idea what he was talking about. "Back in the motel where we first met," he clarified and winced internally at the sharp intake of breath and suppressed the urge to apologise. He hadn't meant to . . . "Where you found me," he corrected. "You said that if I wanted, you'd leave."

Deafening silence. "You said . . . you said if Stan said you weren't going to get your memories back," Rusty said carefully. "He didn't. He said - "

" - it's not happening though, is it?" he interrupted ruthlessly, eyes fixed, unseeing, on the TV screen. "I've got nothing."

"It's only been a couple of days. It's a bit early to - "

" - yeah," he nodded sharply, hating this. "But that's not what I mean." He had to force Rusty to think about this. "If I wanted to. How would I go about it?"

For a long moment there was nothing and he fought, with every fibre of his being, he fought the need to look round. The need to see what he was doing. "I'd help you," Rusty said at last and his voice was dull. "You'd need to change your name. I could create a new person for you to be. It's easier than you'd think. Could get you all the proper documents. Enough money to get started wherever you want. An apartment. A car. Even a job, if you wanted. It's all . . . it's all possible. If that's what you want."

"And you?" he asked, quiet and intent.

"What about me?" Rusty demanded sharply and there was something buried in his voice, wildness and anger and misery.

"Would it hurt you?" he asked, as disinterested as he could manage. "If I left. If I didn't want to be with you anymore. Would it hurt you?"

Rusty laughed lightly. "Your company isn't all that."

He winced at the transparent attempt at self defense. "Rusty," he said softly. "Would it hurt you?"

He could feel the weight of Rusty's stare. "Oh, yes," Rusty whispered. "More than anyone would ever know."

"Thank you," he said. He closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. "Thank you."


For the second time in two days he was standing outside Mackenzie's building. Least this time he knew what he was doing. (Least this time Rusty was here.) He pretended to stare hard at the map in front of him. Lost nobodies, and no one was giving them a second glance.

At first sight, this plan was insane. But disguises worked, and as Rusty pointed out, they had a twenty K Greek pot waiting for them somewhere. If they only knew where.

"You came out this entrance," Rusty said quietly. "And they caught you two blocks that way."

"I don't remember," he said miserably.

Rusty glanced sideways at him. "We'll retrace your steps," he said, and he was clearly confident that he was going to be able to figure out the exact thoughts that had been running through Danny's mind before he was taken.

He followed Rusty obediently, keeping his head down, keeping himself hunched over and uninteresting and not looking like he was looking for anything. Rusty led them through a couple of alleyways, looking round all the time, checking a couple of abandoned cars and boarded up doorways. The route felt right. Felt like the way he might have gone, if he'd been running.

Eventually, Rusty paused in the middle of an alley, having made a couple of sharp turns. The main street was a stone's throw away. The street where, apparently, Willy, Bill and Harry had caught him three days ago.

Rusty was staring at a bunch of crates piled up in front of a doorway. "If you had a moment. If you could hear them coming," he mused, and with a grunt of pain, he scrambled up the pile of crates and reached over the doorway. "Got it!" he exclaimed, leaping down, box in hand. "Fuck," he added, a moment later, his hand pressed firmly into his side, his voice muffled and faint.

"You all right?" he asked, cautious and sympathetic.

Looking up at him, Rusty managed to smile. "Shouldn't have done that."

"No," he agreed, watching Rusty stand up. "That the - "

" - it's the box we took in, yeah," Rusty nodded.

"Good," he said and meant it. "Can we get out of here?"

Rusty grimaced. "As fast as possible."


They were back in the hotel before Rusty carefully opened the box. Eagerly, Danny peered inside. The pot was small and brown and ugly and generally didn't look like it was worth anything. "You sure that's it?" he asked curiously.

Rusty didn't answer. Rusty was staring into the box, his face a completely blank mask.

"What?" he demanded, frightened and not knowing why.

Still there was nothing.

He stared into the box himself, desperately trying to see what Rusty was seeing. All he saw was a pot, in a space carved out for it, wedged in with the aid of a folded sheet of paper. He must've stuck it in there to stop the pot from getting thrown about and damaged.

No.

No, that wasn't possible.

With trembling fingers, he reached in to the box, carefully lifted the paper free and unfolded it. He found himself staring at a list of map references and numbers.

"No," he whispered out loud.

Rusty was staring at him now. "You stupid - "

"Hey!" he objected, "You cannot be angry with me for something I can't even remember."

"Oh, let's see, shall we?" Rusty said voice low and trembling with barely-suppressed emotion. "Let's see if I can somehow find it in myself to be angry with you for this monumental fuck-up."

"It must have been on his desk," he realised.

"No shit," Rusty snapped. "It was on his desk and you just picked it up and used it for fucking wrapping paper."

"We have the list," he said helplessly.

Rusty nodded, tense with anger. "We have the list."


Oops.