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Danny's playing the long game, and Rusty can still taste the shrimp cocktail on his fingers. He licks the tip of his thumb, absently, turned away, lost in thought, now that he knows for certain that Danny isn't looking.
He should have figured. Something in him should have figured it was getting too easy, too glib between them, too much like old times. But he didn't and they're in too deep, and now it's time to train up Linus, watch Danny with his ever-familiar breathless eagerness building the rest of the con around Tess, around her making her choice.
Rusty takes a breath before turning back. Swallows his regret, every dream he's had since that first night in LA; swallows his heart back down from his throat with the last dregs of his Highland fling.
-
It takes those three to six months, and then three to six months after, for Tess to make her true choice: to leave again.
Rusty's been lying low in that time, riding the high of pulling off the job, mulling things over. He's bought a car. Driven around some. Dragged Basher and Livingston around trying every bruschetta at every hotel. Fetched and carried for Reuben until he was finally tired enough to get to something resembling sleep. When the doorbell wakes him at midnight, as he scrambles out from under his several new plush blankets and rubs his eyes, he knows what's coming. How could he not? He brings Danny in, pours him some wine, and pours him into bed underneath the covers he bought himself two days ago.
He's tired. Suddenly not just sleepy; suddenly tired to the bone. When he gets into bed, feels Danny's ever-familiar warmth as he turns to cling drunkenly at his side, he tucks his arm around him, leans their heads together, and lies awake as Danny sprawls his way into sleep.
-
It gets too easy. Too easy, too soon. One day Danny's moping on Rusty's couch and watching Oprah, the next he's helping him redecorate Reuben's living room, the next he's coming up with new ideas, new jobs, like he's never been away.
They hit up a few small clubs at night, hustle a few rounds of poker. It keeps Danny cheered up; keeps Rusty's skills sharp. Brings back some of the old ease between them, even though they don't make it quite all the way there. Even though they're sharing drinks at cozy cocktail bars, huddled closer and closer together, every other moment a smile.
It's too fond, too soon, even what they don't say. Rusty catches glimpses of things in Danny's eyes, words on words, that hint of I'm sorry, that hint of it's always been you. Things he's desperately willing him not to say out loud, in case they're still lies. In case they're just...true, but not good enough. He tries not to look too closely, not to let his hand or arm or hip brush against Danny's so often in the dark, but Rusty knows a losing game, even when he walks into it open-eyed.
-
The night Danny leans in and kisses him, they're both still sober. As sober as you can be after taking a table of rich kids for four grand apiece; there's something about their synergy, the way they work together wordlessly, fit like a glove, that tends to get them both a little high. Danny tastes of his first sip of dirty martini; Rusty feels it mingle with the tangy mozzarella on his tongue, feels his eyes fall shut, his fingers sweep up under Danny's jacket to press warm against his back through his shirt, an old, ever-familiar signal to get out of there, get somewhere more private.
Rusty knows how to touch him, knows just how Danny will gasp under his hands. Kissing him comes easy, as easy as pressing him into the mattress, sprawled above the plush new covers he bought himself. Rusty sinks into his own body as his lips find Danny's skin, again and again at his pressure points, remembering. He waits for Danny to answer.
Danny does, with his mouth, with his hands. He's practiced, eager, willing, but as Rusty finds abandon, Danny's hands falter. Hesitate as they explore Rusty's hips, his chest, as though Danny's forgotten his sweet spots, or is cautious not to trip them. Rusty kisses Danny's throat and aches for Danny's hands in his hair, and later that night he lies awake thinking about mozzarella sticks and dirty martinis. Wondering if Danny really does want him back, or if he's just here to be looked after, just going to drop him again the moment someone else comes along.
-
Often, one or the other of them spends the night at Reuben's. Sometimes they both do. Reuben's put them in the same room, perhaps as an assumption - perhaps to make a point. They're usually both too tired to ask questions, or try to figure him out. Danny's had a few heart-to-hearts with Reuben over the past few weeks, which is more than Rusty can say for himself; every time Reuben or Saul try to talk about feelings with him, he tells them about his bruschetta ranking system instead. It works. They both love bruschetta.
Danny sleeps like a baby in Reuben's large double bed.
Rusty is tired, restless. Sleeping with Danny is too easy, even when he's frustrated with him; something about his presence is calming, keeps Rusty from fraying too fast, getting too bored too soon. He'd thought that Danny felt similarly about him, only now he's not so sure. He wonders what they'd say to each other if they, well...did that. Even to someone who understands your silence, the man whose body calls your name in the dark, perhaps, Rusty thinks, some things might need to be said.
-
He's fallen asleep before he can think about saying anything at all. He's woken before dawn by a long-forgotten foe. It figures he'd been working up to a migraine for a while; later he'll have to sort out which of all these emotions last past it, and which of them frayed him to this point. For now, he stays very still, grits his teeth, and shivers.
When Danny wakes, he knows. Knows without Rusty having to say a word; within a few minutes there's a heating pad tucked into his arms, an ice-cold cloth laid over his jaw, at the base of his ear. Rusty flails a hand enough to squeeze Danny's arm in thanks, and Danny runs his fingers through his hair just firmly enough, just gently enough, all the hesitation gone from his touch. He feels looked after, a little bit. He thinks if he asked, Danny might bring him grapes or something, like a Roman emperor.
Neither of them makes much of a sound. Danny settles in behind him, spooning closer than they have in years, and only speaks once, to whisper a soft reassurance when Rusty tries to move his head and sees stars. At some point he goes to fetch him medication and another of Reuben's comforters, then gently nudges him over until he's settled. Rusty breathes through it until he can halfway think again, and then Danny's fingers are rediscovering pressure points in his shoulders and he's melting into the mattress, sinking deep, sinking.
-
The house is still quiet next morning, still dark. Danny's made sure of it; he knows without him saying a word. They make the short trip to the living room couch they put in together a few weeks ago, put on an early rerun of Jeopardy!, and Rusty takes Danny's hand under the comforter, feeling Danny squeeze back with something like abandon.
"We have any grapes or something?" he whispers, and of course Danny kisses him softly, then gets up and brings him some; they're light and crisp on his tongue, freezer-cool.