“Come on, Rip, you can't ignore me forever! Can you please just talk to me? I don't care if it's even just one word, just say something!” Dusty was pleading. 

Ripslinger remained stubbornly silent, his back turned to the smaller plane. He was still refusing to eat, now to talk anymore, or show any indication that he was wasn't just a museum prop. 

“Pleeeeaase? I even have a question for you. Hmm? Curious yet? It's a reeally interesting one... I'm not gonna tell you what it is unless you say something... No? Not curious? Okay, lemme think. I have TWO questions for you! Although I doubt you'd know the answer to the second one...”

“If I talk to you some, will you shut the hell up and leave me alone?” the P-51 finally spoke up in a tired, exasperated tone.

“Well it's about time! You were starting to get me worried,” Dusty said, practically bouncing on his landing gear in a little victory cheer. 

“And why would you worry about me?” asked Ripslinger lazily. 

“Well, because I care about you.”

“Now there's an amusing lie. You've got me caged in here against my will like I'm some kind of wild animal and you're seriously going to act like you care about me?” Ripslinger paused, huffing with a snort from his engine, “What crock of slag.”

“Rip, you know why we can't let you out! You're not well!”

“How well do I have to be?! I'm talking, hell, I haven't even tried to kill any of you; what more do you want?”

“Not that you can remember,” Dusty pointed out, and Ripslinger seemed to be taken aback by this information, “You had another collapsing episode this morning and just yesterday you almost turned Sparky into scrap metal during a fit of dementia.”

“Get out. You're getting on my nerves. I said I'd talk, and I'm done. So just go.”

“But Rip...”

“I said get out,” Ripslinger coldly repeated, turning his back once again and refusing to say any more.

After a while of trying to get him to speak to him again, Dusty finally gave up for now and left the hangar. He tried to feel encouraged that he had gotten him to talk at least a little bit, but he was still left feeling emptier than when he refused to say anything to him at all. Dusty didn't know what to do. What started this; all of this? They had all rejoiced when he had suddenly gotten his speech back, thinking that they would finally have some answers as to what happened to him while he was captured by the Cutters so that maybe they would be able to help. But it was short lived as he flat-out refused to speak about it, even becoming violent if just gently pressed despite the fact that he was still suffering the effects of the incident. What were they going to do?

“What's with the face?” Skipper asked him as he approached Dottie's garage where everyone was having lunch.

“Just Ripslinger,” Dusty muttered, going over to sit a little off to the side by himself.

“Still nothin', huh?”

“Oh, no, he talked to me this time.”

“What did he say?!” asked Clarice and Dottie simultaneously. 

“Not much. But I have the distinct feeling that he still hates me and thinks that everything that's happened is my fault.”

“You're not saying you really believe that, do you?” Clarice asked him, and Dusty shook his front.

“No, and I don't think he actually does either. He's smarter than that. And really, how is he supposed to act? Whatever happened to him when he was with the Cutters has really messed him up; he's feeling lost right now. Not to mention betrayed because we've got him caged when he thinks there's nothing wrong with himself.”

“You're going to have to stop being so soft on him,” Skipper asserted matter-of-factly. “He should feel lucky that nothing worse was done to him or else that he's not dead.”

“That's the thing though,” Dusty agonized, “He's holding all the missing pieces to this but he refuses to talk about it and tell us what happened. I'll bet we could find a way to fix it if we only knew.”

“Sounds like he's just being a big-ass baby to me,” Clarice commented. 

“Ripslinger's gonna be the death of me yet,” Dusty griped, settling down into his landing gear, tired and frustrated.

Faced against that cold, olive-colored stare, the orange and white plane felt at a loss... and even a little guilty. He didn't know what to do. Dottie took pity on the forlorn racer and came over to sit beside him.

“Nothing's going to change all at once, Dusty, so you shouldn't worry about it all at once,” the little blue forklift advised. “Just take it as it comes; one day at a time. All you can do is just be here for him.”

“Yeah...” Dusty reluctantly agreed, being impatient. “The only reason he even said anything to me today was so that I'd shut up.”

Skipper chuckled at that; Dottie did a little better in holding back a snort.

“Look on the bright side,” Clarice continued. “he did actually say something. It's a start. Maybe tomorrow he'll say a little more?”

“You're right! Come on, gotta stay positive!” Dusty declared, trying to psyche himself up.

“I still think getting him to actually eat something would do a lot of good,” Chug once again proposed.

“I'd rather not,” said Sparky. “I can't speak for him, but I'd rather eat my food than wear it.”

Everybody nodded and mumbled their agreements.

“Well maybe some junk food to bribe him wouldn't hurt.”

Everyone looked around to see Ned and Zed rolling up.

“Junk food?” Skipper repeated.

“Yeah,” Zed responded. “He'll never admit it, but the boss has a huge sweet tooth.”

They were all dumbstruck for a second before Chug finally spoke up.

“Alright then, let's go over to the store and grab a bunch of candy.”	

“Uh uh,” Ned countered. “He doesn't like American candy. Thinks it's cheap and too sweet. I think this calls for drastic measures.”

“To Snook's?” His brother rejoined.

“To Snook's. We'll be back as soon as we can!”

The twin Zivkos headed for the runway, leaving the rest of the group blinking after them.

(AN: If anyone wants to imagine the Sammy Davis Jr version of The Candy Man playing over a montage of these two raiding this Willy Wonka-looking candy store where it's impossible to leave without buying at least a cavity's worth of gummy worms, feel free.)

XXxx

This was insufferable. Completely and utterly insufferable. Ripslinger would have preferred outright cruelty than this pretense of compassion. That and the utter indignity of being held captive. He turned enough to glare at the guard standing by the door of the hangar. The poor little forklift squirmed uncomfortably under his gaze. Good. At least somebody around here had some sense, but then anger all of a sudden flared up in him at the thought of the guard only being afraid of him because they all thought was crazy. He turned back to face the cold, unyielding wall of the hangar that had been his prison for Chrysler knows how long already. Although it killed him to even admit it himself, he felt so helpless. Blind to the outside world for so long. The confusion, pain, and unease his psychotic episodes would bring him on a regular basis was starting to take their toll. Mostly unaware of the occurrences, the only indication he had that they were coming was a slight shaking in his frame and incoordination before he would shortly black out. He used to prefer solitude, an odd trait for an airplane to have, but now he was starting to feel very alone. On the heels of all these feelings a fiery rage began to wash over him. 

How dare they... How dare he! Having the nerve to say he cares about him. Nonsense. But Dusty never made much sense to him. Ripslinger, although reluctantly, had to give credit where credit was due. There was nothing here he could possibly use to escape and he was kept under constant watch. He was completely at Dusty's mercy. He didn't expect him to actually have it in him to devise all these measures around him. Bravo, Ripslinger thought bitterly. 

There was a knock at the door to the hangar. Ripslinger snorted irritably. Again. No one else knocked. If he didn't know Dusty any better he would think that it was meant to be a stinging reminder of his helplessness, but he knew that that just wasn't in Dusty's nature. Still, it irked him. Ripslinger remained facing the wall, refusing to answer as Dusty entered and told the in-room guard to take a break. The slate-gray forklift left immediately, immensely grateful to be out of there. 

“Hey there,” Dusty said in his usual, hesitant greeting.

“Whatd'you want?” the green and black Mustang sighed.

“I brought you something!”

Ripslinger huffed his disinterest, but then immediately after, the intensely familiar scent of cocoa powder and boiling sugar and caramel hit him smack in the face. Reflexively, he jerked up and looked around. 

“We flew these in first-class express all the way from California...” tempted Dusty as he pushed three bulging bags with the Snook's logo on them toward the front of the cell.

Ripslinger openly stared wide-eyed at the bags for a moment, but then his face soured back up again as he narrowed his eyes at Dusty in a glare before turning back around again, embarrassed at his reaction. 

“I know you want one...” Dusty teased. 

Then, unable to say no to himself any longer, Dusty nosed around for one of the dozens of different chocolates, rolling it up into his mouth on his tongue. Oh good Chrysler in heaven! He'd need to make this quick before he went full vacuum cleaner-mode. Ripslinger only scowled at the wall. Three times now he had been drugged and fuel manually pumped into his system. It was humiliating, but he had no choice in the matter now if he wanted to continue living. And he had to live; he had his plan. 

“Okay, fine!” he spat, getting up to move in front of Dusty, the bars separating them. “But just one!”

“Hah! They said you couldn't say no to Snook's!” said Dusty as he tossed one of the bags through the bars. 

“Hmph.” Ripslinger snorted, nosing at the bag. 

Those traitors... They looked okay. They smelt heavenly. Dusty watched with eager anticipation.

“Well? Come on...”

“I will eat it when I'm good and ready!” Ripslinger snapped. 

“It's not like they're drugged or anything,” said Dusty, picking out another chocolate for himself. What was this one supposed to be again? Some kind of s'mores truffle?

“...You are absolutely infuriating, do you know that?”

“What?” Dusty asked innocently before licking up another one. 

“You... you...” Ripslinger's engine let out a frustrated growl before he was able to stifle it down. Patience, he reminded himself. You have to just string him along. “Just... go, please. Come back in a few minutes- hours,” he quickly corrected. “Whatever, I don't care, but you're driving me crazy. So just go.”

“Okay, okay, I'm leaving,” Dusty said quietly, but inside he was cheering. 

Ripslinger didn't tell him to go and die in a hole this time, and he'd actually said please! Oh happy day!

“Well?” Ripslinger said impatiently.

“I'm going, I'm going,” Dusty said as he made his way out. “I'll just leave these here.”

With a stoney expression, Ripslinger watched as Dusty left. Then slowly, his gaze crept down to the bag of chocolates but quickly averted away, then back again. He looked to the hangar doors. No one else was here. He was alone. He looked back down at the bag. To the doors. No one.

…They're mine, damn it!

He lunged for the bag and started scarfing them all down, enjoying every last bite.