#detectiev

thinly  veiled  frustration  almost  bubbles  to  the  surface  and  rears  its  ugly  head,  but  that  would  not  be  conducive,  so  she  takes  a  deep  breath,  counts  to  ten  in  her  head.  there’s  a  reason  she  usually  stays  away  from  this  side  of  the  work,  the  side  that  requires  her  to  interact  with  people  or  the  public.  cops  especially.    ❝  look,  detective  cohle,  my  assumption  is  that  you’re  good  at  your  job,  but  i  need  you  to  trust  that  i’m  good  at  mine.  ❞

how do we catch a fantasy? // accepting

     “ is this part of your theory that time is a ‘ flat circle ’? because i have to be honest, i’m not even sure i understand what the fuck you mean with that, rust. ”  the only time bill can truly tolerate philosophical discussions is when they’re facing down a long night in an unmarked car, a hellish stakeout in the louisiana swamps where each breath squeezes moisture from the muggy air. weather like this makes him long for virginia, and it reminds him that you’ve never really experienced the american south unless you’ve spent some time in the deep south.

     his father had a saying—if sherman didn’t burn his way through, it’s not the south.

     all of the windows are rolled down and cricket-song is carried in to them on the soft curves of a warm breeze. bill exhales a cloud of smoky breath. his elbow is braced on the metal tracking slotted into the top of the car door, incautious with the direction of his fumes. unlike his partner back home in quantico, rust smokes when he eats and when he doesn’t eat, and he isn’t nearly as fussy about the quality of his air.

     the heat is making bill’s eyelids heavy, long hours of work over decades catching up with him. there is a styrofoam cup of black coffee with sugar tucked into the console to his right, but he doesn’t consume nearly as much caffeine here—the climate doesn’t lend any appeal to the traditional fuel for his profession.

     “ if everything bad in the world already happened, that must mean everything good in the world has already happened too. i can forgive a world that has a little something decent in it. ”  

how  do  we  catch  a  fantasy?   //   accepting

          📂:     the  only  food  bill  really  knows  how  to  cook  are  blueberry  pancakes.   even  then,  he only knows  how  to  make  them  in  insane  quantities  because  he  learned  to  make  them  in  the  army  when  he  was  on  kitchen  duty  and  feeding  the  whole  platoon.

ask me about my useless headcanons ! 

SEND 📂 FOR A RANDOM YET USELESS HEADCANON

         ‘  us?  ’

   THE JOKER DOES NOT STIR FROM HIS TORPOR BUT WITH THE EYES.    they’re gleaming things,  afire like torches.  wolfish.  though only as much as they can be through the fogs of antipsychotics.  his disfigured smile is broad and cruel and hardly humored,  although his voice shows a delight that does not make it through what after a full minute becomes just an eerie display of teeth.   ‘  i didn’t know there was an us,  det-ehh-ctive.  ’   agent cohle remains proper.  impassible.  pretty strange of him to cling to formality after undoing the shackles at the joker’s hands and breaking pretty much all the safety protocols he could break  ;  feeling a bit too safe,  maybe,  with his shiny gun secured in the holster pressing against his wrinkled shirt.  

  he wants to talk.  the joker always indulges cops who want to talk,  because they’re rare and brimming with all sorts of questions.  cops,  usually,  don’t have questions.  journalists have questions,  shrinks have questions.  not cops.  all they are,  all he needs them to be,  is angry little rats running here and there  —  ready to be experimented on.  oh,  he loves experimenting on cops.  but his friend rusty here is something other than a rat ;  he’s a detective !  and detectives,  too,  are full of questions.  the joker’s tongue darts over his bottom lip as he leans to look at the other,  heavy-lidded and smiling  ;  dirty green curls falling over his forehead.  

   ‘  i don’t know,  rusty ... i’m,  hmmmh,  pretty high on olanzapine right now.  ’

   the joker gives his head a doglike shake,  stretching arms and fingers and blinking harshly.  feeling each numb juncture.  then his eyes,  those wolfish eyes,  settle back on cohle.   ‘  didya ask yourself that question when you,  uh,  crawled with the worms ... pretendin’ to be one ... and were,  hehee,  horrified at how well that turned out?  how gooood ya were at bein’ a worm?  ’   he chooses impassibility,  again.  a blank,  untouched stare.   ‘  c’mon,  rusty,  you can tell me.  we’re such ... old ... friends,  aren’t we.  ’

   LOW,  BY WHAT STANDARDS ARE THEY LOW?  WHO DECIDES THAT?  IS IT GOD?  WHALES IN THE SEA,  BATS IN THE SKY,  WORMS IN THE EARTH.  IT’S NOT WHERE,  IT’S THE HOW.  HOW ONE CARRIES ONESELF.  ONE CAN FLUTTER ABOUT OR SOAR.  DIG THE SAND OR SWIM.  CRAWL OR RUN.  CRAWL OR RUN. 

     ❛  why  do  you  let  it  bother  you   so  much ?   why  do  you  let  them  bother  you ?  ❜