Fic: Duality
Title: Duality
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Danny/Tess, Danny/Rusty, Danny/Rusty/Tess
Warnings: Slash, implied sex, threesome
Disclaimer: I own nothing worth suing me for
Summary: Whenever she tried to articulate what it had been like being with Danny, she always ended up talking about Rusty
Notes: This fic got away from me a bit. The idea I had in my head bears little to no resemblance to the finished product.
She was working in a minor position in a small museum in New York at the time, and it had taken some saving to make the Exhibition of Late Post-Impressionism in Chicago. No big names, of course - no Cezanne or Van Gogh - but nevertheless an interesting display of artwork. She'd been contemplating a painting of a grassy meadow when someone spoke immediately behind her right shoulder.
"Interesting piece."
"Definitely." A second voice agreed from her left; "You can see-"
"Yes, with the-"
"I have to say, though, I prefer his earlier work."
Tess turned around to see two men - hmm, two rather attractive men - grinning openly at her. Ten minutes later she walked away in a bit of a daze. Two days later she still wasn't sure which one she'd given her phone number to.
A week later she saw in the papers that the museum had been robbed. But she didn't give it much thought - she was busy getting acquainted with one Daniel Ocean.
~*~
Tess never could quite explain her relationship with Danny. Later she came to realise that the problems she encountered in describing the relationship described it all by themselves: whenever she tried to articulate what it had been like being with Danny, she always ended up talking about Rusty.
~*~
They were already living together when Danny proposed to her, but he still went for the big romantic gesture: candles and champagne and fancy restaurant and all. She said 'yes' without even thinking about it. What else could she possibly have said?
Later she knew that the ring was either stolen or bought with stolen money. But age made her more pragmatic. A beautiful ring was a beautiful ring, and candlelit dinners were not to be sniffed at.
It was the next day that Rusty stopped by on his way to the airport. He looked from Danny's smug grin to the ring on Tess' finger and back again and raised an eyebrow.
"About time," he said, and made for the kitchen. "Got any pop tarts?"
~*~
It would have been, Tess reflected, so very easy to hate Rusty. Some women would have, in her position. It would have been so very easy to resent someone who took up so much of her husband's time and attention. It would have only been natural to get angry at the not-so-subtle insinuations and pitying glances sent her way when people saw how close they were.
There were two things, though, that made all the difference. Firstly, she hadn't met Danny that day at the exhibition, she had met the complex and bewildering entity that was Danny-and-Rusty: though she had only dated the former half, the latter was part of the package.
Secondly, she liked Rusty.
~*~
Their relationship was a happy one, right up until it wasn't.
Her finding out about her husband's double-life had been pure accident. At the time she'd been in contact with her opposite number at the Tate Modern in England, and naturally she'd assumed the letter bearing the UK postmark was for her.
It wasn't.
The start was fairly innocuous, but mention of 'the Paris job' and 'fifteen million' in the same sentence had her doing a double take. From there it went into recollections of 'old times', and every sentence was more damning. Her mind started putting little clues together as she read through thinly-veiled mentions of criminal activity. Worse was seeing the same snide insinuations that had been in friends' eyes for years couched in terms of fond reminiscence.
The letter was signed by someone called 'Basher', but by then her eyes were too blurred with tears to really see it. By the time Danny got home, she was gone, along with all her clothes and possessions, the letter sitting open on the kitchen counter.
~*~
There were so many people she could have called after Danny was arrested. She could have talked to friends, to family...hell, Oprah would have loved her story. She still isn't sure why she called Rusty.
But she came to a realisation years later, on the floor of the Bellagio. Letters and speeches and grand gestures of apology hadn't convinced her to forgive Danny. But a few words and a smile from Rusty have her willing to go on a little faith.
Months later, maybe a week before Danny's release, a car pulls up in front of the hotel she's staying in. She's already packed - part of her was expecting it.
This is what she realises in a battered sedan pulling out of New Jersey Prison. She loves Danny, but she doesn't completely trust him. She is merely fond of Rusty, but for reasons quite beyond her comprehension, she seems to trust him.
Maybe that was where her explanations always fell apart, in trying to separate them. Maybe Danny-and-Rusty was the way to go all along.
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Danny/Tess, Danny/Rusty, Danny/Rusty/Tess
Warnings: Slash, implied sex, threesome
Disclaimer: I own nothing worth suing me for
Summary: Whenever she tried to articulate what it had been like being with Danny, she always ended up talking about Rusty
Notes: This fic got away from me a bit. The idea I had in my head bears little to no resemblance to the finished product.
She was working in a minor position in a small museum in New York at the time, and it had taken some saving to make the Exhibition of Late Post-Impressionism in Chicago. No big names, of course - no Cezanne or Van Gogh - but nevertheless an interesting display of artwork. She'd been contemplating a painting of a grassy meadow when someone spoke immediately behind her right shoulder.
"Interesting piece."
"Definitely." A second voice agreed from her left; "You can see-"
"Yes, with the-"
"I have to say, though, I prefer his earlier work."
Tess turned around to see two men - hmm, two rather attractive men - grinning openly at her. Ten minutes later she walked away in a bit of a daze. Two days later she still wasn't sure which one she'd given her phone number to.
A week later she saw in the papers that the museum had been robbed. But she didn't give it much thought - she was busy getting acquainted with one Daniel Ocean.
~*~
Tess never could quite explain her relationship with Danny. Later she came to realise that the problems she encountered in describing the relationship described it all by themselves: whenever she tried to articulate what it had been like being with Danny, she always ended up talking about Rusty.
~*~
They were already living together when Danny proposed to her, but he still went for the big romantic gesture: candles and champagne and fancy restaurant and all. She said 'yes' without even thinking about it. What else could she possibly have said?
Later she knew that the ring was either stolen or bought with stolen money. But age made her more pragmatic. A beautiful ring was a beautiful ring, and candlelit dinners were not to be sniffed at.
It was the next day that Rusty stopped by on his way to the airport. He looked from Danny's smug grin to the ring on Tess' finger and back again and raised an eyebrow.
"About time," he said, and made for the kitchen. "Got any pop tarts?"
~*~
It would have been, Tess reflected, so very easy to hate Rusty. Some women would have, in her position. It would have been so very easy to resent someone who took up so much of her husband's time and attention. It would have only been natural to get angry at the not-so-subtle insinuations and pitying glances sent her way when people saw how close they were.
There were two things, though, that made all the difference. Firstly, she hadn't met Danny that day at the exhibition, she had met the complex and bewildering entity that was Danny-and-Rusty: though she had only dated the former half, the latter was part of the package.
Secondly, she liked Rusty.
~*~
Their relationship was a happy one, right up until it wasn't.
Her finding out about her husband's double-life had been pure accident. At the time she'd been in contact with her opposite number at the Tate Modern in England, and naturally she'd assumed the letter bearing the UK postmark was for her.
It wasn't.
The start was fairly innocuous, but mention of 'the Paris job' and 'fifteen million' in the same sentence had her doing a double take. From there it went into recollections of 'old times', and every sentence was more damning. Her mind started putting little clues together as she read through thinly-veiled mentions of criminal activity. Worse was seeing the same snide insinuations that had been in friends' eyes for years couched in terms of fond reminiscence.
The letter was signed by someone called 'Basher', but by then her eyes were too blurred with tears to really see it. By the time Danny got home, she was gone, along with all her clothes and possessions, the letter sitting open on the kitchen counter.
~*~
There were so many people she could have called after Danny was arrested. She could have talked to friends, to family...hell, Oprah would have loved her story. She still isn't sure why she called Rusty.
But she came to a realisation years later, on the floor of the Bellagio. Letters and speeches and grand gestures of apology hadn't convinced her to forgive Danny. But a few words and a smile from Rusty have her willing to go on a little faith.
Months later, maybe a week before Danny's release, a car pulls up in front of the hotel she's staying in. She's already packed - part of her was expecting it.
This is what she realises in a battered sedan pulling out of New Jersey Prison. She loves Danny, but she doesn't completely trust him. She is merely fond of Rusty, but for reasons quite beyond her comprehension, she seems to trust him.
Maybe that was where her explanations always fell apart, in trying to separate them. Maybe Danny-and-Rusty was the way to go all along.