A/N: And this is the conclusion to Knowledge and Promise, at long last. Hope you've enjoyed it.
A/N2: For InSilva, as always, for help and support and encouragement and being generally wonderful
The apartment seemed nice enough. Welcoming and he could see himself living here, could see Rusty living here. But he didn't remember.
If he was being honest, at the airport, on the plan, all the way to New York he'd been indulging in this little daydream where the moment he stepped through the front door he remembered everything. Like a kid, thinking that the world would change if he just closed his eyes and wished.
He sighed, disappointed, and glanced at Rusty. Oh, well.
Rusty smiled understandingly. "Still home," he pointed out.
"Right," Danny agreed. His eyes narrowed. "So now you call Stan." Rusty had managed to argue that by the time they found a place to stay and Stan came out all the way again they'd be as well going home and having him meet them there.
There was an exasperated sigh. "Was hoping you'd forget."
He did his best to hide the shudder.
"What?" Rusty said immediately, gently.
"It's nothing," he said, shaking his head. It was nothing. A stupid sort of nothing.
"What?" Rusty asked again, and he was standing in front of Danny, his hand hovering over Danny's cheek.
"I forgot to care about you," Danny whispered t last, not meeting Rusty's eyes.
"You forgot everything, Danny," Rusty said after a second.
He shook his head. "You got shot and I didn't – "
" – you stayed remember," Rusty interrupted fiercely. "Even though I told you to leave you stayed because I was hurt."
But that hadn't been because Rusty was Rusty. That had been closer to a simple case of right and wrong. Rusty had been shot and Danny remembered standing by and watching him take care of himself, remembered just accepting it when Rusty said it wasn't that bad, remembered pushing Rusty away – gently, but that wasn't the point – when he'd been asleep and reaching out for comfort. He knew every single thing that he would have done different.
"Hey," Rusty's hand was on his cheek. "I'm okay, Danny. We're okay."
And there was so much that was still missing out of his head, so much he just didn't know, but Rusty was here, looking at him, smiling at him, and Danny reached up and placed his hand on Rusty's, leaning into the touch like he never wanted to lose it. "Yeah," he said, closing his eyes. "We're okay."
By the time Stan arrived Danny had had a quick tour of his own home, a couple of glasses of wine and a bath – after the brief debate over who got to go first.
He'd been briefly amused and briefly amazed at the amount of bubble bath that had been in their bathroom, and then he'd remembered – just a little flash, just a little glimpse – of him standing in the middle of some upscale boutique, buying every flavour under the sun because Rusty had asked and he hadn't been sure what he would like. There had been guilt eating through him, and he struggled to remember why.
The bath smelled of tangerines. He lay back and closed his eyes and let the memory wash over him.
There had been a job. An image of a red-haired man, a feeling of dislike, something about two identical paintings...the details escaped him. But Danny had been inside, drinking brandy with the mark and Rusty had been outside...up a tree? Why up a tree? He shook his head, something about wires...and Danny had been laughing about their respective roles before, had said something about Rusty being sure to hang on, and then while he had been safe and warm and dry – he remembered listening to the rain hammering against the window, remembered it as clearly as if it had happened five minutes ago. Remembered meeting up with Rusty, soaked and bedraggled and shivering. Remembered the cold that Rusty had caught the next day, remembered listening to the sneezing and the hacking cough and seeing Rusty's face, flushed and miserable. And he remembered the guilt, remembered running out to bring back as much soup, medicine and bubble bath as he could carry.
And he remembered Rusty lying in bed, smiling up at him, affectionate and exasperated, telling him that actually colds didn't work that way, it was a virus and that meant that Rusty would have gotten it anyway, and no, in this case he didn't care what Danny's mother had told him, you couldn't catch a cold from standing in the rain too long – even up a tree – but if Danny really wanted to spoil him, he'd better have brought back chocolate.
He had.
He smiled; memory was beautiful.
Rubbing a towel through his hair, he stepped back through into the living room.
Rusty was curled in a comfortable chair, the phone lying discarded beside him, his fingers digging furiously into his side.
"Rus," Danny sighed, in a tone that meant 'Stop that.'
"It itches," Rusty said plaintively, but he stopped scratching with a visible effort.
"You called Stan?" he asked.
"Yeah," Rusty nodded. "He'll be here in a few hours. Noon or so. Sounded like he was expecting the call."
Danny paused. "You think Bobby – "
" – don't know," Rusty said. "Doubt it."
Right. Maybe. Danny wasn't completely convinced. "You remember that time in Chicago? He told Saul about the air vent."
Rusty was looking at him and the smile was broad and delighted.
"What?" he asked, frowning.
"You remember the time in Chicago?" Rusty repeated slowly.
Oh. He felt himself grinning and he searched through his mind. The impressions were hazy. Feelings, not details. He remembered the conversation with Rusty, trying to figure out how to play it. He didn't remember the vent, and he didn't remember Saul's face. Didn't remember Saul.
He sighed, disappointed. "Nothing else."
"But it's something," Rusty told him gently. "We're getting there."
He grinned. "Since when are you the optimist?"
"It's not about being optimistic or pessimistic," Rusty said simply. "It's about being right."
They stuck the TV on and dozed off somewhere in the middle of 'Columbo', and Danny didn't really wake up until Rusty was already answering the door.
Stan, and Danny was pleased to see him this time, and he was persuasive enough and sincere enough to make sure that Stan looked at Rusty first.
A few moments of casual conversation and then Stan was staring at Rusty unblinkingly. "I would dearly love to hear how this ever seemed like a good idea," he said, examining Rusty's side grimly.
Rusty shrugged easily. "Circumstances."
Danny bit his lip anxiously. "He's going to be okay though?"
Stan looked up at him quickly. "You really are getting your memory back, huh," he said and they'd said he was. "Yeah. I brought along some solvent dissolver. Should be enough to get rid of this mess he's made of himself. Then I'll clean it all up and see if he needs stitches."
"Sitting right here," Rusty pointed out sulkily.
"Stay sitting right there," Danny told him firmly and he watched Stan work and he could see the pain in Rusty's eyes and he had a feeling that Rusty's patience would run out long before his concern did.
Once Stan had bandaged the bullet wound and sorted the gash on Rusty's cheek, it was Danny's turn and Stan seemed pleased with the way his head was healing and even more pleased when Danny told him that some of his memories had come back
"But I don't remember everything," he said anxiously.
"Sometimes it takes time," Stan told him. "Come to the hospital tomorrow and we'll see about getting you another scan."
He supposed he'd have to try being patient.
Once Stan had left, they went to bed. It had been a very long day. For a start, it had begun some time yesterday morning.
He should sleep.
He needed to sleep, he knew that, he was exhausted.
Instead, he lay in bed, awake alone, staring at the ceiling. He didn't want to close his eyes. He didn't want to run the risk of falling into oblivion, waking up not knowing anything again. Knowledge was fragile, he knew that now, and he was terrified of losing it again.
Eventually he got up and snuck through to Rusty's room. Rusty didn't stir when he opened the door and Danny crept into bed beside him, hoping against hope that Rusty wouldn't wake up.
A few seconds later and Rusty opened his eyes, smiled sleepily at him and took his hand.
Danny held it tightly.
He wouldn't forget.
The next few days passed in a strange blur.
The scan didn't reveal anything new, and Stan told them again that they'd have to be patient, and Danny wasn't convinced they were so good at that.
They had lunch in a diner a few blocks from their apartment, and Danny sat across the table, ignoring his burger and watching Rusty drinking his milkshake appreciatively, and he delighted in the memory of a hundred other identical moments.
Phil and Eleanor came by late afternoon, ostensibly in town to get a good look at an auction Eleanor had an interest in. That was a lie and they all knew it.
Rusty had called them just after he'd called Stan. Letting them know that everything was fine. And Danny wasn't at all surprised that they'd wanted to make sure and he assured them a dozen times that he was feeling better, that Rusty was fine, and eventually they seemed to believe.
They sat and drank beer and he and Rusty shared an abridged version of the story and then there were other stories, ones that he wasn't expected to know and it helped to hear them.
Stories about him and stories about Rusty and stories about names and places and people that stirred dim feelings and images in his mind.
He didn't remember. But he didn't not remember either.
And he was enjoying himself, right up until the moment when Phil nudged Rusty in the ribs, while he was hinting around the story about a girl named Kate, a hot air balloon, a swimming pool, several candles and a wealth of fireworks that Danny would guess, from the glint in Rusty's eye, that Phil didn't know nearly as much about as he thought.
Rusty had paled immediately. He hadn't gasped, hadn't even winced, but he'd paled and Danny had noticed and Eleanor had noticed.
"You're hurt," she stated, eyes narrowed, and in an instant she was leaning across Phil and pulling Rusty's shirt up.
"Hey!" Rusty protested, tugging the shirt back down immediately. "Personal space."
"You are hurt," Phil said, looking guilty. "Sorry, man."
Rusty shrugged. "'s nothing," he said and he was looking desperately to Danny to change the subject.
"So what happened with Katie," Danny asked Phil quickly. "I mean, plastic melts, right?"
Wasn't enough. At this stage, he didn't think anything would be enough.
"That looked bad, Rusty," Eleanor went on, frowning, and the concern was genuine. "It looked infected. Have you seen a doctor?"
"It's not infected," Rusty assured her. "And I saw Stan."
She still looked suspicious. "It's all red and blistered," she pointed out.
Rusty shrugged again. "Allergic reaction," he said smoothly. "Should die down in a few days.
Eleanor looked like she was just about ready to accept that.
"Did you super glue it?" Phil asked cheerfully and out of nowhere.
The question was so unexpected that Danny wasn't able to hide his reaction and, by the look on Phil's face, the look on Eleanor's face, his startled gasp was the equivalent to Rusty confessing.
"You did, didn't you," Phil said, shaking his head. "I remember when were in that place in Denver last year you were reading that bit in the Reader's Digest. Didn't think you'd actually go through with it."
Suddenly, and out of nowhere, Danny remembered thinking that Rusty would go through with it. Danny remembered vowing to make sure that Rusty never had a chance to go through with it. He clung to the flash of knowledge with everything he had.
"Circumstances," Rusty explained again succinctly.
Eleanor was shaking her head and Phil looked impressed and amused. Danny would bet money on him spreading the story before too long. Oh, only to people they trusted, but still. Phil liked gossip. He remembered the first time they'd met him, in a motel room in Phoenix. It had been the first time they'd needed a munitions guy and Frank had known someone who'd known someone who'd known Phil. And there'd been stories and beer and Phil had been laughing cheerfully.
He remembered...
Rusty was looking at him knowingly. He smiled.
Bobby came to see them a few days after they got back.
"Everything in St Louis has gone quiet," he assured them. "No one's looking for you. Might be looking for Donavan, might be looking for a couple of undercover cops, but no one has any clue what was really going on."
"Good," Danny said, sighing with relief.
"Now." Bobby looked at them sternly. "What was really going on?"
Memory drifted back a little at a time. It didn't always make sense. Didn't always form any kind of coherent picture. But every time he checked with Rusty and he found the truth and his life came together a piece at a time.
Pouring a glass of wine and he remembered the first time he'd met Reuben. Remembered the craps game and the friendly advice, remembered the burning need to pay back the favour and the wild and unlikely few days that had followed. He'd never spent the night in jail before. He remembered and he couldn't stop the smile even if he wanted to, and with Rusty's help he came up with a reason, an excuse for a phone call, and it was just so good to hear Reuben's voice. To know that things were real.
In the shower he remembered three months ago with Livingston, tequila shots, a swarm of bees and a beach hut and he thought that he'd never stop laughing; he stumbled out of the shower, doubled over and helpless, waving off Rusty's bemused concern until he could catch his breath enough to explain.
Listening to Rusty talk on the phone and he remembered Saul and wondered how he could ever have forgotten.
Standing in the queue in the coffee shop and he remembered the first time that Rusty had told him about Fowler and about his childhood. Remembered all the details that Rusty had missed out. Remembered holding Rusty tightly, fighting the need to go out and find and hurt and punish. Wasn't any easier this time round and the rage and the anger had Rusty dragging him out of the public gaze and he paced around their apartment, fury and hatred burning through him and Rusty held him close until he calmed down.
He remembered the good times and he remembered the bad times, joy and pain, and he grasped each fleeting moment and examined it with wonder like he never wanted to let go.
The first time he remembered his parents it was the middle of the night. Rusty found him, hours later, staring blindly out of the window, glass of whisky in his hand. Wasn't the first one, not by a long way, and he hadn't tasted any of it.
He heard Rusty behind him and he didn't turn round.
"They died," he said quietly, numbly. He'd remembered it before, of course, remembered their death in a nightmare, but now he remembered their lives. He remembered how he'd loved them and how they'd loved him.
Rusty's hand gripped his shoulder tightly.
Twelve years and it felt like he remembered every moment. Silly things. His Dad teaching him to tie his shoelaces, playing dinosaurs with him, buying him ice cream when he fell off his bike. His Mom making him breakfast, helping with his homework, letting him lick the bowl when she baked.
Felt like he'd got them back and lost them all over again.
And he remembered the funeral, remembered the rain and feeling cold and numb, remembered looking up at Uncle Frederick who had barely glanced at him – would barely glance at him for the next four years – and feeling so alone.
"D'you think..." He swallowed thickly. "Would they be proud of me?"
"Yes," said Rusty instantly, and there was absolute certainty in his voice, fierce and complete and unshakeable.
Danny took a deep shuddering breath, the relief overwhelming him, and the tears fell.
He turned his head. Kissed Rusty's hand. Let Rusty hold him in silence until the pain faded.
Weeks went by. And home was nice but Rusty got restless and Danny felt like there were no more memories to find here and sunny climes and azure seas were calling, and they found themselves in a penthouse looking out over the city, enjoying the sunshine and enjoying the room service.
"Sometimes I wonder if I've really remembered everything," Danny said one day, as the breeze swept in the window. He didn't say any more. Didn't need to. He'd lost everything and he had no way of being certain what he'd got back.
"Everything important," Rusty said quietly, and Danny knew he meant everyone important. All their friends.
It helped.
It helped more that Rusty was here and would always be here, and anything Danny had forgotten Rusty would remember. He always did.
"You notice that bank out the window?" he asked idly. "Train tunnel goes right under it." They could do something with that.
Rusty smiled and sat up straight. "We'd need to go in on a Sunday," he said thoughtfully. "And there'd need to be – "
" – noise," Danny nodded. "A lot of noise."
He smiled at Rusty and the plan was dancing through his head.
Maybe he remembered everything. Maybe he didn't. But he was with Rusty and there would be new memories. He was sure of that.
