RUNNING

Author's note: This is an AU (in some ways) set around season three. Gus is a couple of years older than canon. And Justin hasn't been bashed.

This is a bit of a departure for me, and not only because it's written in the third person. It started off as a 'what if' ... what if Brian hadn't met Justin until sometime in Season Three? Which things would be different and which would be the same ... or brought about in a different way? How would Brian be different? Would he be better, or would he be worse? Would he still react to Justin in the same way if they were both a couple of years older?

Anyway, that was how it started; but then I had to supply a background for Justin that was canon to begin with, but ended up being quite different ... and then the whole thing turned into a kind of thriller. Well, I hope it did.

Plus, I've tinkered with the exact order of events in the interests of artistic continuity and drama (coughs) ... besides, Cowlip never bothered their heads too much about such things, anyway.

PROLOGUE

Sitting hunched at the rickety table before the filthy window, the young man pulled a glove onto his right hand; the razor blade was new, and there was no way he was going to risk cutting himself and getting blood over everything. Holding the thick cardboard steady between his knees, he carefully drew the blade along the middle of the edge facing him, creating a slit perhaps six inches long. Putting down the razor, he picked up a long, narrow-bladed kitchen knife and began to increase the depth of the incision; this was the tricky part, and he worked slowly, knowing that if he hurried and poked the knife through the exterior of the cardboard the whole thing would be ruined. He kept going until he'd made a pocket inside big enough to hold the Polaroid lying on the table; then he laid down the knife and slipped the photograph into the hiding place he'd created. He pushed it carefully as deep as he could with the tip of the knife, and then anxiously examined the result. It was perfect; the cardboard was rigid enough not to bulge, and even a more than cursory examination betrayed no sign of the photograph within. There was only one thing left to do; he picked up the tube of glue and applied a small amount along the top of the incision, making sure that none dribbled down onto the precious object within. Then he pressed the lips together, rubbing off any excess that oozed out with his thumb.

He kept pressure on the slit until he was certain it was stuck; then he used his thumb nail to roughen the cardboard's edge and blend away any traces of tampering, and studied his handiwork from all angles.

He smiled.

CHAPTER ONE

He kept moving because it was too cold to sit still.

The problem was, of course, that walking took energy, which depleted his limited daily calorie intake. That was the real challenge of winter – remembering that what you gained on one hand you tended to lose on the other. Everything was a balancing act.

Kind of like life, really.

He blinked his watering eyes against the cold and stuffed his hands deep in the pockets of his jacket; it was way too thin for winter, but when he'd spotted it sticking out of a dumpster he'd been only too glad to grab it. Even charity shops were beyond his financial reach, so he salvaged what he could, where he could – a pair of worn work boots to replace his split trainers, too big but at least waterproof; a thrown-away backpack, battered and stained but large enough to carry his spare clothing – a pair of old cargo pants, four pairs of boxers, two baggy tee shirts, a sweater and five pairs of mismatched socks - a threadbare towel and his precious sleeping bag. The rest of his worldly possessions resided in the side-pockets; his toothbrush, a comb, a small bar of soap; a chipped plate and mug, odd pieces of cutlery. A pocket knife. A box of matches. And most valuable of all, the sketchpad and pencils which provided both his comfort and his main source of income. In the summer he'd managed a brisk trade selling sketches of kids to proud parents, or landscapes to old ladies for a few dollars; enough to squirrel away a little store of cash to see him through the lean winter to come, when the parks were deserted and his fingers often too numb to draw. Now he was picking up casual work where he could; sweeping paths and sidewalks clear, carrying trash ... anything that would earn him enough money to buy one hot meal a day. Often he'd simply work for food.

He coughed fitfully, and winced at the sharp pain in his back. His cold wasn't getting any better, and last night he'd felt ill enough to resort to one of the homeless shelters, which he always avoided unless the weather was too severe or he was starving. They were dangerous places as far as he was concerned; people asked questions, and he was always afraid he might be recognised. But he was too cold and aching to face another night huddled on a bench or behind a dumpster, so he'd taken the chance. But he couldn't risk two nights in a row, even though the temperature was dropping rapidly as the sun went down and a light sleet was beginning to fall.

He was looking for the hot-dog seller; not because he was hungry – he wasn't, in fact he'd had to force food down for a few days now – but because it was necessary. Eating late in the day meant he could conserve the residual heat it gave his body, making it easier to withstand a night in the open. Another lesson he'd learned the hard way.

That was when he noticed the boy. A small figure in a red quilted jacket and black woolly hat, sitting on a bench sobbing into his mittens.

He looked around for an adult, even though he hadn't seen another person for a while. He hurried over. "Hey. You alright?"

Huge, frightened brown eyes turned to him. "No! I can't find my Dadda!"

He figured the kid was maybe four or five. Way too young to be running around on his own. He sat down beside the boy. "You're lost, huh?"

The kid nodded and sobbed harder. "I was playing with a doggy! He was running and running, and I chased him, and then I was lost!"

"It's okay." He tried to put a comforting arm around the child, who moved away nervously. "Where do you live? I'll take you home."

"I58 Carrington Street," the boy answered, looking up at him hopefully.

"Um." He rubbed his hand across his face. "I don't know where that is. If I take you out of the park, do you know your way home from there?"

"Nooo ..." The tears started again. "We came in my Dadda's car, and I don't bemember!"

He hid a smile. The kid was really cute.

"I know my Mommie's number though! You can call her and tell her to come and get me!"

"Sorry, kidder. I don't have a cell." He'd sold it, long ago. "I guess we'll have to go and find a policeman."

The boy looked at him warily and shook his head. "My Mommie said I should never go anywhere with a stranger."

I bet she told you never to run off on your own, either. He smiled as winningly as he could. "Then I guess I'll have to introduce myself." He held out his right hand. "I'm Jay. I'm pleased to meet you."

Brown eyes met his, and the kid studied him for a moment before breaking into a watery smile and holding out his own hand. "I'm Gus," he replied shyly.

They shook hands solemnly.

He stood up. "Well then, Gus. Let's get you home before it gets dark and your Mommie starts worrying."

Gus bounced off the bench and held up his hand trustingly. He took the small fingers in his own and led the boy down the path towards the nearest exit, all thoughts of hot-dogs forgotten. He was imagining a cop asking for ID, demanding a name, an address, asking questions ... no. He couldn't risk it. He'd just give the kid to the cop and run for it. But that would look even more suspicious, wouldn't it? They might put out a description or something ... fuck! He shook his head. It didn't matter. He couldn't leave Gus to fend for himself, so he didn't have any choice. He'd just have to hope they spotted a payphone first, and the kid could call home from there. He'd stay with Gus until the worried parents turned up, and then he'd just disappear ...

"Hey you!" The bellow came from behind him, together with the sound of running feet. He turned to see the tall black-clad figure of a man hurtling towards them, his face contorted with fury. He dropped Gus's hand and turned to run.

"No you don't, you fucker!" He was nearly pulled off his feet as the guy grabbed his backpack. He wriggled free of the straps, but his attacker immediately threw the pack to one side, sending sketchpad and pencils flying as a zip burst. A strong hand grabbed his arm and swung him round.

Panicked, he began to struggle in earnest. He landed a hefty kick to the guy's shin with his heavy boot, causing an angry yell of pain, but the man didn't relax his grip for a second. Instead he drew back his right fist and punched him in the face, and lights exploded in his head as he fell backwards. He could hear Gus screaming in the distance.

TBC