Detective Rustin Cohle (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
littlepriest) wrote2017-11-18 07:53 pm
littlepriest) wrote2017-11-18 07:53 pm
(no subject)
Even now, Rust won’t drink. It threatens to take Will out of the moment, out of the scene they’re setting, because he knows the other man so well, and it’s hard to shut his thoughts off — but that’s what this is for. Well, in part. Will finds that he’s staring at the man a seat over from him, the way he hovers his cigarette idly above the old crystal ashtray with his thumb and forefinger — so unlike most smokers, Will has always wondered how Rust chose those manners of holding his cigarettes, why he handles his lighter like...
No, stop. Will catches himself, thoughts of what is familiar, and looks back down into his whiskey that he doesn’t really have the thirst for, but hell, they’re in a bar. What else was he supposed to do when he sat down? Will has to grasp those thoughts swirling airy in his mind, wisps of knowledge and memory and analyses that try to slip away through his hands.
Rust, on the other hand, can feel the air tensing gradually between them, yet it doesn’t feel like it’s pulling either of them toward the other. It’s difficult for Rust to step away from himself, his nature, how he knows he would act in this situation — he snags on his own self like cloth catching on a nail. He lifts the cigarette to his lips and closes his eyes for a brief moment, shutting out the sights around him.
He reminds himself that he’s got to let go of his current version of self. He’s done it before but that...was a long time ago. This feels nearly juvenile. Shit, Rust is surprised that he’s gone along with this, gotten this far, but he also knows how it convinced him. Pure surprise, really. It made sense for Will, the idea of it all, wanting to play like they’re strangers in a bar — a mental reset. ’Therapy doesn’t work for me,’ said the man in need of catharsis, an unorthodox way to let him decompress, but somehow this idea had clicked. Rust after that just didn’t argue; he was too intrigued to fight it.
Besides, he’s had quite a bit of experience in pretending to be someone else before. At least this time, people aren’t dying.
The strained silence has gone on long enough. “If you’re gonna ask for a light, should probably do it ‘fore I head outta here.”
Will visibly jumps to attention, head snapping back up; he’s been staring again, stalling awkwardly. Rust side-eyes him as he taps the end of his cigarette into the tray. You’re falling into your head again. Don’t do that.
Will blinks. Message received. He huffs and smiles crookedly, eyes averting and diving into his glass of whiskey, neat, glad that he doesn’t have to be the one to open this conversation. “Oh, uh— no, thanks but...”
He’s barely audible over the country music, but Rust feels his voice, silken but rough. Birds feathers. It helps keep his attention on his soft words, breathy tone.
Rust just stares into the side of Will’s head and he can definitely feel it — Jesus, was it his plan to act as intimidating as possible during this? Will looks up and further up and then arcs his gaze over in the man’s direction and down to the bar top, scrambling to remind himself of what this is. He’s safe in this, no challenge to confront, no obstacles to navigate.
Be what you want to be. “I just... I couldn’t help but notice, wonder why...” Will finally looks at Rust again and finds to his surprise that his stare looks much less severe than it felt when he was avoiding it. “Who comes to a bar and...doesn’t drink?”
Will can’t be sure if that was foul play or not. What will Rust respond with? It’s somehow more stressful knowing what territory he’s treading, realizing that the real relief would be not knowing. Then again, it’s hard for Will to not know, even with a true stranger. He’s pretty sure he could see what’s going on with a man sitting in a bar who won’t drink — and Will has to remind himself to step back from the cliff’s edge of Rust’s psychological pathologies. The exercise here is to not slip on that slope.
Rust is eerily still as he considers the question, and it brushes a self-conscious heat across the back of Will’s neck. Again with that intimidating aura — not that he’s seen it recently, but it’s unsettlingly familiar. Will searches blue eyes and wonders if he’s seeing...
The eyes break away, across to the bar back, shelves swollen with a variety of glass bottles, then down at the counter. Rust catches sight of a few stray ashes from his cigarette, lays his hand out on the smooth lacquered wood, and brushes them away. His thoughts are running during every second he’s silent.
“...What I want...” Rust begins finally, pacing himself carefully, one soft step across a lake of ice at a time. “...they don’t serve in a bar.”
Will immediately scoffs — turns his head away to hide his expression, a muted laugh. Rust is a little relieved for it when he feels his face pull back a couple degrees when a self-conscious laugh swells in his lungs. The both of them cannot believe what he just said. Will is too close to breaking his ’character’ and asking him what the hell was that? but he can manage his amusement.
When Will comes back to their conversation, he’s still smiling somewhat, more across his eyes than in his lips, and he’s nodding, amusement still palpable but far from deprecating of anything. “Interesting.” He holds his glass now, fingers restlessly shifting or tapping around the shape of it. “Yet you’re sitting in a bar. Sounds like it’s going to make finding what you’re looking for a lot harder.”
“It’s not a question of difficulty. I know what I want.” Rust explains softly, but with a bone-deep certainty that makes his words feel substantial. Will doesn’t need to have known him months or years to know he means what he’s saying; he seems to stop and marvel, not just at the response, but realizing that it’s a truth that works, whether they’re pretending to each other, or not.
“And sometimes, that want is one of the last bars standing that allows indoor smoking?” Will suggests, finally taking a sip of his whiskey.
Rust’s small burst of a laugh is lost to the echoing music playing overhead. "It's one thing I look for, yeah."
"Guess you do know how to find what you’re looking for."
Rust realizes fully, for the first time, what this can all mean for him. He doesn't have to be so guarded. This isn't adding new layers -- this can be taking some down. He goes quiet as he thinks on it, already feeling a looseness in his chest now that the uncertainty about all of this has started to wane. He looks at Will and wonders if this is doing anything for him.
"You waitin' for somebody?" Rust inquires softly, before the filter of his cigarette presses between his lips. Will looks at him with genuine surprise, pauses and readies a reply they both know is simple.
"Uh, n-no. I'm not. You?"
Rust exhales smoke and taps his cigarette into the crystal tray. "No."
Will nods and looks down at his drink. He's interested enough to talk. He isn't waiting for anyone. Less and less is Will having to block out his thoughts. The more this goes on, the more momentum Will feels, a snowball building as it goes. The other man's cigarette is smouldering down to its last couple of millimeters; Will considers how to make him stay. "...Can I buy you a drink?"
Shit-- Will snaps back and realizes. He jerks his head up and gapes at Rust, as if horrified. His partner has grown still, but almost thoughtfully so. Will scrambles to somehow revoke his offer: "Or, you don't-- I mean..."
At least between the two of them, Rust can be the calm one. "Sure."
Will stops. No. Rust, don't... "You don't have to, I wasn't thinking..."
Rust punches out his cigarette into the ash tray before standing up, and Will's heart pangs with alarm -- before his partner sits himself in the empty bar stool beside him. Will blinks, and Rust looks at him simply. "I'll have what you're havin'."
Will is quiet for a moment, tentative, but also doesn't doubt how certain Rust seems. "...Yeah?"
Rust's eyes flick down momentarily, eyes catching on the drink on the bar. He's made uo his mind, and it's clear in his pale eyes when they find Will's again. "I know what I want."
Heat blooms between Will's ribs, and it's a familiar feeling. He hasn't seen so much of this hidden side of Rust out in the open -- 'Crash' -- in a long damn time. Will has always known it was there, that it never died, even this long after the shootout that landed him in the hospital. He's transfixed by the look on Rust's face, and nearly needs an actual nudge to pull himself out of his thinking. He awakens and looks over the bar, down to the right, and waves down the bartender.
It's still almost impossible to turn that thinking off, especially when half of it is memory anyway... But the memory is security.
Will knows what he wants, too. He wants memories that don't cut him open. He thinks that's something Rust wants, too.
No, stop. Will catches himself, thoughts of what is familiar, and looks back down into his whiskey that he doesn’t really have the thirst for, but hell, they’re in a bar. What else was he supposed to do when he sat down? Will has to grasp those thoughts swirling airy in his mind, wisps of knowledge and memory and analyses that try to slip away through his hands.
Rust, on the other hand, can feel the air tensing gradually between them, yet it doesn’t feel like it’s pulling either of them toward the other. It’s difficult for Rust to step away from himself, his nature, how he knows he would act in this situation — he snags on his own self like cloth catching on a nail. He lifts the cigarette to his lips and closes his eyes for a brief moment, shutting out the sights around him.
He reminds himself that he’s got to let go of his current version of self. He’s done it before but that...was a long time ago. This feels nearly juvenile. Shit, Rust is surprised that he’s gone along with this, gotten this far, but he also knows how it convinced him. Pure surprise, really. It made sense for Will, the idea of it all, wanting to play like they’re strangers in a bar — a mental reset. ’Therapy doesn’t work for me,’ said the man in need of catharsis, an unorthodox way to let him decompress, but somehow this idea had clicked. Rust after that just didn’t argue; he was too intrigued to fight it.
Besides, he’s had quite a bit of experience in pretending to be someone else before. At least this time, people aren’t dying.
The strained silence has gone on long enough. “If you’re gonna ask for a light, should probably do it ‘fore I head outta here.”
Will visibly jumps to attention, head snapping back up; he’s been staring again, stalling awkwardly. Rust side-eyes him as he taps the end of his cigarette into the tray. You’re falling into your head again. Don’t do that.
Will blinks. Message received. He huffs and smiles crookedly, eyes averting and diving into his glass of whiskey, neat, glad that he doesn’t have to be the one to open this conversation. “Oh, uh— no, thanks but...”
He’s barely audible over the country music, but Rust feels his voice, silken but rough. Birds feathers. It helps keep his attention on his soft words, breathy tone.
Rust just stares into the side of Will’s head and he can definitely feel it — Jesus, was it his plan to act as intimidating as possible during this? Will looks up and further up and then arcs his gaze over in the man’s direction and down to the bar top, scrambling to remind himself of what this is. He’s safe in this, no challenge to confront, no obstacles to navigate.
Be what you want to be. “I just... I couldn’t help but notice, wonder why...” Will finally looks at Rust again and finds to his surprise that his stare looks much less severe than it felt when he was avoiding it. “Who comes to a bar and...doesn’t drink?”
Will can’t be sure if that was foul play or not. What will Rust respond with? It’s somehow more stressful knowing what territory he’s treading, realizing that the real relief would be not knowing. Then again, it’s hard for Will to not know, even with a true stranger. He’s pretty sure he could see what’s going on with a man sitting in a bar who won’t drink — and Will has to remind himself to step back from the cliff’s edge of Rust’s psychological pathologies. The exercise here is to not slip on that slope.
Rust is eerily still as he considers the question, and it brushes a self-conscious heat across the back of Will’s neck. Again with that intimidating aura — not that he’s seen it recently, but it’s unsettlingly familiar. Will searches blue eyes and wonders if he’s seeing...
The eyes break away, across to the bar back, shelves swollen with a variety of glass bottles, then down at the counter. Rust catches sight of a few stray ashes from his cigarette, lays his hand out on the smooth lacquered wood, and brushes them away. His thoughts are running during every second he’s silent.
“...What I want...” Rust begins finally, pacing himself carefully, one soft step across a lake of ice at a time. “...they don’t serve in a bar.”
Will immediately scoffs — turns his head away to hide his expression, a muted laugh. Rust is a little relieved for it when he feels his face pull back a couple degrees when a self-conscious laugh swells in his lungs. The both of them cannot believe what he just said. Will is too close to breaking his ’character’ and asking him what the hell was that? but he can manage his amusement.
When Will comes back to their conversation, he’s still smiling somewhat, more across his eyes than in his lips, and he’s nodding, amusement still palpable but far from deprecating of anything. “Interesting.” He holds his glass now, fingers restlessly shifting or tapping around the shape of it. “Yet you’re sitting in a bar. Sounds like it’s going to make finding what you’re looking for a lot harder.”
“It’s not a question of difficulty. I know what I want.” Rust explains softly, but with a bone-deep certainty that makes his words feel substantial. Will doesn’t need to have known him months or years to know he means what he’s saying; he seems to stop and marvel, not just at the response, but realizing that it’s a truth that works, whether they’re pretending to each other, or not.
“And sometimes, that want is one of the last bars standing that allows indoor smoking?” Will suggests, finally taking a sip of his whiskey.
Rust’s small burst of a laugh is lost to the echoing music playing overhead. "It's one thing I look for, yeah."
"Guess you do know how to find what you’re looking for."
Rust realizes fully, for the first time, what this can all mean for him. He doesn't have to be so guarded. This isn't adding new layers -- this can be taking some down. He goes quiet as he thinks on it, already feeling a looseness in his chest now that the uncertainty about all of this has started to wane. He looks at Will and wonders if this is doing anything for him.
"You waitin' for somebody?" Rust inquires softly, before the filter of his cigarette presses between his lips. Will looks at him with genuine surprise, pauses and readies a reply they both know is simple.
"Uh, n-no. I'm not. You?"
Rust exhales smoke and taps his cigarette into the crystal tray. "No."
Will nods and looks down at his drink. He's interested enough to talk. He isn't waiting for anyone. Less and less is Will having to block out his thoughts. The more this goes on, the more momentum Will feels, a snowball building as it goes. The other man's cigarette is smouldering down to its last couple of millimeters; Will considers how to make him stay. "...Can I buy you a drink?"
Shit-- Will snaps back and realizes. He jerks his head up and gapes at Rust, as if horrified. His partner has grown still, but almost thoughtfully so. Will scrambles to somehow revoke his offer: "Or, you don't-- I mean..."
At least between the two of them, Rust can be the calm one. "Sure."
Will stops. No. Rust, don't... "You don't have to, I wasn't thinking..."
Rust punches out his cigarette into the ash tray before standing up, and Will's heart pangs with alarm -- before his partner sits himself in the empty bar stool beside him. Will blinks, and Rust looks at him simply. "I'll have what you're havin'."
Will is quiet for a moment, tentative, but also doesn't doubt how certain Rust seems. "...Yeah?"
Rust's eyes flick down momentarily, eyes catching on the drink on the bar. He's made uo his mind, and it's clear in his pale eyes when they find Will's again. "I know what I want."
Heat blooms between Will's ribs, and it's a familiar feeling. He hasn't seen so much of this hidden side of Rust out in the open -- 'Crash' -- in a long damn time. Will has always known it was there, that it never died, even this long after the shootout that landed him in the hospital. He's transfixed by the look on Rust's face, and nearly needs an actual nudge to pull himself out of his thinking. He awakens and looks over the bar, down to the right, and waves down the bartender.
It's still almost impossible to turn that thinking off, especially when half of it is memory anyway... But the memory is security.
Will knows what he wants, too. He wants memories that don't cut him open. He thinks that's something Rust wants, too.