Been a while since I updated this. I'm sorry. Am easily distracted. Hope you still remember this.
Oh, and now InSilva wants my head to explode. Feel this is mean. I am sulking. She also wants me to be forced to flee from an angry mob of unhappy readers. Sigh. And after I wrote this chapter just for you, mate.....
"Guess we should get rid of this," Rusty commented, staring at the list and the anger had vanished instantaneously and he had no way of knowing whether Rusty had really forgiven him or whether it was all being remembered for some later date. However he might feel sometimes, he really didn't know Rusty at all.
"Right," he nodded uncertainly and Rusty was the one who knew what was going on, and he should just keep quiet and follow Rusty's lead. Brief as it had been, the sight of Rusty angry at him had made him think. Right now he was completely dependent on Rusty. Far as he could tell, he didn't have a hope of making it on his own. And that wasn't good. Even if he was now almost – almost – convinced that Rusty was on his side, he still wasn't sure that his side was where he wanted to be. And more than that, he hated feeling so needy. So helpless.
Rusty frowned at him and the look in his eyes was troubled and troubling. "What?" he asked, and it didn't seem like he was going to take equivocation for an answer.
Still he shrugged. "Nothing," he said. "Nothing that matters."
An expression of frustration crossed Rusty's face fleetingly. "Danny, if I'm missing something, I need to know what," he explained tersely.
He nodded. "Wouldn't it be better to give the real list to the police?"
Rusty looked thoughtful and dropped down onto the chair behind him. "I don't want us holding onto it any longer than we have to," he explained.
"Why? It's not like they'd take 'I don't have it anymore' for an answer anyway," he pointed out and his hand rubbed absently across his chest. He caught Rusty watching the movement, caught the moment of bright and unblinking and furious, and he stared until Rusty looked away.
"Yeah," Rusty said slowly. "But I don't know that we want to give the list to the police."
"I don't want that stuff on the streets," he said quietly. "The police could dispose of it."
Rusty shrugged. "It's stayed hidden this long." He was watching Danny as if he was trying to figure something out. "And we might want to pick up some of it ourselves. Not the drugs," he added hastily. "But there's supposed to be money. Jewels. Shame to waste the opportunity."
He stared and he was reminded again that he was a criminal. And he'd woken up and criminals had been men with guns, and they'd been Willy, Bill and Harry. Men who would hurt and kill and think nothing of it. He didn't want to be a part of that world. And maybe he'd come slightly too close to accepting what Rusty did – the cons, switching a novelty mug for a priceless Greek pot – because it was fun. Because it had amused him, intrigued him, and it was difficult to persuade the back of his mind that none of that made it okay. But this wasn't exciting. This was just picking up money that had been made from other people's misery.
Rusty watched him carefully and sighed. "We'll give the police the real list," he said, and the piece of paper vanished smoothly into his pocket.
He nodded and wondered if Rusty would destroy the list the moment his back was turned.
Rusty stared at him, unblinking. "I said we'd give it to the police," he said quietly. "I don't lie to you."
"I never said you were," he protested, just a hint of a glare, and they both knew he'd been thinking it.
"Yeah," Rusty said with a sigh. "Yeah. Sorry. I'd better phone Bobby."
He nodded again, slowly and watched Rusty make the phone call and vaguely listened to exasperated reassurance and increasing worry and frustration. He didn't bother listening to the details. His head was aching and he had other things to worry about. Rusty was holding out on him. Oh, not information. He didn't think. As far as he could tell. Something else. There was an extra distance, as if Rusty was choosing all his words carefully, was holding himself apart somehow. It had been ever since he'd asked Rusty if him leaving would hurt. He almost wished he hadn't. But he'd wanted – needed – to know how real this thing was. He'd wanted – needed – to know how Rusty had felt about the man he'd been. And he'd wanted to remind Rusty that he might leave, wanted to stress to Rusty that he wasn't dependent. All excellent reasons. Didn't make him feel better.
"Fuck," Rusty said calmly, hanging up the phone.
He looked up sharply. "Bobby still suspicious?" he guessed.
"No - well, yes - but that's not our biggest problem." Rusty sighed and rubbed at his mouth. "Apparently the cops are already interested in Mackenzie and Dawson. They've been drawing a lot of attention over the past few days. Seemingly you can't run around the streets shooting at people without the police sitting up and taking notice. Who knew?"
He digested that. "Huh," he said at last. "They going to be arrested?"
"Next few days," Rusty agreed, not looking as happy about it as he should.
"So what's the problem?" he demanded. "We sit tight, watch some movies and the problem goes away."
Rusty shot him a look. "Yeah. If we assume that the police will get everyone and that no-one will slip the net and come looking for a nice retirement plan." He sighed and rubbed at his side. "I'm sorry, Danny. We need the list in public, nicely beyond reach. And we need someone else to blame. And we need to move fast. I'm going to go find a good target and get the plans."
"Okay," he said, conceding in the face of certainty, and he reached for his shoes.
Rusty glanced at him and somehow it was distant and somehow that was worrying. "You stay here. Get some rest. You look tired again."
Well, that was just....He was tired, that was beyond question. And his head was hurting again. But that didn't mean he should stay here, safe and relaxed, while Rusty went out to do whatever. "Suppose you need help?" he asked and immediately felt stupid, wondering exactly what help he could be.
"I'm fine on my own," Rusty smiled brightly.
He flinched inside and didn't know exactly why, and, mouth dry, he said nothing more. Just watched as the door closed behind Rusty.
By the time Rusty got back with the plans, he'd watched most of The Three Amigos and half of Ghostbusters II, ate a passable lasagne, spent ten minutes trying to scrub a particularly stubborn hair-dye stain out of the bathroom and worn an inch-deep groove in the carpet pacing back and forth.
It had taken less than twenty minutes before he started worrying that Rusty wasn't coming back. An hour and he was almost sure of it.
Visions of Rusty being caught by the police had gradually faded and been replaced by thoughts of Rusty being caught by Mackenzie or Dawson, and sometimes they shot him and sometimes they tortured him until he willingly led them back to the hotel. Then, sometimes, he found himself wondering if Rusty maybe didn't even want to come back. It couldn't be easy, he appreciated that. Being friends with...loving...someone who didn't even remember you. Someone who didn't even approve of who he'd been before. And of course, he hated how dependent he was on Rusty right now. Who was to say that it wasn't also grating on Rusty's nerves? And he'd suggested that he was going to leave....there were lots of reasons why he might not exactly blame Rusty for wanting a break. He could only hope that Rusty would come back.
In the end, Rusty came back in the middle of an infomercial extolling the benefits of the revolutionary new leaf-blowing system. He'd stopped pacing the moment he'd heard Rusty's footsteps outside the door. (And he'd know, somehow, beyond all doubt, that it was Rusty he was hearing.) Flung himself down on the end of the bed and turned his attention to the TV and done his best to look relaxed and bored and incurious.
Still, Rusty paused, leaning against the door the moment it shut, and regarded him thoughtfully.
He had to look up, of course, and he smiled slightly and he couldn't help but notice that Rusty was paler than he had been and he looked tired. Of course, he had been shot yesterday. Probably that'd tire anyone out. "You got everything?" he asked casually, pretending not to notice anything, pretending to feel neither hurt nor relief.
"Yeah," Rusty nodded and he walked further into the room. "Got a good target. Small bank on Ninth Street. Separate vault for safety deposit boxes. On Detective Wright's patch – that's the name Bobby gave me," he added in response to the look. "And it's even got a kind of connection to Morgan. His ex partner, Donavan, used to launder money through there."
"We're setting up the ex partner?" he checked with a frown.
Rusty yawned and shrugged and winced, more or less simultaneously. "Yes," he agreed, his hand clenched in a loose fist pressed into his side. "But popular rumour has him beneath the Achmore Centre, so can't exactly do him a lot of harm. I'll start a couple of rumours tomorrow. By the time we hit the place, Donavan will have been seen in more places than Elvis."
He was paying less attention to Rusty's words and more attention to Rusty's pain. "It's worse?" he asked, nodding towards Rusty's side.
"No," Rusty told him, and it felt like a lie.
Danny sighed. "Let me see."
Rusty looked at him for a long moment. "I'm sorry I left you here tonight," he said abruptly.
"It's fine," he answered automatically, taken aback.
"No," Rusty shook his head decidedly. "It was the wrong call."
"Why then?" he asked, because he had to know and none of the reasons Rusty had given before had been the truth.
Rusty sighed and his fingers rubbed round his mouth, over and over. "I didn't want you doing anything illegal that you didn't have to. Didn't want to make you uncomfortable."
He stared and immediately he wanted to tell Rusty how stupid that was, but he hesitated, because there were reasons beneath that, and Rusty hadn't just been trying to keep him comfortable. Rusty had been trying to keep him here. "I haven't decided what I want yet, Rusty," he said gently.
Rusty nodded and his eyes were blank and he said nothing.
He hesitated, caught in a ridiculous sentimental urge and he didn't know what he wanted to say, but it had something to do with the way that Rusty made him feel, the fact that he really didn't want to lose that and his absolute confusion over what was real, over what the right thing to do was, the abnormal need, and the dependency that he wasn't going to give in to. And he couldn't begin to say any of that, but instead he deliberately met Rusty's eyes and wondered if Rusty's ability to read him was really as miraculous as it seemed. Wondered if Rusty would be able to understand what he couldn't tell him.
There was a moment of silence and then Rusty's eyes widened and he smiled and it was reassurance and comfort. "It's going to be alright, Danny."
He hesitated, uncertain and watchful. "You promise?" he asked at last.
The smile didn't fade and new layers of tenderness seemed to weave their way in. "Yeah," Rusty said softly. "I promise."
He nodded and looked away. "So what's tomorrow?" he asked brightly.
Rusty cleared his throat. "We go see Phil and Eleanor Turrentine," he explained simply. "Eleanor's still happy to buy the pot, and Phil should be able to get us the stuff we need." He glanced down at the pile of papers he'd dumped on the coffee table. "Soon as I figure out what we do need, anyway. They're expecting us about noon. It's a two hour drive, so you get to listen to me explaining everything they'll assume you know on the way."
He nodded again. "Then tomorrow night - "
" - we hit the place," Rusty agreed and he picked up the top bundle of papers thoughtfully. "You should really get some sleep, Danny."
"Shouldn't you?" he suggested. Because, yeah, he was exhausted and hurting. But so was Rusty.
Seemingly genuinely amused, Rusty smiled. "Not until I got this sorted."
"You want to maybe take some pain killers or something?" he asked hopefully, because he could see the pain in Rusty's eyes.
Rusty laughed. "Not until - "
" - you got this sorted," he finished, shaking his head and giving it up as a lost cause. "Right." He pulled the duvet back.
"You should though," Rusty told him seriously. "Take some painkillers, I mean. Your head's hurting again, isn't it?"
"Yeah," he nodded, not even surprised now that Rusty knew.
Rusty nodded and looked up at him. "Take the pills, put the cream on your chest and get some sleep," he advised.
Danny glared at him, but he did what he was told.
He was twelve again. Sitting in the back of a car and he'd been there for a long time and he was bored. It was dark outside; there was no scenery to look at; and watching the windscreen wipers fight against the torrential rain had long ago lost its charm. He was bored and he kicked at the seat in front of him disconsolately. The woman in front turned round and gave him a warning look. Mom, a voice whispered in the back of his head. And Dad's driving. He stared and the world seemed to freeze for a moment as memories flitted around the very edges of his consciousness, tempting and intangible and utterly out of reach. He was in a car with two people he knew to be his parents, and that was all he knew. He didn't know how long they'd been driving, or where they were going. He didn't know what his parents' voices sounded like. He didn't know where they lived. He didn't know his own name. And he was so very frightened, and it had nothing to do with his amnesia, it was something far larger than that. A vast, nameless dread, overwhelming and absolute.
"Mom? Dad?" he began quietly, intent on begging them to stop the car, to pull in somewhere and tell him everything was fine.
He didn't get a chance.
The lorry filled the windscreen.
The headlights were blinding.
Brakes screamed.
A bang, louder than anything he'd ever known.
Glass breaking, metal crumpling.
He was thrown backwards, thrown up and down, and he couldn't be sure, and there was a sickening pain, a tearing sound, a roar, and for a moment the world was upside down, and then everything was dark and silent.
For an endless second he stayed exactly where he was, still and shocked and too terrified to move. His head was pounding and he could feel blood trickling down the back of his neck, and his arm hurt so much and he didn't even dare look at it, but that wasn't what was important.
"Mom? Dad?" he whispered, and there was no answer. Not a sound.
"Mom?" he said louder, begging, pleading. "Dad? Can you hear me?"
He squinted forwards in the gloom and he could see Mom's arm hanging limply, thrown over the back of Dad's seat. She must have been hurt. Dad too, probably. They needed help. He managed to wrench his seatbelt off, one handed, and he struggled forwards and a voice in the back of his head was screaming incoherently, begging him not to look.
Finally, he managed to inch forwards, enough to see what was left of the front of the car, and, slowly he turned round to see his parents.
He screamed and screamed and didn't stop.
"Danny!" The voice was frantic and he woke up and he was still screaming and his parents were dead and there was a man leaning over him and he punched out as hard as he could, and the man fell back for a moment, and then he was back almost instantaneously, his hands on his shoulders, talking insistently, soothing nonsense, and he stared and he knew he should remember, should recognise, and a second of memory flashed.
The lights were too bright and they were underground and no matter how much he struggled he couldn't get free, and Rusty was lying on the floor, at his feet and beyond reach, and he swore viciously and the man with the knife looked up, smiled at him, and moved the knife again, blood dripping down the blade, and now it was at Rusty's throat, and Rusty opened his eyes and the knife pressed in a little closer, and Rusty's was looking straight at him, and his eyes were full of pain and goodbye, and this was it, and this was -
He gasped and flung himself forwards and pressed in as close to Rusty as he could, taking comfort in the arms that immediately wrapped tightly around his shoulders, in Rusty's face buried in his hair, in safety and understanding and love and unending.
Tears and shaking and helplessness, and it lasted for a very long time.
Eventually, self-consciously, he pulled back and looked at Rusty. "It was real, wasn't it?" he asked and his voice was hoarse.
Rusty bit his lip. "Car crash?" he asked gently and Danny nodded jerkily. "Yeah. Yeah, it was real. I'm so sorry, Danny. Of everything you could've remembered - "
" - I didn't remember," he interrupted. "Not really. Just the crash. Nothing else. I don't know who they were, and they're dead." For a horrible moment he thought the tears would overwhelm him again.
Rusty gripped his hand tightly and right now he was way beyond the point of setting boundaries. "Their names were Jonas and Marie," he told Danny fiercely. "He was a doctor, she was an art teacher, though she gave it up when you were born. From everything you've told me, they loved you more than anything. You were spoiled rotten. In a good way."
He nodded and listened to the sincerity in Rusty's voice and it really did help. "I want to remember them," he whispered.
"You will," Rusty promised.
"I want to remember you," he admitted and Rusty squeezed his hand gently. He sighed and lay down again, still smiling a little and when Rusty lay down beside him, mere inches away, every single objection he thought of turned into a fervent and unvoiced thank you. "I was twelve when they died?" he asked after a moment.
"Yeah," Rusty agreed quietly.
"So who took care of me after that?" he wondered, too exhausted to be truly curious.
There was a long silence and when he turned his head, Rusty was staring at the ceiling and his face was blank and still Danny could see traces of deep and far-away fury. "Your Uncle Frederick took you in," Rusty said at last. "I wouldn't say he took care of you."
He licked his lips and wondered how many memories he had that he didn't want to remember. "He - "
" - he ignored you," Rusty said, turning to look at him. "Did his best to pretend you didn't exist. He lived in the middle of nowhere – literally in the middle of nowhere, thirty miles from the nearest town – and you once told me that when school was out for summer, weeks could go by without you hearing a human voice."
A feeling of loneliness and isolation overwhelmed him and he honestly couldn't say whether it was memory or imagination.
With a sigh, Rusty brought his hand up to his mouth and the kiss was brief and shouldn't have felt half as good as it did.
"When you were eight," Rusty began suddenly, "You decided that you wanted to be an astronaut when you grew up. Now your Dad was always a practical man, good with his hands – it's not hereditary, by the way - " Rusty added with a slight grin, and Danny felt himself smiling in return. " - And the previous year he'd built you a treehouse in the yard. And the two of you decided to turn it into a lunar landing craft. He found as much machinery as he could, took the lawnmower apart, and he glued dials and knobs and levers to the inside of the treehouse, while you painted everything white. And I do mean everything. Then, your Mom comes out to the yard with a plate of sugar cookies almost in the shape of stars, a few old sheets and even more paint, and she helps you paint a moon landscape and space scenes, and you hang them over the treehouse windows." Rusty rolled on to his side, and they were looking straight into each others eyes, so close, and it felt comfortable and it felt right. "For the rest of the summer there were kids queueing up at your backyard, desperate for the chance to be Buzz to your Neil."
He smiled. "Thank you," he whispered and Rusty smiled at him and began another story, and eventually Danny fell asleep to the sound of his own life and the sound of comfort and love.
Will try to update this more regularly, I promise.
