You called it a “pool party” rather facetiously, for what it truly consisted of was a six pack of California Coolers, a bottle of scotch, three thatched lawn chairs, and a tiny blue kiddie pool filled with water, half melted ice cubes, and one single neon green inflatable raft, which you dutifully took turns lounging in, all arranged in the center of the garden behind the Macaulay family estate. 

Presently, it was Camilla’s turn with the raft. She laid in it, elbows and knees rested lazily against the vinyl, cheeks covered by a pretty drunk flush. Her swimsuit, a modest baby blue one piece without a single frill, was covered in haphazard dark splotches from the water, and her blue and white striped cotton shorts still hung from one ankle, kissing the grass. 

Charles sat in a lawn chair just beside you, with one foot on the pool float, lazily rocking her side to side without much thought about it. He held a bottle of beer, which you had no clue where he found, against his knee. His swim shorts were pristine white, as was his half buttoned linen shirt, from beneath which peeked the lean muscle of his chest. His skin was damp with sweat and burned bright red from the sun, but imperfection suited him. It only made him appear more beautiful, in your opinion.

When drunk and home, both twins took on a heavier accent— syrupy and sweet and oh, so indulgent— which fell pleasantly on your ears as Camilla rambled on in a self contained monologue that reminded you of the Henry she so often wrote you about from school. She appeared to be reciting a poem, the likes of which you were certain wasn’t her taste at all, but it curled from her lips like wobbly smoke and hung humid in the air in a way that felt poetic of its own accord, so you enjoyed it all the same.

“Before I think where I go, solitary, Today is burning hot— the sun poured down whole lumps of red hot fire,” She murmured, mostly to herself, “Not a tree, not a shed to shelter us from the intolerable glare. I too never used to think anything of heat or cold, from age 20 to 50— but last summer I felt the heat severely, for the first time— me, old, alone, sick, weak-down, melted-worn with sweat…”

You pressed your back into your own chair and propped your feet just beside Charles’s, more for something to do than anything else. Neither twin seemed to notice. Camilla kept speaking in her dreamlike trance and Charles kept staring up into the trees, his all black sunglasses obscuring his gray eyes from view.

“…companion better than book, talk, art, So sweet thy primitive taste to breathe within— Thy soothing fingers on my face and hands,” Camilla sighed and leaned her head back enough for her short blonde hair to dip into the water, “Thou, messenger magical-strange bringer to body and spirit of me…”

Charles shifted his foot slightly, enough that your ankles bumped. Your skin prickled. Startled from his own reverie, Charles’s shoulders curled forward and his gaze snapped to you, sunglasses slipping down his nose. You smiled and looked away, feeling impossibly warmer than before.

You’d had a crush on Charles for what felt like forever. Ever since you were children, really,  running around Roanoke Valley in a cluster of four— yourself, Camilla and Charles in their always matching outfits and telepathic sync, and little Claire, who was really only two years younger but much shorter and slightly tubby, at the time, but begged to be included the way a much younger child would— you’d harbored a fluttering admiration for him. 

It was the sort of admiration that left you writing love letters you’d never send anywhere but a hatbox beneath your bed, drowned in perfume and peppered with red lipstick kisses. The lipstick and perfume, of course, were pilfered from your mother’s dressing table— no proper young lady owned any such things of her own unless she was destined for a career of ill repute, according to your mother. It was the sort of admiration that grew in silence and absence, rather than disappearing the way you wished desperately it would.

He didn’t move his foot again, nor did you move yours, and eventually you felt his eyes leave your profile. From the corner of your eye, you watched him take a long drink from his beer, and you tried your best not to turn toward him again so you might better study the way his throat worked to swallow. That would be too much. Too embarrassing. 

One of the dogs, a tall, skinny Greyhound, bounded over and stopped to sit next to you, nudging your hand to remind you to pet it. This one was Rodger, your personal favorite of the Macaulay dogs, who seemed to worship the ground you walked on. You ran your palm over the top of his head and back, just how you knew he liked. This must be where Claire had gone off to— to fetch the dogs, who had been cooped up in the house for about an hour by now, which wouldn’t do. 

Sure enough, followed closely by Daisy— a white Italian Greyhound, shorter than Rodger, with large tan spots— and Easton— their sweet, long eared Cavalier Spaniel, whose head was all one big black spot, but whose body was mostly white— came Claire, in all her glory. 

She had grown taller and slimmed out some over the last few years, though she was still nowhere near as waifish and almost weak looking as her elder cousin but you thought it suited her well, and in truth, it did. She looked like the woman she was growing into, even at twenty; even in an old brown one piece that resembled a playsuit more than anything else, dotted by delicate pink flowers.

“Did I miss anything?” Claire settled in the chair across from you and crossed her legs. Two braids, messy with wear, hung over her shoulders. 

“Only our own little poetry salon.” You half joked with a nod toward Camilla, who was still going on in fractured, mis-matched quotations.

Claire nodded with a faint look of amusement, though there was something strangely sober beneath her eyes that struck you. Not for the first time, you wondered what happened the summer prior— the one spent in Vermont— and what it had to do with this change that had developed within your darling friend. More importantly, you wondered why she seemed to stiffen so much at Camilla’s words when she shifted from English to Latin, then back to English once more.

“Isn’t it my turn by now?” Claire interrupted, leaning forward as she uncrossed her legs.

Camilla hummed noncommittally, stretching her arms above her head.

“Maybe.”

Claire shot Charles a look. He checked his watch and rocked the float once more. His ankle pressed firmly into yours as he did so, warmth flooding through from your leg to your cheeks at the contact. You wanted to be over him, really you did, but it was little things like this that made it feel so impossible.

“She’s right. You’re over time, Milly.” He sounded apologetic.

Camilla sighed and pushed herself up off the float. You and Charles both took your feet from it, returning them to the damp, warm grass one after the other as Claire stood to take her rightful turn with a proud tip of her chin. Charles drained the last of his beer with ease before he stood, too, and ambled toward the small blue and white plastic cooler you’d dragged out along with your liquor. 

He rooted around in it for a minute, grumbling to himself as his twin sister plopped into the chair he’d now left empty. This, you knew, would annoy him some— the seat of her suit was wet with cold pool water, after all— but you didn’t get the chance to hear him complain about it. He slammed the cooler lid shut and turned to face the rest of you, his mouth curving in a manner that suggested drunk brooding. 

“Which one of you drank literally everything we brought out here?” He managed to not sound as accusatory as you were sure he felt.

“I’m guessing you did.” Claire trailed her fingers in the water, swirling pieces of ice against each other.

“I had the last cooler, technically.” You lifted your half empty bottle of saccharine strawberry liquor with an apologetic grimace.

He stared at you for a beat. You could imagine the look of betrayal in his eyes, even if his glasses obscured them from full view. You pushed your hair back behind your ear, teeth catching for a moment on your bottom lip before you stood. The chair arm dug into your palm when you pushed against it, leaving an angry pink mark. 

“I’ll help you bring more out.” You hoped your words came across soothing.

He half shrugged, though you could practically hear the ‘it’s the least you can do,’ he was probably thinking. You slipped your sandals back on with a sigh and started for the house. You didn’t bother to wait for him; the sound of ice scraping the inside of the cooler meant he was following anyway, carrying it along with him. 

The gardens were beautiful this time of year, even if you did have to step around a palmetto bug or two. Palmetto bugs were one thing you knew neither twin missed in Vermont— they were shiny black and evil winged creatures that never seemed to die, no matter what you tried— and, not for the first time, you found yourself a touch jealous of how far they got to spend most of their year. 

None of the dogs cared to follow you back to the house, not wanting to be locked back inside by mistake, but you didn’t mind. Roses passed, as did shrubs and trees, and you were soon pulling open the glass paned double patio doors to the dining room. You leaned against one to hold it open for Charles, your first real acknowledgment that he’d followed dutifully behind at all. 

“Thanks.” He murmured rather sulkily as he brushed passed you, heading straight for the kitchen. 

“Yep.” You answered quietly enough that you were certain he didn’t even hear you, allowing the door to click shut as you stepped into the house.

Your shoes shuffled against the dark wooded floor as you stepped around the grand dining table— twelve chairs, all dark, and an ovular table decorated by a china vase of pretty yellow hydrangeas in the center— and followed him. His shirt curved almost like a cape as he walked, white linen stark against the deep, rich interior of the house. He reminded you of an apparition; gauzy and only half there.

Surprisingly, the kitchen was empty when you entered. Their cook, Mrs. Ekholm, must have been on her lunch break. She liked to spend it, you knew, on the telephone with her children, back in Minnesota. A long distance call, to be sure, and one that came faithfully out of her check each month. You thought it sweet, anytime you’d heard her happy Swedish words curling through from staff quarters, that she would spend such money just to speak to her husband and children. 

Charles set the cooler on the floor near the fridge and tugged it open. You placed your palms on the counter just beside him and hoisted yourself up, allowing your sandals to fall to the tiled floor as you did so. He didn’t need help stocking the cooler, but might need it when it came to carrying it back, which was why you’d bothered to come along at all. Besides that, you liked to watch him do nearly anything, and this was the perfect excuse.

He worked in silence for awhile, digging out bottles and working them into the icy cooler water. It seemed, at times, that he was struggling to really see what he was looking for and it was this that emboldened you to reach out for the sunglasses. He stilled when your fingers brushed his cheek, warmth twining down your arms like vines as you tugged them from his face.

“Should be able to see now.” You smiled, cheeks hot.

He nodded slowly, blinking a few times. His eyelashes were sandy against his cheeks, which had been shaded a youthful red from the sun. You returned your gaze to your lap, folding the glasses neatly. 

“I really couldn’t see anything in here with them on, so… I appreciate it.” He was still looking at you as he spoke, fridge air curling cold around him.

It was your turn to nod, tapping your heels softly against the cupboard beneath you. 

“Yeah, it’s not, um. Not a problem.” 

The kitchen was quiet for a moment, save for the humming of the old fridge, and then he turned back to his task. Bottles clinked together as he rifled through. You were sure he looked beautiful, but didn’t dare look again. You felt your eyes carried an adoration too obvious now— you felt he’d really see just how much you cared for him and couldn’t deal with it. Not today. Perhaps not ever. 

You didn’t realize your heels were still tapping the cupboard door rhythmically until Charles was kneeling before the cooler, fitting bottles into it as nicely as he could, and even then you only noticed because his palm rested against your calf, stilling you. His touch was cold from the bottles, and firm, but gentle too. Your eyes drifted from his hand up to meet his gray eyes, which looked sort of soft and admiring in a way that made your heart hammer. You could almost believe that he liked you back, with the way he was looking.

“Sorry.” 

Your teeth found your lip again, worrying it.

“That’s alright,” Was he staring at your mouth as he spoke, or were you imagining that? “Just a little annoying. Not world ending.” 

His hand still hadn’t moved, though. That touch felt world ending, at least to you. You wanted to look away and couldn’t. Your lip felt swollen under your teeth and you longed to fidget more, if only to do something that might release the energy building within you. You swallowed. Still, he hadn’t looked away. 

“You okay?” He asked, letting his hand slide down to your ankle before it dropped back to the bottles.

You nodded, not trusting your voice to not come out shaky. You’d had plenty of moments like this with Charles in the past, plenty of moments where he touched you like it meant nothing more than it did when his hand found his sister or cousin, this was true. But something about this left you pressing your fingers against the granite countertop and the soft side of your own thigh, willing yourself not to tremble visibly. Something about this felt heavier.

“You sure? You look nervous.” 

Did he really not understand why you couldn’t bring yourself to speak? Was he drunker than you’d realized, more oblivious than you ever imagined? Or was Charles toying with you, flirting in his own way? What drove you craziest was the fact that you couldn’t tell.

“I am nervous. A little, anyway.” You said, immediately wishing you hadn’t.

His brows pulled together slightly, mouth curved in soft amusement.

“Why?” 

“I don’t know.” You murmured, suddenly very shy. 

But you did know. You knew very well why you were nervous, why his hand’s return to your leg made you feel like curling into a ball and weeping. You liked him— no, you loved him and had for a great many years— so much that it ached to be alone with him like this. 

You laughed breathlessly and forced your eyes from his. Your heart felt as though it might stop at any moment. His hand brushed your calf again. You felt yourself tip forward on the counter, just a little, involuntarily. A pure result of how much you wanted him in that moment. And then, he said your name. He said it the way he might to a crying child, or a horse on the verge of spooking. He said your name like he thought you’d run if he said anything else.

You’ll never know why he did what he did next. Perhaps he didn’t know either. Perhaps it was simply the amount he’d drank, or the weight of the humid Virginia summer in the air around you. Whatever it was, you gasped thin and near silent when you felt his lips brush against your shin. It was a barely there kiss. Light enough that he could easily pretend he’d never done it; not heavy enough to be written off as a joke. Your eyes fluttered shut.

“Do that again?” You barely recognized your own voice, so thick with breath and vulnerable in a way you swore you’d never sound while speaking to him. 

Without a word, he did. His lips were warm and dry as they pressed against your skin, the kiss still soft but more sure this time. Less ghostly. If he never did anything else, never touched you anywhere else, you could still live in this sensation forever. That felt dangerous to you; like a blade held against the thin flesh of your neck. 

His hand slid upward, one finger just brushing the soft underside of your knee. Your entire face felt so hot it almost hurt— like all the blood in your entire body had congregated there. And then: another kiss, an inch above the last one, but exactly as sweet. You didn’t dare speak, afraid to shatter whatever spell had fallen to make Charles touch you in such a fashion. 

Before you kew it had happened, Charles was on his knees for you on the same kitchen floor you used to sit on, all in a row— Claire on the far left, then you, then Charles, then Camilla— as you messily ate ice cream sandwiches, laughing at whatever mischievous thing you’d done only moments before. 

You’d dreamed of this moment countless times. You’d dreamed of what his lips would feel like as they lay kisses on your kneecap. His other hand found your other leg, smoothing over it just the same— as if he wanted, no needed, to feel every inch of your skin. His mouth drifted to the top of your thigh, still questioning, still seeming to wonder if you’d let him go further. 

It was ludicrous to you that he might wonder at all. You shifted closer to the edge of the counter without fully meaning to, chasing the feeling of his kiss on your skin. More kisses fell along your thigh dizzyingly. It felt, to you, like you were falling through time and space until his thumb stretched up to run along the hip of your white terrycloth bikini. Your eyes blinked open once again.

He looked up at you beseechingly, pressing the first of many soft kisses to your inner thigh. His thumb was still moving back and forth over your hip, and it was this that grounded you here. Here, on this white marble countertop. Here, in the kitchen of his childhood home. 

“Can I take these off?” He murmured, looking up at you through his lashes.

“Yes,” You couldn’t agree fast enough, “Yes, please.”

Your knee pressed into his shoulder, bracing as he pulled the bottoms down until they were out of his way. He stared for a moment, drinking in the way you looked: spread bare and glistening in his kitchen, full body flushed and warm, eyes heavy lidded. There was a level in which he seemed to feel like this was almost too much; a treat he did not deserve.

You cupped his cheek in your palm gently, wondering if he’d changed his mind. You supposed it would have to be alright, if he had, for he was Charles. The Charles of your childhood. The Charles you chased down to try and kiss years and years ago, the one you thought dreamily of when you and Claire made collages using your mother’s wedding magazines. If he were changing his mind, you wouldn’t allow yourself to bask in the disappointment. 

But then he smiled, slow and timid, and his face disappeared between your thighs. Your hand found his hair, still sunwarm and damp with sweat, and you whimpered. He was more skilled than you thought he might have been. His tongue curled and flicked over you with expert precision as if he had touched you before— never had he, of course— and his fingers, when he worked two of them inside of you, seemed to know just where to brush.

You refused to think of why that might be the case, only allowing yourself to feel the pleasure spreading through your hips and stomach by his touch. Nothing he’d ever done before mattered to you; only the things he was doing to you did. You tugged loosely at his hair, nails grazing against his scalp, and he groaned into you. That, you liked.

He worked pleasure from you as if it were second nature. As if he was born for it. It made you shake against him, head falling back against another set of cupboards as he touched and touched and touched you. You melted and boiled and died and came alive all at once, just for him; as though he was some sort of angelic specter come to try you, and this was the way he chose to do so.

When you came it took you by surprise, twisting through you from head to toe. You shook more. A cry came sharp from your throat. His movements grew more gentle until he was sure you were done, at which time he slipped his fingers out and stood to finally kiss you. You tasted yourself on his mouth and tongue. It was a lazy kiss, surprisingly. A sweet one.

Perhaps more would have transpired if you hadn’t then heard a gasp, causing both you and Charles to look over his shoulder. There stood a plump woman with dark hair and eyes, embarrassed horror on her features.

“Oj herregud!” She gasped out, one hand on her black fabric covered stomach.

“Mrs. Ekholm, I’m—” You started.

“My kitchen, äckliga syndare, anywhere else. Anywhere else. Kristus, this house.” She threw up her hands, speaking mostly to herself as she hurried from the room.

You couldn’t help but laugh, allowing your forehead to land on Charles’s shoulder. He laughed too, harboring just as much embarrassment if not more.

“Do you think she’s going to tell anyone?” You giggled, cheeks burning hot.

“God, I hope not.” He answered, still laughing softly.

“Kristus.” You said in your best impression of Mrs. Ekholm, starting off another round of laughter. 

When your laughter died out, he kissed you again. This time quicker, without a single undertone of sex to come. He handed you your swim bottoms from the floor, which you pushed off the counter and slipped on easily, and picked up the cooler with both hands. This, you would half-heartedly help him carry back to the others. 

He passed away in 85’, just three years before you were born; that’s what your daddy told you.

It was a touchy subject, the passing of your brother; there were no details, no trace of the kid, not a single piece of evidence that even proved he had died, nor existed. He disappeared, vanishing into the depths of Louisiana, and your father mourned, and mourned.

You were five years old when you heard about it. It was one of the last things your mother mentioned before she left the two of you, abandoning the already-broken family.

You didn’t want to feel it, but you did–you were a burden, a lingering parasite that merely reminded your mother and father of the child before you. You had the thought repeating in your head: you were the child that was supposed to make up for the loss, but you lacked, and lacked in areas you didn’t know existed, and it drove your mother crazy. 

Now your days are spent wiping down tables, serving drinks, and dealing with men you’d rather never see again. Your father, Robert, owns the joint–barely; you’re the one who does every damn thing, and it’s a weight you’re still trying to adjust to, although Rust makes it a little easier.

He wandered in one evening, ignoring your ‘we’re closed’ mutter. His hair was tucked neatly back into a ponytail, his exhausted eyes begging for employment, and you desperately needed the help; it only made sense to hire him on the spot, even if you didn’t know a thing about him.

He came in every shift he had, worked until closing, and didn’t open his mouth. He kept his head low, wiping glasses, butting in when men said something a little raunchy to you, quietly protecting you, and you thanked him. He barely acknowledged it; a simple nod, and that was enough from Rust Cohle.

It wasn’t until one shift that he spoke up, a low drawl in the empty bar, two words.

“Y’er brother,” was all he said, and you remember the feeling in your stomach; the twist of a knife, and all you could do was nod, and all he could do was observe.

Rust opened up that night–if you can call it opening up; a few vague sentences, brief mentions of other missing children, a case he worked on years ago back in 95’, and it almost made sense. You could almost piece it together.

You should’ve cared more, should’ve dug into it more and picked around the jagged bits, but you resisted. Instead, you nodded along, letting him talk, his words quiet and sharp, and he hung around much longer than he was supposed to, and you didn’t question it, just let it happen.

It’s now Friday night, just you and Rust working the shift he offered to steal from Robert, who needed a break. You stood behind the bar, wiping glasses, and he wiped tables. A quiet agreement the two of you decided on closing shifts.

“That shipment come in?” Rust asks you, his voice a low sound in the bar as he leans over a table, wiping down the remnants of the night.

“No,” you say softly, shaking your head and setting down a glass. “It’s late again, no new booze for a week,” you tell him, and he scoffs, and you smile to yourself.

“Ain’t this a bar?” he says sarcastically, yet his tone remains monotone, as he tosses the dirty rag over his shoulder. “Gonna have men leavin’ the second they walk in, y’know?” he drawls, taking slow steps towards the bar you stand behind.

“I don’t blame them,” you shake your head, looking up at him. “Place is in the middle of nowhere, don’t know what they expect.” 

“Better that way,” Rust shrugs, a tight movement as he settles in front of you, his forearms against the wooden bar. “Ya’ ever work elsewhere? Other bars?” he asks, already reaching into the front of the button-down that’s unbuttoned, reaching for a pack of cigarettes, and you’re pouring him a glass.

“No,” you shake your head again, sliding the short glass to Rust, and he’s focusing on lighting his cigarette with his Zippo lighter. “Started working here the minute I could.”

He’s inhaling the smoke, never exhaling, instead nodding in a quiet understanding.

“Keep it,” he tells you, washing down what should’ve been an exhale with a chug of the whisky. “Ain’t gonna find a place like this again,” he tells you, making a clicking sound with his tongue.

“Don’t have much of a choice, anyway,” you tell him, and he quirks his brow, his head tilting with it, and a stray strand of air falls from his ear.

“College?” he asks, just trying to make small talk.

“No,” you mumble, no longer wiping glasses. “Think we can afford it?” you ask, grinning through the sarcasm.

“No,” Rust responds with a slow shake of his head, and he nudges his glass for a little more. “Think y’er smart enough, if ya’ ever want to,” he tilts his head while taking a drag.

You stay quiet and refill his glass again, your eyes meeting his; through the creases around his eyes and shaggy hair, the moustache you wanna reach out and trim yourself. You sigh, looking away, shaking the thought of even applying.

Rust doesn’t speak up; he just swallows back another smoke-laced exhale with a sip, softly groaning as the bitter liquid slides down his throat, a taste he’s chased for as long as he can remember.

“Don’t think my dad is doing okay,” you say vaguely, and he looks up at you, watching your hands anxiously as they return to wiping glasses. “Not himself,” you mutter, and Rust wets his lips.

“Never been himself,” he says in response, taking another damn inhale. “Since I met him, quiet n’ never sayin’ a word to me,” he continues, elbows on the bar, and you roll your eyes a little.

“Well, you didn’t know him when he wasn’t quiet, and when he was saying words,” you retort, shooting Rust a glance, and his expression is unwavering; stoic, stern. Always. 

He doesn’t respond; he only stares at you, and you can feel that detective gaze that lingers, even if he wasn’t doing the work he used to do; figuring you out, analyzing you, and you tense up as you turn away from him, placing the glasses on the shelf.

“Ya’ need a ride home, don’t ya’?” Rust mumbles quietly, putting the two pieces together: Robert at home, not being ‘himself’, and you usually went home with him when you closed.

“I walked here,” you say plainly, standing on your tiptoes to reach the top shelf. “Can walk back.”

“Ya’ can’t,” he mumbles back to you, and you feel your shoulders tense.

Rust had been doing it when you were just a little girl, oblivious to the world, to everything around you; he was cracking cases, hands rough and working with guns, working with murderers, the most soulless people, and you were learning how to walk. He knew what was out there, what hid in the woods surrounding this bar, waiting for innocence, you, not to step into its hands and pull you in without a second thought.

“Why can’t I, Rust?” You turn your head and look back at him; his eyes are focused elsewhere, and he’s ashing out his cigarette, finishing off the alcohol.

“Cause’ m’tellin’ ya’ so,” he shakes his head like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Ain’t need to be fussin’ over it, five minutes away,” he explains, reaching for another cigarette.

“If it’s five minutes away, then I can walk,” you counter, leaning onto the bar in front of him. “I don’t… need you playing my father when my real one isn’t here,” you shoot him, and his jaw clenches, his eyes flicking up to meet yours.

“Don’t want ya’ to be daughter,” Rust shakes his head, mumbling through the cigarette between his teeth. 

It isn’t a jab; it’s a reaction; his own daughter’s death, and the thought of any girl replacing her makes his jaw tighten, and his fingers twitch around his cigarette. He doesn’t speak up when you push open the door into the back; he just looks over his shoulder at his truck in the lot.

When you return with your jacket hanging over your forearm, your hair loose and unravelled from your ponytail, he watches you walk past him, an urgency in your step. He turns with you, and just before you open the doors, he calls out, “Truck’s open.”

The nighttime air is still warm when you walk outside, crickets buzzing in the tall grass, the trees groaning with each sway of the wind. You look to the red truck, and then to the trail you were going to take; long and desolate, winding through the forest, and you grind your teeth in defeat. You swing open the truck door and slide into the passenger seat.

Rust saunters out a few minutes later, locking the bar and making his way towards the truck. He glances in the truck window, a quiet victory when he sees you patiently sitting there, deciding against the stupid idea of walking home at almost one in the morning.

“Was it tha’ bugs?” he mumbles as he climbs in, and you shoot him a glare at his dry joke–nothing funny at all–and you shift against the seat, listening to the truck roar to life.

Rust rubs his hands over his face in slow motion; tired hands rove over his cheeks and down his moustache before a hand finds the thin steering wheel and he shifts gears, slipping out of the gravel lot and hitting the road.

“You have music?” you ask him, glancing at him, and all you can see are the creases by his eyes and the stitch in his brow.

“Nah,” he shakes his thumb, his thumb pressing into the wheel. “Ain’t need that right now.

“I’m bored,” you respond, leaning your elbow against the window, and he makes that sound with his tongue again; a click, usually before he’s about to say something, or leave you hanging.

He leaves you hanging instead, and you sigh heavily as the truck pulls into the driveway a few minutes later. The half-empty trailer park, and your eyebrows furrow at the sight when the truck’s headlights flash over the empty spot your dad usually parks at.

“Somethin’ wrong?” Rust asks quietly, the truck rolling to a stop when he notices you leaning forward, closer to the dash, eyes squinted, lips apart.

“He’s not even home.” You shake your head and look to Rust, and he’s already looking at you, sighing quietly. “Don’t know where he is,” you mumble in defeat, slumping into the seat.

“Ain’t blame him,” he says plainly, and you furrow your eyebrows at the hit.

“What the hell does that mean?” you ask, sitting up and turning to face Rust.

“Means…” he starts quietly, fiddling with his lighter he’s about to use. “Mournin’.”

“Over what? My brother I never met that died fucking ages ago? That’s who he's mourning over?” you shoot to Rust, and he’s unfazed by the rise in your voice and the anger knitted into your features.

“Went missin’ twenty-seven years ago today,” Rust responds quietly, lighting the new cigarette between his lips.

“And you know this, how?” you ask, eyebrows furrowed in concern. “Can you stay out of our business–like my family’s business? We don’t need your help, we don’t need you, we need to be left alone. You’re probably the reason my dad is going fucking insane recently,” you accuse him, and he’s still unfazed, sliding the lighter into his pocket.

“Ain’t doin’ a thing, you know that,” he murmurs back to you, looking up from his lap and at you out of the corner of his eye. “Y’er dad told me about it, found his file,” he explains plainly, and that doesn’t make it any better.

“So now you’re sneaking into police stations and snagging missing persons’ files? For what? To just be weird?” you press, and he’s staring at you, his gaze not leaving you.

“No,” he shakes his head, knowing he can’t tell you what’s going on behind the scenes; the shit with Marty, bending backwards for shit he knows isn’t worth it, being pressed by detectives, a plethora of things that have him inhaling another hit.

“Whatever, whatever, I don’t want to talk about this,” you shake your head, reaching for the doorhandle in the car, and his hand finds your forearm, stopping you.

“If ya’ let me tell you, I will,” Rust offers, pulling back his hand, using the same one to pinch his cigarette between his lips, pulling it out of his mouth. “Don’t need to be… actin’ this way.”

“Stop treating me like I’m a kid; it’s weird,” you shoot back, watching his shoulders sag in defeat as he looks over at the dirt road. He’s not one to protest.

There’s a silence in the truck, and he realizes you’re not leaving; of course you’re not. You don’t feel safe; alone in the trailer park, your dad disappearing off into the night, and you swallow your pride, turning to Rust again. He’s just waiting for you to ask him.

“Okay,” you relent quietly and nod, and Rust doesn’t force an interrogation or try to make you feel bad; he just pulls the keys out of the ignition and climbs out of the truck at the same time as you.

You dig the house key out of your pocket and hastily unlock the door, flicking on the lights at the scene: beer bottles and cans scattered across the kitchen counter and dinner table. You mentally face-palm, knowing Rust is seeing it too.

He doesn’t comment. He takes off his boots, leaving them by your sneakers, and his curious, tired eyes look around the place: the photographs hanging on the walls, the crucifix above the couch. He looks over at you, and you’re pouring him a glass of whisky he should be denying.

The cushions give when the two of you sit down on them, and he looks at you, then at his cigarette pack in his hand, a quiet question: Can I? 

You nod, and he’s already lighting it, adjusting his hips beside you, and you turn your head to look at him in the dim lighting. He rubs his free hand over his moustache again, clearing his throat when his blue eyes meet yours.

“Why do you know these things?” you ask, your voice quiet in the living room. “Is that why you’re working for us? Some fed?”

Rust almost laughs at the accusation, but the cigarette behind his lips suppresses the smile. He shakes his head and leans forward to take a drag, ashing it out into the half-full ashtray your dad left on the table beside the couch.

“Ain’t a fed, darlin’,” he shakes his head, and you flinch at the name. “Worked a case… in 95’, y’er brother, probably connected to it,” he suggests, waving his hand with the cigarette between his fingers.

“You think he’s connected… to that?” you ask, raising your eyebrows. “You told me about the weird… stuff, I don’t know, the prostitutes, and all that cult shit, I don’t think my brother… was involved.”

Rust wants to laugh again at your sweet innocence, how little you know. He wants to tell you nothing, keep you hidden in a box, doesn’t want you to know a damn thing; how integrated this whole fucking thing is, a perfect spider web, everything stringing together, and connected, a tightly woven knot that he’s trying to untie on his days off. You think it’s over, case closed.

“Ain’t just prostitutes bein’ killed,” he shakes his head, huffing. “Kids, years, a whole fuckin’ thing, workin’ on it, still,” he says casually, and your eyebrows furrow.

“Still?” you ask, staring at Rust, and you see his lower jaw move. “I thought… everybody was caught, you know? All finished; dead, imprisoned,” you explain, and he looks back at you.

“Bigger than ya’ think,” is all he says in return; the thought of unpacking what he’s currently doing makes his head hurt–he’s probably supposed to be with Marty right now, anyway.

“Well, do you have any… I don’t know, leads?” you ask more, and he almost smiles.

“You a fed?” Rust shoots back, and he has that look in his eye you recognize some nights; when he takes a few too many sips before closing, drunkenly closing–he somehow does it, and you and your dad don’t question it.

“Yeah, I’m a fed,” you joke with a smile, turning to face him more. “No… no, I’m serious though.”

“Kid, I ain’t talkin’ about this now,” he dismisses, leaning his elbow against the armrest, a cigarette between his fingers. “Ask me again, not when m’half-drunk,” he shrugs.

You thought asking him when he was half-drunk was the better idea.

“Okay,” you nod and pull back, but something nips at you. “Your daughter?”

Rust’s face doesn’t change; he just licks his lips and tips his head back–never blowing smoke out, just sighing heavily. This is worse than any fucking lead on Ledoux, any of them.

“Passed,” he says quietly, and your lips part. “Young, really young,” he adds on, groaning as he leans forward to ash out his cigarette. “Nothin’ more to it.”

“Rust,” you mutter, shaking your head. “I really–I really didn’t know that.”

You assumed the worst: messy divorce, his wife taking his daughter, and he became a deadbeat that works at a bar at forty-eight, not a mourning father trying to act like he doesn’t have the weight of the world on his shoulders. You stare at him, and he doesn’t look.

“Ain’t supposed to,” Rust says, taking a long inhale. 

“Well, I guess… we can relate, you know? My brother…” you’re almost whispering, and he shrugs, adjusting his hips.

“Nah,” he shakes his head, reaching over to finish off the whisky. “Completely different n’ that’s fine, doesn’t have to be relatable, or nothin’,” he shakes his head, setting down the empty glass.

“I can get you more,” you offer, gesturing to the glass.

“S’fine,” Rust mumbles, his tongue prodding at the inside of his cheek. “Know y’er dad n’ his booze, would kill me,” he says, and you can hear the joking tone in his voice, and you smile.

“He wouldn’t,” you disagree, shifting a bit closer to him. 

“S’fine, seriously,” he reassures, turning to look at you; those wide eyes staring back at him, blinking, batting lashes in the dark living room.

It’s quiet now, and Rust stares at you; those cold eyes, blue and exhausted. Your lips part to say something, but it fails, and you just sit there, the walls of the trailer creaking with each gust of wind, and he’s smoking, sniffling when he sinks further into the couch.

“You don’t have to… hide so much.” You speak up and shake your head, and that’s when he looks away from you, lifting his hand to rub his thumb beneath his eye.

“N’ what’s the use in tellin’ people?” he asks, turning to face you again, tapping the edge of the cigarette on the ashtray. “Does nothin’ for me, n’ you,” he adds on, looking over his shoulder at the front door. You can tell he’s about to leave.

“I want to know more about you, though,” you reply, shifting closer to him.

“Ya’ don’t,” Rust shakes his head slowly.

“You’ve worked for my dad for months… and the most I know is that you drive a red truck, and don’t stop smoking,” you tease with a grin, and he almost laughs–he was reaching for another cigarette.

“Ya’ don’t listen to me, then,” he replies, lighting up a new one. “That one night? Kept askin’ where I was disppearin’ to, told ya’... old stuff,” he mumbles on, waving around the cigarette.

“That’s not you, though,” you shake your head, shifting a bit closer. “That's the work you do, and what you’ve done, not… like, you know, the man you are,” you press, and he’s looking at you.

Rust sighs. “That’s all ya’ need to know.”

The things it took him–to disconnect completely, to go undercover, to kill, to chase–the personality, the character Rust was; his work should’ve explained it perfectly, and yet you pry, and pry, and he dismisses each question. 

“Are you… bad?” you ask quietly, leaning a little closer, and he notices.

“What does ‘bad’ mean to you?” he asks back, his lips thinning.

“Just… a bad man, dangerous, doesn’t do… the right thing, that kind of stuff,” you explain, and he tilts his head in contemplation, trying to figure it out. 

“I’ve killed, yes,” he nods, sniffling again, leaning forward, his forearms on his thighs. “Drugs, that whole scene,” he mumbles, his Texan drawl thickening with each drag.

“You do drugs?” you repeat back to him, leaning forward as well, matching his position.

“No,” he lies, his arm extending to ash the cigarette out.

“What drugs did you do?” you ask curiously, and your knee bumps into his. He doesn’t move.

“Anythin’, really,” Rust shrugs. 

It goes quiet in the living room, and you sigh quietly, scratching behind your neck. He’s just as quiet, barely moving, his cigarette burning and filling the small area. You bump his knee again, and he turns his head to look at you; the movement is slow, and he blinks.

“Why didn’t you remarry?” you question, and he looks up at the ceiling.

“Why would I do that?” he asks, speaking through what should’ve been an exhale.

“I don’t know… you’ve been divorced for so long; it seems like a special lady might’ve come by at least once, maybe twice,” you explain, shrugging.

“N’ m’sure you have a boyfriend, then,” he responds, clicking his tongue.

“What does that mean?”

“T’be judgin’ me,” Rust starts, looking over at you. “Thought maybe… you must know more.”

“I’m not judging,” you deny and quickly shake your head. “Just curious.”

He doesn’t respond; he takes a final drag, stands up from the couch, adjusts his pants, and you rise too, quickly reaching over to gently grab at his forearm.

“I didn’t mean anything by it, Rust,” you tell him, and he looks at you, running his hand over his moustache.

“S’fine, don’t think ya’ did,” he reassures you, and you keep the light grip on his arm. 

“Then why are you leaving?” you ask.

“S’late… work tomorrow, you do too,” Rust nods, looking at the digital clock on the oven.

There’s a pause once again, and you stand before him, your bodies facing each other; his tired shoulders sagging, his eyes focused on yours, and there’s a look lingering behind the coldness. You slide your hand up his forearm a little, watching the fabric bunch, the tattoo you’ve noticed peeking out.

You look up at Rust again, and you don’t know what possesses you, but you’re leaning forward, and he’s not moving, an eager part of you questioning what he’d taste like, what his cold hands would feel like beneath your work shirt, and up your skirt. His jaw clenches.

The kiss is short, just a brief moment of your flesh against his. His lips are chapped, and they taste like cigarettes and whisky, a combination you’ve smelled on him since you met him, and his moustache is rough against your soft skin, and you grip his forearm.

When you pull back, he’s unmoved, his eyes raking over your figure, and he’s the one to lean again–you know it’d be inappropriate to ask the last time he did this. You bite back the thought, and kiss instead, feeling his lips move against yours.

Rust knows what he’s doing, and his hands find your waist, a rough grab at the soft flesh beneath your shirt, fingers curling into it. You still hold his forearm, your heads tilting in sync, deepening the kiss you’ll both feel guilty for sharing–he’s drunk, and you’re just being stupid.

Hands that had shot guns and killed people were sliding up your shirt, moving over the warm skin; rough and calloused, the same ones you watched wipe down tables and fumble with cigarettes all day. You moan softly when his tongue swipes over your bottom lip, urging you to part your lips, and you obey. 

He moves back with you, towards the couch, guiding you to straddle his lap. Your lips don’t detach, not once; you keep going at it, your knees on either side of his hips, sinking perfectly into him. He’s almost clawing at your back, and you’re moving your hips, and he’s shamelessly guiding the grinds.

Rust moves from your lips and kisses the side of your jaw, and you let your head tip to the side. His stubble presses into your jaw and neck, a harsh bite when his lips were so soft, yet desperately needing a swipe of chapstick–you almost grin at the thought, 

You moan quietly, the second he’s mouthing at your neck, that strong nose pressing against your veins pulsing, inhaling the sweet scent that taunts him at work. His fingers are slipping into the waistband of your black skirt, the one he advised you never to wear when bartending. You did anyway, every time. He noticed, every time.

“Rust,” you whisper, and he doesn’t pause; he only groans in response.

You slide your hands up him and let one tangle in his hair; long and tied up, always, and you curl your fingers into the strands the minute he removes his large hands from your skirt waistband, and instead slides them up your thighs, so carefully, beneath the black fabric.

His thumbs hook into the elastic band of your underwear, and you whine when he pulls back, just to let it snap back against your hips. He inhales once again, kissing lower, his lips moving to where your neck meets your shoulder.

“Rust,” you plead quietly again.

“I know, girl,” Rust mumbles against your skin, nodding. “Got you.”

You think that’s the first time he’s reassured you in your life–it’s when his hands are working down your underwear, and his lips are on your neck, and his mumbles are almost inaudible from the drunkenness.

His skilled hands pull down your underwear, just halfway down your thighs, and his hand lightly cups your core; all warm, and damp, slick connecting to his palm, and he has to bite back a grunt. He can’t remember the last time he’s felt this, a human warmth, not from the beer breath of men passing through, or a prostitute touching his arm to coax him to pay for a service, but a real touch, a warmth from a girl he wanted.

Rust watches your head tip back in awe, your mouth agape, the second he starts rubbing your clit with his thumb. His own head tips back to watch you; your chest heaving, your eyes closing in bliss, and he swallows hard, his legs spreading beneath you.

“Grind y’er hips, sweetheart,” he suggests, his other hand squeezing your thigh but sliding up to grip your hip, encouraging you to grind, and you start.

“There we go,” he nods, feeling you lightly rut into his palm, and you’re whimpering, eyebrows stitching together, biting your lip. “Keep doin’ that for me.”

His palm is warm against you, a sturdy place for you to move your hips, and he watches you with those eyes. The eyes that are usually picking apart crime scenes, flipping through folders, going through cases that make him grimace and squirm, are now focused on you and the way you move so slowly, yet perfectly.

Rust pats your hip gently, urging you to move a bit quicker, knowing it would feel better for you, and you do. You pick up the pace and move along the fingers that move against you too. His thumb still swirls your clit, and your body grinds lightly, the combination sickeningly good.

He groans when he notices he’s straining against the front of his pants. A solid thrum throbs there, and he tips his own head back, his lips parting slightly, and you notice. That look on his face–pleasure, a stark contrast to the usual stoic one he wears so girls like you don't fall into his lap.

“Rust,” you whisper again, and he nods, groaning once more when your eyes meet.

“I know,” he repeats softly, and you’re sure this man knows everything.

“Want… want you to… fuck me.” You nod quickly, and he sucks in a breath through his teeth.

“Christ,” Rust groans out, the words being something he’s used to hearing at the back of clubs and bars, dirty places he investigates, not from a sweet girl on his lap.

“Sorry… m’sorry,” you babble, shaking your head, still rocking your hips in a way that’s not even close to being sorry.

“Nah…” He shakes his head too, and his hand leaves your hip and travels down to the front of his pants.

While you rut like a puppy in heat, Rust is popping the button of his pants open with his thumb, a slow zipper descending, and your head is tipped back in awe of all the feelings crushing in. The rush from how good it feels, the adrenaline from how dirty it is, and the guilt because it’s Rust Cohle you’re doing this to.

His hand slides in and he wraps his palm around himself, hard and throbbing, a devastating reminder of how easy you’ve made this for him–a few sweet smiles, and a joke, just your knees brushing, and he was already wanting to leave, wanting to flee the scene. 

Rust growls and his head tips back against the couch, lightly stroking himself before coaxing him out of his pants. He’s beyond hard and your eyes widen when you notice, hips stuttering at the sight. His thumb flicks over the tip, and you swallow hard, and slowly pulls his hand away from your core.

“C’mere,” he mumbles to you, his hands returning to you and your hips, helping you shift closer until you’re hovering over him, and he’s hastily aligning himself with your entrance.

You whimper when his head nudges your entrance, hard and twitching, and he slowly guides you down onto him. Despite it all, he’s gentle, slow, and his head tips back when you finally settle against him.

“Fuck,” Rust groans when you sink, feeling you clenching and squeezing around him, warm and tight. “Feelin’ perfect, girl,” he whispers to you, his voice strained.

He encourages you to move again, a light tap of his thumb to your hip, and you begin to move; grinding but lifting, letting your body move against him in a way that’s fluid and slow, overwhelming for both of you. You hold his shoulder as he leans into the couch, and your head is tipped back, moaning into the empty house, and he’s breathing heavy, groaning. 

It’s a sweet tango of something neither of you can describe. The overwhelming pleasure of him hitting every little part of you, poking and prodding, all while his thumbs leave bruises on your hips, his legs spreading even more with each grind of your hips. He’s groaning and grunting, a mixture of sounds that you’ve only ever heard him make when he’s frustrated, and telling off a drunken customer–not because you’re riding him.

“Atta girl,” Rust praises when you move differently, almost a bounce, and it eggs him on. “Good girl.”

He thrusts upwards off the couch, hips lifting from beneath you, and you whine with each movement–you match the movement too, letting them both collide, creating a friction both of you are currently drowning in. 

“Rust, please,” you whimper to him, and you’re not sure what you’re asking for, but whatever he’s doing is turning you into a mess.

“I got ya’, darlin,” Rust coos, keeping the pace slow but the movements meaningful and deep. “Don’t stop f’me,” he tells you, his fingers curling into your hips when you completely obey him.

The both of you continue to move in a fluid movement; thrusts from him, and you grinding with those little lifts. It has both of you moaning and groaning for each other, and you lean down to kiss him again, your lips back at it.

The room is just skin on skin, the occasional groans and grunts slipping out as you pull away from each other, and the sound of saliva mixing as your tongues swirl. You’re both getting close, and you pull back slightly. 

“M’so close, Rust,” you whimper to him, your forehead against his, and his hands slide up your back.

“Keep goin’, baby girl,” he tells you, your lips brushing and he pants into your mouth. “Gonna cum too,” he mumbles, and you’re nodding, keeping the heat rising.

Rust cums inside you, an immediate ache settling in your abdomen when he pulls away from your forehead, groaning with his head back on the couch. And you’re crying out the second you cum too, a heat washing over your body and down onto his lap–it would if he’d pull out, but he’s not; he’s staying buried in there, twitching. 

“I got ya’,” he mumbles softly, and slides a hand to the back of your neck, immediately pulling you down into his neck. “Shhh…” he coos quietly, letting your body go limp against his on the couch.