haliotropes

[haliotropes]

Black Star (Rustin Cohle x OC)

12. Crushed | Rated M

A/n: pls don't be mad at me/ sorry if this feels rushed!!! I need to get 2002 over and out of the way and this felt like a succinct way to do it.

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2002. Seven years.

Seven years is a long time. It hadn't felt that way before, and wouldn't feel that way again until several seven years after, but the time between 1995 and 2002 had to have been some of the best of Kenny's life.

Yes, it leaves a bad taste in her mouth and a twinge at the base of her spine when the Dora Lange case is pretty much closed without another word. But after months of silence, she feels like she can relax. Hell, once she sees the tension slowly work its way from Rust's shoulders…that's when she knows. They're gonna be okay.

Moving Rust into the farmhouse happened quietly and quickly. It went from a few handfuls of clothes, then what few personal effects he had. Kenny noticed, didn't say a word. She wanted it, and it wasn't like Rust had much in the way of possessions.

Within the first year, he was fixing the barn to make a usable workshop. They repaired the front porch together, Froggy lacing between their legs the entire time. Together, they stored both their collections of case files into plastic bins and tucked them into a new attic Rust had put into the barn. To fill the space left in Kenny's spare room, they set up a better writing desk for Kenny. For Christmas in ‘96, she bought Rust an art set. The next reno project was to knock a hole in the wall for a new window in that room.

It wasn't just them, either. As the new millennium drew nearer, the world seemed to be cresting a brighter horizon. Marty and Maggie were the happiest they'd been since Macie was born. The four of them spent holidays together, vacationed together in the Florida Keys, in the mountains in Colorado. The plan was to save up enough to eventually get the girls to Disney World before Audrey felt she would be too old for it.

Yeah, they'd all made plans.

1995 was a timid year. 1996 was cautiously optimistic. 1997 was sunshiny. 1998 was bliss. 1999 was comfort. 2000 is when something turned.

There was no pinpointing it. There was no trigger. There was only the creeping, clawing sense that something was off day by day. At that point, Froggy had been buried a couple years, so they had a new dog- a pit mix named Hawk. When Kenny waited with Hawk for Rust to come home on later nights, that's when it began to hit her. It was the dog. It wasn't the dog's fault, but because it was Hawk and not Froggie…

It was a raw nerve, something new and terrifying. She had waited for him before, with an anchor to the life before the Dora Lange case. But now, as something started to slither through the weeds, she felt her heart start to break because suddenly she looked around and her home, which she loved, and her dog, whom she adored, and didn't recognize any of it.

Kenny goes back to the doctor to rethink medications after that. After a few weeks, they get something figured out to curb her anxiety, her mania, her dissociation. And this time, she'll actually take the medicine.

It's what she tells herself, anyway.

-

It hits Rust when they interrogate Charmaine. Seven years is a long time, and they were a good seven years. He has no plans to ruin that. In fact, his only plans are to save it.

But he's watched the world get worse. He couldn't pinpoint exactly where it started, but something got him going again. Maybe it was that televangelist commercial that kept popping up on Kenny's tv at the farm, or the other day when he was working on his truck in the barn, and every time he looked up, he saw right through that plastic bin and stared at those case files.

So he does the thing that always gets them in trouble. He digs. Rust digs and digs until he knows he's got too much dirt behind him to hide. And he's not bringing this shit home to Kenny. He saw that look in her eyes the last time he came home late, his frame hunched and exhausted. He wasn't going to let that happen again.

So, silently, Rust leases out his apartment again. Only for work. Only for storage. He takes the bins from the attic, he photocopies case files from the office. He links names and dates back to exactly where he thinks they'll go: Reverend Billy Lee Tuttle.

Rust never does a thing to hurt Kenny. He'd rather die. It's how he justifies moving a mattress back into that apartment. The less she knows about this, the better. She just as obsessive as he is, and the last time she got in too deep, it nearly killed her. Not again.

The apartment is where Rust organizes the reports about Kelly, the only survivor of Reggie Ledoux- besides Kenny, that is. Funny, he thinks. He never realized how similar their names were.

Meanwhile, Rust knows Marty is cheating on Maggie again. He knows because he can tell the difference. The on when they met, the off in the interim, and now he's on again, and it's just another thing turning Rust sour.

He's lucky the CID doesn't hear about his visit to Kelly. He pushes that luck with a visit to Tuttle.

All the while, Kenny sits at work and at home, wondering why Rust is pulling further into himself, and on the verge of asking.

And Tuttle has questions of his own.

“Are uh, you and Miz Marsden still seeing each other?”

Rust finds the switch inside of himself to force a polite smile.

“Yessir, Reverend.”

“And you still ain't proposed to that young lady? Hoo, you'd better be careful, boy. Hesitation like that is how a woman gets lost.”

Rust takes that silently and thinks of how Marty and Maggie have been married nearly twenty years and half of that has been marred by infidelity.

-

Kenny knows he isn't cheating on her. That would be too easy, too simple. She also doesn't think he's capable. Of course, that's what most people think about their partners. After all, seven years is a long time.

Three cigarettes deep, Kenny pulls into the parking lot of the CID on her lunch break. Rust's truck is there, but Marty's car is gone. They're out on a case. Kenny blows out the last of her smoke and crushes the cigarette beneath the heel of her boot.

Cathleen still manages the front desk, thank God. Nobody’d get by without her and she and Kenny are on good enough terms that she just may be able to bypass private information laws and get what she hopes she won't.

When Kenny walks into the office, Cathleen’s face lights up.

“Hey, hon! Marty n’ Rust are out.”

“Yeah, I know,” Kenny waves her hand. “I actually came here to talk to you because I know Rust will forget. We've been missing some mail and were wondering if maybe his old apartment address got added to the system again by accident.”

Cathleen is silent a beat too long and Kenny knows her lie wasn't good enough. Regardless, Cathleen types into her computer. Kenny scratches into her arm, one of her new medications swirling through her blood like bees. She wants to tear her hair out. She wants to peel her skin off.

“Y’know, Rust was in here all morning not doing a darn thing and couldn't think to ask me this himself?”

Kenny's smile is tight.

“Probably just forgot. Figured he would. He's been stressed lately. We both have.”

It isn't until Cathleen's eyes drift to Kenny's now raised and red skin that Kenny stops scratching, dropping both her arms from the counter.

“Anything come up?”

Cathleen looks at the screen, looks up at Kenny, lets out a long sigh.

“No.”

The keys to the Camaro bite into Kenny's palm. Harder. Harder. Was she stupid? Is this just a culmination of everything, everything with Maggie and Marty and her own parents and Rust's past life and seven years…seven years is a long time.

“Great, thanks.”

Kenny grits her teeth. Her vision blurs and stings. She's pretty sure Cathleen says something to her as she goes to leave but she doesn't stop. She cries all the way to the car, and once she's inside, she screams.

Is this really all it takes? Is she really so weak and pathetic, so thin and small and rudimentary that if Rust wavers even a little, she comes apart? Who is that fair to? Who does that help? If Kenny destroys herself, no vengeance is wrought, no discovery made.

But she doesn't think that. She thinks that this was just another stop along the long, lonesome road, and she was always meant to be alone.

She thinks of her mom. Her father had pulled away, too. He hadn't been cheating, just a coward. Rust wasn't a coward, and he wasn't a cheater. He was a secret, worse third thing.

-

Later, while camping out by the lakes in Alaska, or working the bar leading to that next stage in their story, Rust will think about how desperate he truly must have been to have blinded himself. Blinded himself to Kenny. Blinded himself to Marty. To Maggie.

Even if Marty and Maggie were blurry, Kenny was in perfect focus. He knew her better than anyone. And he should've known that she'd show up to his old apartment far sooner than he'd have wanted her to.

Ideally, it wouldn't have been until it was all over and he was moving out again. He should've known better.

Maybe he did. And maybe he really was just that desperate.

So he truly wasn't expecting it to be Kenny knocking on his door that night, after his suspension. His look of shock was unrehearsed. The beer bottle hung limp between two delicate fingers and his other hand gripped the wood of the door.

“Ken,” he says. Her eyes are red, her nose runny. She's wearing one of his old jackets over a pair of shorts. Strange for the weather.

Kenny slides into the apartment and Rust lets her. He closes the door and watches as she stands in the center of the room, circles, examines how everything looks almost exactly the same and therefore so horribly wrong. And Rust thinks the same of her, standing there. He knows her now, loves her now, and so she can't be here.

“Kenny…”

“I just-” Kenny wipes her face and turns to him. “Whatever it is you're trying to do, I wish you'd just let me help. I don't understand why you feel like you have to hide all of this. This is what we do. We built something together, Rust. We have the farm.”

Now somewhat relaxed she isn't livid at him, Rust sets the bottle on his counter and steps closer to Kenny. He cups her cheeks and she allows him to.

“The farm… it's peaceful. It's idyllic. It's home. And that's something I ain't had in a long time.”

Kenny grabs at his wrist. “But home ain't perfect. It ain't meant to be. Not when you're two people living together.”

Rust leans down to get closer.

“You are the closest thing I've had to family in a long time. I don't care about anything else. You almost died last time. I'm gonna finish this, and things can go back to the way they were. But this is what I gotta do to protect our life together.”

Kenny's grip on his wrists tightens and she pulls Rust's hands from her face.

Ash. Gray and burnt wood.

Kenny shakes her head.

“That's not what this is supposed to be. It's not some dream that you get to lock away. It don't just belong to you.”

And like he can't control it at all, Rust's focus shifts and locks onto Kenny's ear. The look in her eyes is something too foreign to him and he doesn't want to reckon with it.

Rust looks away. Kenny looks away. But then Kenny's brows scrunch together and she draws nearer to a desk where Rust has been stringing together connections of Tuttles schools. Shaky hands pick up a photocopy of Marie Fontenot’s polaroid.

“You used my stuff?”

“I made copies, I put all of it back-”

“You helped me take that room down- it was your idea.” Kenny looks at Rust and Rust freezes. He sees in her something he hasn't seen before. She isn't torn by heartbreak. She's rageful.

“Were you gonna solve Marie's murder again? Without me? While I just waited at home like a fucking idiot?”

Kenny's hands curled meanly around the photocopied paper and hot tears melted holes into it.

“Get yourself suspended, go rogue, get it all figured out, huh?”

Kenny hurls the paper at him and Rust's chest burns with guilt when he realizes her implication.

“Kenny, it ain't like that.”

“And if it's true, it'll fucking work! Because it's you!”

She approaches and shoves him in his shoulders; it unbalances him only because he couldn't have possibly expected it. Rust inhales sharply and tenses, raises his hands in a premature and immediate withdrawal.

“Kenny-”

“Did you use my notes, too? Did you listen to my hours of recordings for each and every one of those girls, or only the interesting parts you remembered from when you dismantled my evidence? Was the plan to push me out completely?”

She knows it's not about pride or accolades. He knows she knows that. But the accusation still stings as she pierces him with it and he can't stop himself.

“And I guess that is the greatest tragedy of all, ain't it, that this would get solved without you, and you would feel like a failure, despite the fact that's a trifle compared to the countless lives that could be saved.”

Kenny's mouth closes, then trembles. Rust's open palms, still in the air, curl into fists.

“Don't cry,” he says, his own voice tight. “Please, don't cry. I'm sorry.”

Kenny wraps her arms around his torso and cries into his shirt. His own arms slowly lower to wrap around her.

“Just- please come home.”

“I'll always come home.”

“No. Come back. Come back to me. Let me help. Don't do this.”

He knows she's more than capable. It's not her. He thinks of Sophia, of Claire, of Dora, of seeing Kenny in that hospital bed, and his response is easy.

“I can't do that, Ken. Just this one, and then never again.”

Kenny presses her forehead into his sternum until it hurts.

“I ain't gonna wait,” she says through gritted teeth, as a last ditch effort. Rust swallows through a stone in his throat and nods.

“Alright.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

“Fuck,” Kenny finally pulls herself away. “Fuck! I hate you, Rust.” She wipes her mouth on the sleeve of her jacket- his jacket. He watches, and realizes he's never going to get it back.

“Yeah.”

“No, I don't. But God, I want to. Fuck. Fuck you. You better solve this shit. Fix this or die trying. Do you hear me?”

Rust nods again because he's out of words. Kenny chews on her lip, bounces on the balls of her feet, curses once more for good measure, then leaves.

Once Rust hears the Camaro leaving the parking lot, he picks the crumpled up piece of paper from the floor and takes it back to the desk. He carefully smooths it out, and gets back to work.

-

Kenny had heard it through the grapevine. All of it. About the fight, how Rust had gone off grid immediately afterwards. She'd even heard about what caused the fight, because she went to the cop bar and listened for about five seconds. She threw up in the parking lot before going back inside to get blackout drunk. Geraci had the decency to buy her a drink and drive her home.

It takes two weeks for Marty to show up. By the time he does, they are both worse for wear. He comes to her door with a 40 of malt liquor and an apology on his lips. She lets him into her haphazard home and they sit on the couch together, Hawk asleep between them.

“I never thought, when he came around, that this would all,” Marty says, and makes a motion with his hands like something being carried away in the wind.

Kenny rubs Hawk's head and sips her water. “Unstoppable forces, immovable objects, all that shit. Just another long walk. I think some people are meant to be alone, Marty, either by divine providence or their own design. I don't know which is Rust's, but he seems to have it bad. I do too. You…I ain't so sure.”

“Some would say my problem is I ain't lonely enough.”

“Shut up before I tell you what a fucking idiot you are.”

“Would you please take a drink of this damn thing? I brought it to share.”

Kenny's hand on Hawk slows. She stares at the wall.

“Can't.”

“Can't?”

Shakes her head. There's a silence filled only by the dull volume of the television. Then, lowly, Marty chuckles, though they both know, there's really nothing funny about it.

“Shit, kid.”

Kenny nods. “Yep.”

They don't say much more after that, but Marty sticks around to help Kenny clean her place a little, and organize her meds. And he promises to come back the next day to check on her. Check on her for what, Kenny can't imagine. But she knows he will, and he does. And even though Rust is gone, and Froggy is gone, and Maggie has sort of become someone else, Kenny thinks she has enough to be okay.

[haliotropes]

I assure you: somebody, somewhere, is on the exact same wavelength as you are.

[haliotropes]

Black Star (Rustin Cohle x OC)

11. and Hanging Around | Rated E

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The night of the raid, though that particular event was unbeknownst to her, Kenny drives home in a frantic blur. She isn't even sure how far she was or when she left the field or when she arrived. It was still dark at any rate. She goes inside, pats a worried Froggy on the head, and is sure to lock her doors. She locks her bedroom door. She barricades it with a nearby trunk. Whatever she encountered in that field is not getting her in her own home.

The next morning she wakes early, almost like an omen. Cracks an ice cold Diet Coke and turns on the seven o'clock news, waits through a handful of commercials for urgent reports.

“A firefight turned major drug bust broke out early this morning in a neighborhood within Iberia Parish,” a newswoman says. Kenny fumbles for the remote and turns up the volume. “At least 23 individuals were taken into custody, many of the neighborhood sustaining anywhere from minor to major injuries. There are no reports of fatalities at this time.”

Kenny's hands fly for her phone. She clumsily dials Rust's home phone, knowing for almost certain he's not even there. It rings out and goes to voicemail. She hangs up, dials Marty's house. Maybe if Rust didn't come home, Marty did, or if he didn't, then maybe Maggie would know where they are, or would know something.

Three rings. Kenny chews on her fingers. The sound changes and her heart nearly beats out of her chest.

“Hello?”

It's Maggie. Kenny sighs in relief that she at least gets to talk to someone.

“Hey, Mags, it's Kenny. Have you heard from Marty this morning?”

“Um, no, I haven't. Why?”

Kenny bites on her lip, wondering how much to divulge- not that she knew much herself.

“He and Rust went on a job last night. They wouldn't tell me what. I think I just saw the aftermath on the news and I just, I needed to know if you knew-”

“That drug bust?”

“Yeah. But don't call Steve or anybody. It's… complicated.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“If you're working today, stay by the phone. I'll call you when I know something.”

“Kenny…”

“I'll figure it out. I'll do something.”

She hangs up. The something is loaded and weighs heavy on her tongue. She has no idea what that something is or if it even exists. What's she supposed to do, drive around the south part of the state and hope she bumps into them?

She only wants to feel like she has some semblance of control, of responsibility. In reality, there's nothing more she can do than get cleaned up and go do her job, try to ignore the double gut punch of what Tuttle had said to her the night before, and now having no clue where Marty or Rust are and if they're alright.

There is no possibility of a normal day, but Kenny tries. She cleans herself up and drives to work. Drifts into the office and types up the copy for the article Doucet had given to Stephon about gator populations. Discussion of the drug bust was inevitable.

“Did you hear about Iberia?” Asks Stephon from two desks down. Kenny flexes her hand and sets down her pen; she'd been writing Fish & Wildlife Department phone numbers to call.

“Saw it on the news,” is all she says.

“Wonder who'll get it,” Stephon says. Kenny doesn't have the heart or the energy to say that she hopes it isn't her. Call it a conflict of interest or selfishness. If that's where Marty and Rust were last night, she knows she needs to stay away from it.

There's still no news by midday. Kenny makes her calls, writes up more than what's required of her- well, Stephon- for the population article, and turns it in. The cursor of her mouse lingers over a document she could blow dust off of, but she opens it anyway.

The King's Court: My Day with the Killer of Erath

It was a shit title but she was feeling wistful when she wrote it. Kenny's eyes skim over the rough starting paragraph.

“It is strange to say, but I had the feeling early on that he wasn't going to kill me. Why he went to all the trouble to kidnap me in the first place only to have a ten-minute conversation is beyond me. But then again, it's beyond my pay grade to rationalize the mind of a serial killer.”

Plenty of it doesn't make sense and the rest isn't very good. It's dishonest to imply she doesn't try to rationalize anyone's behavior. She knows why he went after her. This wouldn't make for a good diary-entry and it sure as shit won't pass for a decent narrative piece. Kenny deletes the whole thing.

She leaves the office at four, but not before calling Maggie and checking in. Still nothing. Kenny's best idea now is to drive around and pray her scanner picks up something. Anything.

She makes it about twenty miles east until she does.

"We've got EMS en route to Lafayette General, one individual."

Thankfully, Kenny's on an empty gravel road because she slams on the breaks and drifts around.

"10-84, three individuals."

Kenny's mouth goes dry. One person in an ambulance, three in a coroner's vehicle. Maybe it isn't even them.

But she feels it in her gut. Something happened. Some shoe dropped. She doesn't have the wherewithal to question when the second will fall.

-

Kenny stumbles from her Camaro when she spots Rust's truck in the parking lot of the hospital. She runs in, barely slows her gait at reception, who directs her to the third floor. ICU.

The elevator is painfully slow. The creaking doors slide open to reveal a mess of cops, none of whom Kenny recognizes. Over their hats, she spots Maggie's brunette ponytail so she shoulders through the small throng. With Maggie is Marty.

Her chest collapses in relief. Kenny runs and catches Marty in a hug just as he turns around.

“Good to see you too, kiddo.”

Kenny pulls away to look at his bright blue eyes. He's riding some adrenaline high, though from what, Kenny still isn't sure, and she doesn't want to make assumptions.

“Where's Rust? Is he okay?”

Kenny's hands squeeze into Marty's forearms at the sudden thought of only one of them making it out-

“Ken?”

But there he is, turning from a conversation with- Speece, actually, but that means nothing to Kenny. Later, she'd feel embarrassed and slightly guilty about the immediate display of affection, but as soon as she sees him, exhausted but somehow wide awake, clothes soaked through with sweat and every bit of the last 48 hours evident on his body, she runs to him and wraps her arms around his lithe waist. At first, he doesn't return the gesture, if only for a moment. Kenny doesn't know what that moment means and she doesn't care. He's alive, he's here, and that's all that matters.

But his arms do wrap around her, and when they do they do so tightly, his hands in fists.

“How'd you get here so fast?” He mutters against her hair.

“Police scanner,” is all Kenny says, sniffling into his filthy shirt. She didn't even notice she'd started crying but it's not like it mattered. “God, I thought- I thought you were dead. I thought he killed you somehow-”

“Nah, he didn't even get close.”

Kenny pulls away enough to look up at him.

“So you were there? Did… Did you kill him? Ledoux.”

Rust closes his mouth; something in his jaw ticks and he looks back at a room for a brief moment before looking over Kenny's head. “Let's find somewhere more private. We got a lot to talk about.”

And so, in an otherwise empty corner of a hallway, Kenny and Rust sit next to each other in chairs. Kenny's head rests on Rust's shoulder as he recounts the epic tale to her. She wants to be as close to him as possible. Absorb the danger, should anymore come. She never wants him to get hurt again.

“What was he like?” Kenny asks quietly as she mindlessly traces spirals into Rust's arm.

“Who, Ledoux?”

“Yeah.”

“We didn't have much time to bond.”

Kenny lifts her head. “I know that. I mean…did he talk about it? Carcosa, the yellow king, black stars?”

Rust is looking at the wall adjacent to them. Kenny can't tell if that look in his eye is recollection…or choice.

“He mentioned em. Died all the same. Why you wanna know?”

Now, he looks at her. Kenny looks away and picks at her nails. Lies.

“I guess I just wanted it to mean something.”

“Wanted what to mean something?”

Despite herself, Kenny's gaze flicks down to her hands.

“The deaths.”

After a beat, Rust leans forward.

“No, that's not what you meant.”

Kenny's heart stops, her eyes widen, meet his.

“What?”

“You weren't talking about those dead girls. You know death dunn't mean anything, that it's just the light going out.”

“Rust-”

“We both know their deaths meant nothing but the end. That has nothing to do with any of us, not even Ledoux. And you know that, so what are you really asking me?”

Did he mention me? Whoever is really in charge? Did he act the same to you he did to me?

Rusty speaks in Kenny's silence.

“What'd he say to you that day?”

Kenny grimaces. “I told you.”

Rust wipes his mouth and it twitches under his palm. “Did you tell me all of it?”

Kenny's breaths grow shallower as his doubt begins to grow inside of her like guilt. “I told you what you needed to know to help you get him-”

Rust's hands come away from his face in a sharp movement. “Well, since it didn't matter then, why don't you tell me now?”

“I was fuckin scared, alright, Rust?” Kenny pushes herself up from the chair and bites her thumbnail, watches as the black spots on the fringes of her vision eat into a fake plant in the corner. She takes a shaky breath. “Ledoux took one look at me and knew something that no one else did, that no one else understands. And I don't- I don't know if it's real or if he was crazy or if I'm crazy…”

Kenny flinches when she hears Rust stand so she whips around, but he brings his hands up to suggest caution, like she's a wounded animal. Like she might bite.

“Why'd he let you go, Ken?”

“He thought he had no business killing me. Because I'm like him or something. I think he just meant batshit insane, but I don't know-”

“What else did he say?”

Kenny exhales, pinches the bridge of her nose. She's tired of the questions. Of the way she can't lie to him.

“That I was born there…I asked if where we were was Carcosa, he said no. I asked if he was the king in yellow, he said no. He said that one day I'd be called to it.”

“Yeah…you mentioned that.”

“Which part?”

“There being more than one. You know, we got two guys at the site.”

Kenny shakes her head. “No…no. it's more than that.”

“If there's an accomplice, we'll find him.”

“They're gonna close the case. Tuttle’ll shut it down and then it'll happen again and he'll be right and I'll be called to it…” Kenny's wrapped her arms around herself, hyperventilating, her mind racing with the rust and dirt of that day with Ledoux.

“Ken,” Rust reaches a hand out, waits for her reaction. She doesn't flinch, doesn't shake, so he pulls her into him by her shoulder and holds her tight.

“And what if we got it right, hm?” He muses into her hair. “What if that was it, and Ledoux was trying to shake us off?”

“Then I think we'll have gotten very, very lucky.”

-

Rust hadn't gotten angry at her, not really. Or, maybe he had, but he knows it wasn't her fault.

He and Kenny had gone back to his place. He wanted to go to hers but he needed a shower and fresh clothes. He asked if Froggy would be alright. Kenny said she'd put in a doggy door after she had to replace the screen he'd busted out.

Rust damn near falls asleep in the shower. The hot water breaks through the dirt and sweat and blood and coke and whatever else of the past 48 hours. It pelts his skin, stings him, but he likes it. Needs it. He closes his eyes and listens to the faint sound of Kenny ordering a pizza. Of course, when Rust comes out and lands on the mattress, he is once again close to sleep. Through half lidded eyes, he watches Kenny attempt to tidy his space: straighten stacks and clean the counter and make little adjustments here and there.

He was angry because she was right, and it scared him. It scared him to see her scared, and the idea, the reality that maybe this wasn't all over, that they were still entrenched in this nightmare and would be until it happened again…

“Ken.”

She turns around, wide eyed despite the dark circles and redness and slow blinking. He hates that they had her worried.

“Yeah?”

Her voice breaks a little. Rust makes a gesture with his hand, the mere action wearing him out.

“Quit that and c’mere.”

Kenny hesitates, makes a small movement to set down whatever she's holding (looks like a random floppy disk), but then stops, but ultimately sets it in its pile and tiptoes over to the mattress. She doesn't lay next to him but sits with her back to the wall.

“You really should get a bed,” she says. Rust presses his face to her bare arm and sighs. He feels the goosebumps raise against his cheek.

“Mhm.”

“You might as well move some clothes to the farm for nights like these…”

Rust plants a feather light kiss to her arm before he can't keep his eyes open any longer. He falls asleep to the sensation of Kenny running her fingers through his hair, and he doesn't even wake up when the pizza comes by.

[haliotropes]

Kenny Marsden & Rust Cohle

[haliotropes]

Black Star (Rustin Cohle x OC)

10. Hysterical and Let Down | Rated E

A/N: psychosis, feelings of hopelessness

₊˚ ✧.* ೃ ₊˚ ✧.* ೃ ₊˚ ✧.* ೃ ₊˚ ✧.* ೃ

“Ahem.”

Neither body stirs. Marty tries again.

“Ahem!”

Still nothing. He goes to the countertop and rattles a pot that's been left out to dry. When he does, both Rust and Kenny shoot up; Rust grabs a gun from god knows where and points it blindly at Marty, who raises his hands in defense.

“It's almost seven. Figured you'd like a wake-up call since you're never still asleep this late.”

Kenny secures the blanket around her chest and Rust puts the gun down and rubs his face.

“What the fuck Marty?” Kenny hisses.

“Relax, I didn't see anything. Good to know we all did well for ourselves last night though, huh?”

“Does that mean you get to move out soon?” Rust groans.

“Well, let's not get hasty. I'm going to go change. You two should get decent.”

Marty disappears. Kenny and Rust look at each other.

“Good morning,” she says sleepily, the adrenaline wearing off.

“Morning,” he replies. “That was the best sleep I got in a long time.”

Kenny smirks at him. “Sounds like you need to get laid more often.” She tries to roll over and sit up, but he hooks an arm around her waist and pulls her back into him, earning a squeal.

“Rust-!”

“Hey, I'm down to get laid plenty, alright? But I need you to know…”

He looks at her, cradled in his arms, looking up at him. She smiles slowly, warmly.

“Yeah, I know.”

-

They decide to get breakfast at a nearby diner, the three of them. Even though Kenny has hardly ever seen Rust eat, he orders a pretty hearty plate. She gets a tall stack of pancakes as a treat. Marty treats himself to a cheap steak and eggs. They discuss Tuttle's proposition, if it can be called that.

“I think you should meet him,” Rust says through a bite of eggs. Kenny gawks at him.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. Otherwise, you're just reinforcing that we got something to hide. Tell him what was released publicly and don't go into any more detail.”

“He'll push.”

“Push back.”

Kenny looks to Marty for help. “Marty?”

He shrugs. “I agree. You're smart enough- and stubborn enough. Make him think you're not worth the trouble.”

Kenny stabs at her pancakes with her fork. “And what'll you two be getting up to?”

The detectives share a look. Kenny registers this and the table grows somber.

“So it's tonight, then?”

“Looks that way,” Marty says.

“And I'm sure there's no way I can convince you-”

“Absolutely not,” says Rust, cutting her off. She figured that's how it would be but saw no harm in trying.

“Am I gonna see it on the news?”

“Not if we do it right.”

“I hate the sound of that.”

Kenny sets her fork down and pushes her plate away.

“Ken, we'll be fine,” Rust says. Marty looks between them.

“Ken?”

“I know, I know. But my stomach’s in knots and apparently I gotta save room for dinner.”

-

Kenny hates figuring out what to wear.

She likes clothes, she even likes pretty clothes and dressing up- as long as she's doing it for herself. The thought of dressing up to placate Reverend Billy Lee Tuttle of all people makes her stomach churn.

Still, the pretty sundress with a cardigan and a single braid over her shoulder makes her look perfect for a Sunday service, so it should well suffice for dinner.

The restaurant he chose isn't high falutin, thankfully. More like a dressed up steakhouse. Even so, Kenny is self-conscious about her appearance, though that can never be helped. She clutches at the sleeves of her cardigan as she enters and the hostess leads her to a table where Tuttle is already sitting, sipping merrily on a sweet tea. He rises when he sees her, smiles and waves, and pulls out her chair.

“You really don't have to-”

“No, I insist. I invited you here, after all.”

Kenny smiles and bites her tongue and sits, thanks the hostess. She's hardly settled before the waitress comes to the table. Nothing but impeccable service when a Tuttle comes around. Kenny can hardly blame them.

“Good evening, miss. What can I get you started with to drink?”

“Water, please,” Kenny says, going for the safest option.

“Don't I remember you being a whiskey woman?” Tuttle asks. Kenny chews on her cheek.

“Maybe later.”

But Tuttle nods and winks to the waitress like they're in on some little secret, and she's off and away. Tuttle shrugs at the look Kenny is giving him.

“My treat.”

All she does is nod, because she can't think of a word kind enough to respond with.

“I appreciated the flowers and the card,” Kenny says quickly. Tuttle smiles mildly, looking at someone over her shoulder and giving them a small wave.

“Of course! Meant every word. Regardless of my particular investment into the Dora Lange case, I was shocked and horrified to hear that you'd been dragged into it.”

For some reason, it makes Kenny feel indignant.

“Well, I wasn't exactly a random civilian.”

“All the more reason,” Tuttle says, clasping his hands and tucking them under his chin. “Not that there's much of a pattern, to my understanding, but you are not like Dora Lange. You'd think the CID would be pushing more now that one of their own is being targeted.”

That lights Kenny up. She feels it in her shoulders, her neck, the backs of her eyes. She tries not to stiffen too much because she gets the sense he's trying to get a reaction out of her.

“Well, I'm not a cop.”

The waitress brings the water, and a glass of well whiskey. Kenny eyes the ice swirling inside and gulps. She hates cold whiskey.

“Y'all ready to order?”

They do. Once the waitress leaves, Tuttle takes another drink of his sweet tea.

“I know you're not a cop, Miz Marsden. But we both know you've formed a relationship with the CID and its members. You've always been close with Martin Hart.”

Kenny takes a gulp of water and crunches on an ice cube.

“Sure I am, he's a good man.”

“And now that new partner of his.”

“Yeah, I dunno much about him. You'd have to ask Quesada.”

Tuttle nods, grins. “I have.”

Kenny's chewing slows. Whatever that means. She starts to get warm so she removes the cardigan. The dress is short sleeved so it's not as difficult, and if her scars make Tuttle uncomfortable, she'll count it as a rare win and reckon with that later.

They talk about family. Tuttle goes on about his expanding empire, though he does wait until Kenny asks, because he doesn't want to come off as rude. He asks Kenny if she's still at the farm. She says yes, and that's the end of that conversation. There isn't much casual for him to ask her about.

He saves the heavy stuff for when they get their food- probably so she's less likely to run. Fair enough, she figures.

“So, down to brass tacks,” he says, cutting into his steak. They ordered the same thing, but he got his medium well. Kenny orders hers rare.

“You mean you didn't invite me here to ask me questions you already knew the answers to?”

Tuttle laughs. “You always had a mean streak. I never knew where that came from. Not from your parents.”

“Maybe not from my momma, but you and I both know my father can be a real bastard. All fathers can.”

Tuttle grows quiet for a moment at that. She isn't going to run from this, and he's paying, so he's going to get her, bad personality and all.

Be stubborn. Push back.

“If you feel up to it, I would like to ask about the attack.”

Kenny nods. “Because of the anti-Christian rhetoric?”

“Because you are a member of the community and because I care.”

Kenny takes a deep breath, exhales.

“I woke up somewhere, blindfolded and bound. I didn't see him, and I didn't hear his real voice. He didn't do anything to me. I talked to him about Dora Lange, and I guess that got through to him enough for him to let me go.”

It's the same story the press got. She doesn't mention the Yellow King or the second man.

“That must have been very traumatizing. I'm so sorry you had to go through that.”

“Mhm.”

“And there was no way you could identify the attacker?”

“No. He was very careful. But the CID and Detectives Hart and Cohle are working hard to figure it out.”

And I'm here, she thinks.

Tuttle nods in thought for a moment before speaking again, changing the subject.

“Have you thought very much about your future, Kennedy?”

Kenny shrugs. “Not much since it changed. I guess once you get a certain age, you stop dreaming about it.”

“Well, if you did dream about it, then.”

Kenny chews on this new line of inquiry and its strange and slightly off-putting genuine nature.

“I dunno. I like my job. I like my house and my dog. You know me. Survival's always been the goal.”

“Sure, but you didn't answer the question. What about a family? Or leaving Lafayette?”

Kenny chuckles dryly. “I don't think I'm suited for family life and I'm pretty sure anyone could agree. Why are you asking? Surely this isn't what you wanted to talk to me about.”

“I've known you a very long time, Kennedy. I know your nature, more than you'd like to think. You fight so hard because you think there isn't anything else for you to be doing. You find purpose in it and dig your heels in.”

“Well, I think some people call that integrity.”

“No matter what anyone else calls it. I think if you found something else to believe in, you could finally be free of this place.”

Kenny narrows her eyes at Tuttle.

“Why would I leave?”

“You've never been fond of Lafayette.”

“About as fond as a thorn in my side, but better a devil you know.”

“Better no devil at all.”

Kenny sets down her knife and fork.

“Why do you care so much?”

“I am expressing to you how…expanding your horizons could benefit both of us.”

“You're not doing a very good job.”

“I'm trying to be polite.”

“Then do us both a favor and cut the shit.”

Tuttle sits back, sighs, wipes his mouth with his napkin.

“Your journalistic ‘integrity’ is beginning to concern me, not to mention your father, and if you want to be pragmatic, not that you're known for it, it puts you in physical danger. But it also interferes with my work. I'm telling you that I think you should consider moving from a place where you have no real friends, to a place where you won't be obsessing over dead girls, where you could be a different person. A better one.”

Kennedy's drunk words ring in her ears. What does a person better than you look like?

There is a lot that Tuttle had said that Kenny wants to argue, but she feels a bit numb, and the first thing that comes to mind is, “I have friends. I have people.”

“No, Kenny. You don't.”

He's bluffing. There's no way he can know these things for sure but he's also right and that's what's confusing her the most.

“I don't understand. You're asking me to… leave? To quit my job, pack up my life? Abandon the things I care about?”

“I'm only asking you to consider what you sacrifice by doing this for the rest of your life.”

And what does he lose if she does?

Kenny’s steak suddenly turns to poison and she decides she's finished eating. She finishes out her whiskey which is half water.

“I'm afraid you wasted your time and money, Reverend,” she says shortly.

“Nonsense. Time and money spent to express concerns to a family friend is no expense at all.”

“How altruistic of you.”

“I wish all our interactions didn't have to end this way. I mean, I've known you your whole life.”

Kenny's teeth settle against each other. One deep breath in, one out.

“And I wish you weren't an evil sonofabitch who thinks he can buy God's favor and take over the state. But you wish in one hand…”

Kenny stands, at least manages to slip her sweater on one arm before turning away. “Thanks for the steak, Reverend.”

Her head buzzes as she stalks from the restaurant and to her car. The sky is dark and starry and the air is thick and warm. A quick wind blows her braid and she quickly undoes it. Gets in her car and starts it.

She hopes she said the right things. She already can't remember. The conversation becomes a blur, a black spot on her memory. Ink blots on water she tries to blink through. Wonders what she'll tell Marty and Rust when they ask.

She can't go home right now; she's too full, too much. So, she drives. Puts in a Johnny Cash tape and smokes and stops by a gas station for a clear and red bottle of Heaven Hill. Takes that with her to an unfamiliar crossroads with swampland all around. Every corner is marsh, flat, stretching for miles. About a mile north ways is some sort of processing plant with smokestacks that disappear into the night.

Kenny doesn't know this spot, but it's where she was found. She parks her Camaro and shuts it off. Gets out, takes off her sweater and throws it in the passenger seat. She tucks her pack of cigarettes into her bra, grabs the bottle, and hits the gravel.

It isn't all marsh, actually. To the south is field land so that's where she decides to wander. A gulp, a drag, and blowing smoke to cover the stars. Before she knows it, she's hit the bottom of the bottle so she tosses it aside. She usually detests litterers.

She wonders where Marty and Rust are right now, if they're on their mission and if they're succeeding. She wonders if she'll see it on the news before she hears it from them.

You don't have people.

Kenny stumbles but finds her footing. A cool breeze brings in the smell of something from the factory and it makes her dizzy. She looks up at the sky. The stars are bright here. Remarkably bright. Kenny blinks hard.

You're alone.

“I can do it. I can do it alone,” she mumbles to herself. Her right hand closes around nothing as she contemplates another drink.

“I can do it alone. I can do it alone. I can live-”

Tears stream down her cheeks and Kenny sniffs. She wipes her eyes angrily.

“I can live. I don't need…”

But she thinks of her mom and how distant her father had been from her when she was at her sickest and Kenny retches into the grass. Nobody needs, but everybody wants, and isn't that the answer?

Kenny's eardrums pulse with her crying and the faint sound of singing. She stops walking, she doesn't remember having picked up again, in front of a tent. Fresh, white, too bright for the darkness. She pulls aside what is meant to be a flap, something practical, but it's much softer.

Inside it is warm, and people are standing from their chairs with arms raised to the sky and they're singing and Kenny feels warm. Dim. Dim. The man leading them is draped in yellow liturgical cloths. Kenny tries to remember what yellow is for but she forgets because warm hands are on her shoulders pushing her forwards and she's singing too and she feels at peace she feels warm she feels like floating

And then she trips over something and falls face first in the field. Her bare arms are cold. Kenny flips over and sits up, looks around. She's barely wandered a few hundred yards from her car. There's only the sounds of crickets and the marshes. It's dark. She looks up and sees that the stars aren't even as bright as she remembers.

The hands are so gone from her, they never were there. She's so cold and alone I can do it alone but that isn't how it feels.

“You don't need it to survive,” she tells herself, getting to her knees. “You can do it-”

But she stops because she feels something wrong. Looks over her shoulder at the edge of the nearby wood where she can't see a thing. But she feels something there. Something vile. And even if it isn't real, it gets her to her feet and back to her car. In a cold sweat, Kenny starts the engine and tears down the road, hoping on hope that she can find her way home in the darkness.

[haliotropes]

Black Star (Rustin Cohle x OC)

9. Hysterical and Useless | Rated E

A/N: smut!!!!!!!

₊˚ ✧.* ೃ ₊˚ ✧.* ೃ ₊˚ ✧.* ೃ ₊˚ ✧.* ೃ

It makes the most sense to Kenny for her to go stay with Rust. But that can't happen. And he can't stay with her. He has to go do whatever it is he's doing. Worse than that, he's taken two weeks of leave, so it's not like she can push anyone at the CID for answers. And, come to find out, Marty is staying at Rust's place because he's been cheating on Maggie and she kicked him out- rightly so.

Kenny always knew Marty had something of a fucking idiot streak in him.

Regardless, Kenny spends her nights at home with a cop outside and pushes her way into work during the day. Charlie tried to guilt her about wasting state resources by having cops guard her instead of just going to stay with him. In genuine argument, she pointed out that he still goes to work every day, (so does she but that's besides the point), and in bullshit pettiness, she argued that it's been so long since her father was on the force that he wouldn't know what to do if a serial killer showed up.

Perhaps it was a bit much, but it got him off her back.

At work, the idea of a personal narrative piece was dangled around but both Kenny and Doucet were too afraid to bite.

“Could be good for you.”

“Yeah?” Kenny prods in skepticism.

“Yeah. Think they call it ‘therapeutic’.”

“Think there probably needs to be some cognitive psychology involved for it to be categorized as ‘therapeutic’, Andrew.”

“I'm not even saying publish it. But maybe to get it in words…?”

“You're a great man but you're a shitty manager. Just ask me to write the story so I can say ‘no’.”

Doucet rolls his eyes and spreads his hands helplessly.

“I was never saying-”

“Alright, I'm gonna find a local hero to write about or something. A retiring teacher. A kitten-saving fireman.”

Kenny pushes herself from the chair in Doucet's office and is out before he can get another word in edgewise. She skirts past the desk of Stephon, the new hire, and knocks on it. He's elbows deep in a box of records and jumps when Kenny makes herself known.

“Jeez, Marsden,” he mutters. “Is this you in a good mood?”

“When I'm in a good mood, you'll know it.”

“Should you even be here?”

“As long as they keep letting you in, I think I'm good. Hey, you got any small stuff needs writing up? I don't have a story to be working on and I'm bored out of my mind.”

Stephon eyes her. “You don't have a story.”

“One that don't revolve around my current trauma? No, I've been a little busy with it. Or keep your workload, see if I care.”

Kenny starts to walk away; Stephon hurriedly turns in his chair.

“Wait! He wants six inches on the gator population control.”

“Wow, Stephon, I asked for work, not a walk at the park.” Stephon stares at her. “Kidding. I don't care. I'll take it.”

Stephon hands Kenny the assignment and just then, Caroline, the receptionist, is calling her name, so she goes to the front desk. Her heart sinks when she sees an egregiously large vase of flowers sitting on the counter, and an envelope with her name on it.

“Inn't that sweet? Someone sent you flowers!” Caroline says, but Kenny knows it's not sweet, because who is going to be sending her flowers at work? Who's trying to make a point she can't ignore?

Kenny tears open the envelope and inside is a card that features an image of a kitten in an arm cast, saying “get well soon!” Opening it up, Kenny sees a swooping, unfamiliar script.

Miss Marsden,

I speak for not only myself, but the entirety of the Tuttle family when I say that I am so relieved to hear of your safe return and your full recovery. No one was surprised when you returned to work immediately.

Once you've gathered your bearings, it'd be my pleasure to speak with you again, perhaps over dinner. Don't be afraid to call.

Rev. Billy Lee Tuttle

And featured at the bottom is a phone number. Kenny rips the front of the card off and hands it to Caroline, who takes it confused, and folds the written side up and stuffs it into her pocket. She grabs the vase.

“Tell Doucet I'll be back. I'm taking a trip to the CID.”

-

Kenny and Quesada have never gotten along, and it's because when they're alone in a room together, she can almost always get him to fold. It's what she's banking on today. She pulls up to the CID and unbuckles the vase from where it safely sits in the passenger seat. Grabbing that, she stalks her way inside. She can ignore the first wave of stares as she climbs up the steps, but once she actually enters the office and has to take off her sunglasses, it takes everything in her not to shrink away. She says hello to Cathleen and says the flowers are for the office and happily leaves them at the counter. Kenny can see over her shoulder, next to Rust's vacant desk, is Marty.

His desk being in the very back has to be a cosmic irony, because she has to walk past every single man in that room to get to him. No one wants to look at her, save Geraci, who looks like he's thinking of what to say, but can't quite get there yet.

“Lemme know when you figure it out,” Kenny mutters at him in passing. She almost sits in Rust's chair but thinks better of it, opting for a short filing cabinet behind Marty's desk. His eyes go wide when he sees her, and he watches wordlessly when she sits down.

“Guess I shouldn't be shocked you're out and about.”

“Guess you shouldn't.”

“And you being here cannot be good news.”

“No, not particularly good.”

Marty looks behind him and sees half the office staring at them, trying to eavesdrop.

“We, uh, we should maybe go somewhere a bit more private. Come on.”

Marty stands and Kenny follows him with crossed arms. He leads her to the archives room and they find a cozy corner to stand in.

“You look better. How are you feeling?”

“Like I ate something foul. The good Reverend sent me flowers and a card.”

“How thoughtful.”

Kenny digs the folded card from the back pocket of her cargo pants and hands it to Marty. He unfolds it, reads it, looks at her.

“What are you thinking?”

Kenny bites her thumbnail. “I don't know. He's gonna press me for information I'm not gonna give, but he knows that, which makes me think there's something else. I dunno why he's so obsessed with this case but it's rubbing me the wrong way.”

“Satanic panic is good for his business.”

“I dunno…this doesn't feel like that.”

Marty waits for a beat, digests her words. “What are you saying?”

“Nothing. I'm not. I don't know. But you're leading this investigation so I wanted you to know.”

Marty frowns in consideration at the card.

“Is that all you wanted?”

Kenny folds her arms over her chest again. Looks at the floor.

“How is he?”

Marty takes too long to answer, so Kenny knows he's at least considering lying, but his answer is honest as he folds the card back, and then some, thinning the seams with his thumbnail.

“He's not great, you know. Says he knows what he's doing and I trust him.”

“Still.” Then, because she knows they can't avoid it. “I heard about you and Maggie.”

Marty turns a bright shade of red and it's his turn to look away.

“I'm gonna make it up to her.”

“If she lets you, you'll be the luckiest man in the world, you know that, right?”

“I know.”

“I mean-”

“I know, Kenny.”

“Fuckin unbelievable.”

“You are not the first person to say it.”

“I've been a little busy and my turn was due.”

“Well, I hope you feel satisfied in getting a word in about my personal life.”

“Hey, shitter, I think we're past that point, don't you?”

There's a pause, and Marty breaks out into that stupid, toothy grin and shakes his head.

“God help me if I wasn't already planning on making it right. I'd have half the parish knocking down my door.”

“I have more in the chamber.”

“Yeah, I'm sure.”

“I'm gonna see if Quesada will talk. Listen, if I came by tonight, would he be there? Would he, I dunno, be in a position to talk to me?”

Marty shrugs with his hands shoved in his pockets.

“I have no idea, Kiddo. It ain't my place to talk about and you're just gonna have to take that risk.”

Kenny nods, the thought infinitely more stomach churning than the idea of going into Quesada's office.

Which she does, after knocking. When he sees her, Quesada lifts his hands.

“You're not a cop, Kennedy.”

“You don't have a sign outside your door,” she says. “May I sit?”

“You're going to anyway.”

He's right, and she does.

“Listen, you need to get Tuttle off our backs.”

“‘Our’? Who exactly are you speaking for?”

“Myself, Marty, Rust, you. The CID if you know what's good for you.”

Quesada throws up his hands and looks around himself. “What do you expect me to do, Kennedy? Ask him nicely to back off?”

“You could tell him that he, in fact, has no authority here.”

“Look, I know you don't like me, but there's no way you think I'm actually that stupid. He does have that authority. Not by title, but in power. And that's what happens when your cousin is governor. You know, when your father is a commissioner.”

Kenny slumps back in her chair and rolls her eyes.

“Christ almighty…”

“Marty and Rust have had more than enough time to figure this out. If they don't, they know what happens. That's out of my hands.”

“He wants to talk to me, almost certainly about the case. I don't want him to, and you should give a shit.”

“I can give a shit, but that doesn't have any impact.”

“Well goddamn, Quesada, what am I supposed to do?”

“Mind your business? Did you ever consider that from the start?”

“It is my business! I was kidnapped.”

“Yeah, and you know why. You got yourself involved.”

“Jesus, a random guy could shoot me in the face and you'd find a way to say I deserved it.”

“Kenny, there's nothing I can do that I'm willing to do. Think of that what you will, because God knows you will.”

Kenny is shocked into a momentary silence.

“So that's it?”

“That's it. And you shoulda known better.”

Kenny pushes herself from the desk chair.

“Fine. Waste of my fuckin time…”

When she opens the door, she's chest to chest with Speece, who looks over her shoulder at Quesada.

“There a problem here?” He asks in his deep, intimidating voice.

“There's a million problems here, Sergeant. No one's willing to figure them out. Excuse me.”

Speece allows her to move past him. Kenny stops briefly at Marty's desk.

“I'll talk to you soon.”

“Didn't go well?”

“What do you think? I'll pop by tonight if I can shake my security detail. He only hangs around the house, though, so it shouldn't be too hard.”

Marty sighs. “Well, hopefully I have a date with Maggie. We'll see how that goes.”

“Well, see you when I see you.”

Kenny passes the other cluster of desks and sees that Geraci's is empty. She exhales in relief.

Until she exits to the hot parking lot and finds him standing by her car. Kenny pauses, keys in hand. Not that she thinks he's going to hurt her, let alone in the parking lot of the CID in broad daylight. Once he sees her, he throws his cigarette to the ground and stomps it out.

“There a reason you're waiting for me out here?” Kenny asks, trying to keep nonchalant as she retrieves her car key from the ring.

“Yeah. Didn't wanna have this conversation in the office. Just wanted to say… Look, I've been dealing with Marie in my own way, alright? We all know how much you cared, but ultimately that was my fuck up, so don't think I haven't been thinking about it.”

Kenny squints over his shoulder. “I don't spend time thinking about what you think about, Geraci.”

“And I know you wanna get as close as possible to what you missed out on. But you won't get it. Everyone accommodates you, but as someone who actually thinks you shouldn't die, you need to back off. Don't talk to anyone about the case, stop writing about it, and stop coming by here. Just give it up. You can't justify Marie's death by sharing in it.”

Kenny hasn't moved, hasn't blinked. Just stares at the same spot over his shoulder and chews through the thin skin on the inside of her cheek. Once he's quiet, she looks at his face.

“You done?”

Geraci chuckles and sets his hands on his hips.

“Yeah, I'm done.”

“Good.”

Kenny unlocks her car door. She feels Geraci's eyes following her movements.

“What?”

“Just wondering…”

“In your head?”

“You fuckin just one of em, or both?”

Kenny freezes, her car key gripped tight in her first.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

“I get Cohle, I get. Y'all are fuckin made for each other. But Marty, too? Seems a bit fucked up, given your relationship with him.”

It takes everything in Kenny to swing her right fist around and at his lower jaw instead of her left where she had her key. Geraci stumbles away, probably more out of shock than pain, and Kenny cradles her hand.

“Fuck!” She grits out. She opens the door and sits in the driver's seat, starts the engine, and is putting the car in reverse by the time Geraci has straightened and thought to advance on her.

“You stupid bitch!” He shouts at her as she peels away from the parking lot. Once she's on the interstate, she screams into her steering wheel.

-

By eight, Marty had come and gone from Rust's apartment. Trying to win back Maggie's heart. Damn fool. Both of them, fools.

And Rust was a fool, too, and he knows it. Microdosing crack was not high on his list of things to re-explore once he settled into Louisiana. He's sluggish, paranoid, hazy, more likely to stare at the crime scene photos rather than analyze them. He spends a lot of time in front of his tiny mirror.

At about nine, Rust damn near thinks he's hallucinating when there's a knock on his door, because it better not be Marty (because it would likely mean he fucked up again over dinner) and it better not be Kenny, because she should not be out and alone this late.

But of course, it's Kenny who's outside his door. Sober, at least, which is good. He doesn't want to set a precedent.

The first thing he notices is her bruises healing, then her red and exhausted eyes, and then her wrapped knuckles. Rust opens the door wider to invite her in.

“What'd you do?”

Kenny comes inside and Rust does a quick cursory glance outside before closing and locking the door.

“Socked Geraci in the jaw and nearly broke my hand.”

Rust runs his hands down his face.

“Jesus, Ken-”

“Hey, you woulda killed him if you'd heard what he said. He's lucky he got away with one punch.”

“Lemme see.”

Rust watches as Kenny catches her breath and obediently holds out her hand. Rust takes it and gently unwraps it. Her knuckles are shiny, red and purple. Cherries.

“Hmm,” he hums, and begins to rewrap, but Kenny quickly grips his forearm. His free hand flies to her offending one on reflex.

“What the fuck, Rust?”

He follows her eyes to the track marks on the inside of his elbow. He'd completely forgotten he was wearing his sleeveless undershirt. He felt her pulse uptick and watched as her eyes went wide.

“Nah, it's not what it looks like-”

A hollow laugh rings from Kenny's chest. “It isn't?”

“No.” Rust calmly uses his hold on her to make her release him. “This is part of the job. What I took off for. Why I didn't want you to see me.”

Kenny, promising a softer touch with her eyes on his, the vulnerability of the moment reassuring him, runs her thumb down his firm forearm and pulls at the skin around the injection sites. Rust takes in a breath but says nothing.

“Is it worth it?” She asks quietly. Rust's free hand comes up to encompass her shoulder and he looks at a spot over her head.

“I don't know yet. I hope so.”

Kenny plants a soft kiss on his bicep and looks up at him.

“How'd you get away from your security?” Rust mumbles and brushes her hair from her face.

“Told him I was going out for cigarettes,” she smirks.

“You'd’ve made one helluva father.”

“Fuck off.”

Rust seizes her mouth with his, hungrily, though not as firm as usual, given the perpetual slight high he's been living with lately. He's been miserable. To deny either of them this fact would be dishonest.

Kenny's fingertips slip up the hem of his shirt and caress the hot skin of his abdomen. Rust shudders against her mouth. His hands travel to her hips with a bruising grip and one palm dips lower to rub across the sensitive skin off her ass.

Kenny's hands explore his stomach until they graze his bullet scars. She stops, pulls his shirt up a bit.

“Rustin, you are never short of surprises.”

She moves her hands to his shoulder blades, taking the shirt in a bunch with them, and soon she's hiking it over his head. Rust pulls it from around his arms and discards it on the floor. Kenny is in a tank top and cargo pants and boots. Rust starts with the top. One piece for another. He removes it, tosses it aside, and groans internally when he sees her barely there bra, likely only present to maintain a sense of propriety. But her nipples peek through and Rust's mouth goes to her chest. He pulls the thin fabric of the bra aside and closes his lips around the stiff bud and nips against it with teeth. Kenny stifles a moan through biting on her lip and clumsily undoes his belt. Once she gets it through the loops, she breaks away from Rust and goes towards the counter, sets it down on one of the stools. Rust gets the hint. He presses against her back, kisses her shoulder and unclasps her bra. She shrugs it off and it too finds a new home among the floor.

One of Rust's hands flit around Kenny's stomach while the other flicks open the button of her pants. His long fingers play at the top of her pubis. Kenny throws her head against his shoulder and turns around to face him.

“What about Marty?” Rust asks lazily, alluding to the possibility of his failure and then coming home early. He pulls down Kenny's pants and watches as she kicks off her boots to free herself of them totally. She stands before him now, naked, save for a thong. Her hair falls over her shoulders, her scars and freckles continuing across the parts of her body that had previously been inaccessible. She smiles at him with newly red lips from the kissing, and the flush of her cheeks spread down to her neck, her chest. Rust thinks she's so beautiful, and she glows with the kitchen light behind her.

Kenny approaches him again and finishes removing his pants.

“Fuck Marty,” she whispers huskily. Looks up and in the eyes. “Yeah?”

Rust nods and chokes out the heavy word. “Yeah.”

Yeah to ‘fuck Marty’, yeah to fucking here and now. Kenny plunges her hand down into his boxers and wraps a warm hand around his already semi-hard cock. She moans in satisfaction and that does even to harden him completely. Rust steps out of his boxers and sinks to his knees. He grips the sides of Kenny's underwear and drags them down slowly, exposing her to him. She is as full and lush as he had expected her to be, as he had fantasized about her being. Already swollen, just like him. The angle kills his knees but he can't be bothered to care; Rust runs his hands up and down the front of Kenny's thighs and noses through her slit. One testing stroke of his tongue and Kenny shakes, gasps in a high sound Rust isn't expecting. He does it again, dipping into her and sucking on her clit. She doesn't taste anything like he had visualized. She tastes entirely like herself.

Rust pulls away and stands, wipes his face.

“Get on the counter,” he says. Kenny, though panting and pulling her hair from her face, still smiles.

“Say ‘please’.”

“Kenny,” Rust approaches her and she follows with his movements until her back hits the cold countertop. “Please get on the counter so I can make you cum.”

Kenny nods, brings herself up to sit on the edge of the counter.

“When you masturbate, how many fingers do you usually use?” Rust drawls. Kenny's breaths are shallow.

“Two.”

Rust sticks out his ring and middle finger and offers them to Kenny. She looks between him and his digits, then takes them into her mouth, licking between them and getting them wet enough to hopefully help her to the extent she needs them to. Rust's eyes are lidded with lust and he removes his fingers from her mouth. He trails them to her opening, then slips them inside.

Kenny tries to throw her head back but it meets the cabinets overhead. She's at the perfect angle to be at eye level with him. He works his fingers up and out, up and out, lighting her up at the base of her spine and coaxing a groan from her with each movement. For a split second, Kenny's eyes flutter closed.

“Nuh-uh. Keep 'em open. I wanna see those fireflies.”

He'd never told her that's what he thought of her eyes before. Something about her softens when she hears it. Kenny slips a hand between them and strokes him, pulls him lightly closer and closer until he realizes she wants to cum with his dick in her. It's nearly enough to push him over the edge then and there.

Rust rubs up, down, then slides in. Kenny hisses and gasps, but the way she twitches around him tells him that she's doing just fine. She exhales, inhales. Rust moves in and out shallowly at the start. But the more she gives, when she grabs both his shoulders and pulls him in for a kiss, he moves deeper. Kenny lets out a high pitch sound when Rust hits a particular spot and her head falls forward and she bites onto his shoulder. She's grounding herself.

Rust picks Kenny up from the counter and carries her to the mattress on the floor. He sets her down carefully, then kneels next to her. Kenny pushes her hair from her face and pushes Rust back gently until he's sitting back. Kenny throws a leg over his until she's situated over his lap and she lowers herself onto him.

They groan together and adjust to the new position as Kenny moves her hips lazily. Rust sits up and nips at her throat. Holds it carefully as she picks up her pace. They lean the other way, with Kenny's face buried in Rust's shoulder again and his hand slipping to where they meet to help get her to that edge. Her breathing increases, and Rust can feel himself close. He holds her close as his hips snap up to meet hers. Kenny bites down as she cums, and her fluttering around him brings him with her. He holds her by the lower back and lays her against the mattress and fucks her into it properly, chasing his high and bringing her to her second. He thrusts into her with a final groan, a curse, and then slips out, rolling over to his side. The ceiling swirls.

Rust looks over at Kenny, who is breathing heavily and staring at the ceiling as well. He bites lightly at her jaw and Kenny starts, almost like she'd forgotten he was there. She turns to him, holds his face, kisses him.

-

Kenny has slept on less comfortable surfaces than Rust's mattress, though it's thin and the floor is hard and the blanket is scratchy. But it doesn't matter. Nothing matters to her but Rust's softening outline each time a car's headlights breached the slats of the blinds over his shoulder. Nothing but the way his breathing is even, soft, never held or heavy. His eyelids, always half-lidded, now seem so because of this rare pocket of peace and not because he's burdened with some horrific scenery.

Speaking of his eyes, they flutter occasionally, like he's trying to stay awake, but all he does is look at Kenny. Which is fair, because all she does is look at him. It's all she does, but what she wants more than anything is to follow the carved marble of his face. Her eyes trail from a muscle in his jaw that twitches, to the tendon it connects to, and then way the tendon disappears into his clavicle. And she laughs at her desired softness for him, and her stark nakedness, and the corners of her mouth lift despite exhaustion.

"What is it?" He asks through a small smile of his own, because Kenny's joy is sometimes the only thing that can save him from drowning.

"It's just ironic...you don't much like being touched."

He thinks carefully before responding. "Not unprompted, no."

Her hand, from where it rests between the two of them, flexes involuntarily.

"May I?"

He doesn't respond, but nods his head. Now, he holds his breath. He doesn't think she'll hurt him, far from it, but that her feather light touch on his volatile skin would shatter it. If that happens, Kenny would only get injured in the blast.

Kenny raises a hesitant hand, one delicate finger out, and starts by tracing a thin line from his brow to his cheekbone. From the first moment she met Rust, Kenny yeared to touch this sharpest part of him, wondering if it could cut. It doesn't, of course. He relaxes almost instantly, the lines on his face fall away and he looks nearly ten years younger. He closes his eyes. He sighs.

Her thumb travels from his brow bone to his hairline, where she brushes away a stray copper curl that has fallen onto his forehead. The tickling of his long eyelashes on the soft skin of Kenny's forearm proves to be too much so she pulls away. But he catches her hand- swiftly, but still gently. Slowly, he raises her wrist to his mouth and plants a sort of half kiss there, mostly allowing parted lips to linger over the thin skin. His warm breath spreads in stark contrast to the chill of the night and her skin raises in goosebumps.

Kenny dares. Lays her palm against the hollow of his cheek and strokes under his eye. His hand travels up and down her arm.

"Is this alright?" Her voice is barely above a whisper. His reply is no reply at all, only gentle breathing. When she eventually moves again to pull her hand away, he instead moves it to his chest, right over his heart.

He wants to be felt. He needs to be known. Someone needs to look at him and know he's alive, he's human, he's here.

Her elbow grazes his scars. With his other arm, he draws her closer, now touching her with more care than ever before, and like this, they both drift off into a dreamless sleep.

[haliotropes]

Black Star (Rustin Cohle x OC)

8. A Chemical Reaction | Rated M

A/N: kidnapping, referencing to sa but none occurring, references to suicide

₊˚ ✧.* ೃ ₊˚ ✧.* ೃ ₊˚ ✧.* ೃ ₊˚ ✧.* ೃ

The scariest thing isn't what Kenny hears or sees, but rather what she doesn't hear or see.

Because first of all, she's blindfolded. The space around her is thick, acrid and musty. She can't decide if it's worse to breathe through her mouth or through her nose.

When she strains her ears for any noise, there's only the creaking of the building around her, animal sounds in the distance, and no cars. Nothing industrial or urban. No voices. She gets the sickening suspicion that if she screams, no one will hear her. No one she wants to hear her, anyway.

Because she's not alone. She can hear his breathing mingled with the air. She moves a little to get any feel for the space. Her hands are bound behind her back in irons. The floor is hard concrete, dirty with leaves and sticks and whatever else. Her skin is cold. She panics when she realizes she's in her underwear, then calms a little when she remembers that's what she was wearing when he grabbed her. Other than the pulsing pain in the back of her hand, she feels no wounds.

Suddenly, a sound close to her, like the crunching of clothes and boots against the floor of someone crouching. Kenny flinches. He's right next to her. She can smell him, musky and unclean, she can feel the heat of him against her exposed skin.

Fingers on her knee. She jolts, but doesn't cry out like she wants to. Doesn't fight him because it feels stupid to try.

Think of how you are. Clothed, relatively. Unharmed. Blindfolded. Something's off. Something's different.

“Tell me your name.”

His breath is hot and sudden against her ear and Kenny finally makes a small sound, a whimper, just out of sheer surprise. She wets her lips before answering, just to feel the air on her mouth. One more sensation to ground her.

“Kennedy Marsden.”

“Good. You're not a liar.”

He's whispering to her. Not speaking low, but genuinely whispering.

Consider the facts of your situation. Kenny shakes. Swallows a stone that has formed in her throat.

“Are you whispering because you don't want me to hear your voice?”

He pauses.

“Yes.”

Kenny takes a deep breath of relief. She can't see him and she can't recognize his voice. He's doing this on purpose.

“Good. Good, that's smart,” she says quickly, nodding. His rough fingers rub across the skin of her knee.

“Are you the man who killed Dora Lange?”

“Yes.”

He's being honest, as far as she can tell. Kenny tries to clear her head. She needs to play this smart.

“Why am I here?”

He turns his hand; the back of his nails, long nails, scrape her lightly.

“You don't know?”

Kenny realizes she's been only taking shallow breaths out of her mouth so she closes it, tries to steady herself.

“I have a couple of ideas, but I don't want to insult your intelligence by guessing.”

“You wrote an article.”

This does not surprise Kenny. “I did. How did it make you feel?”

His hand moves up her thigh, but it doesn't feel sexual. More like he's petting her, like she's an animal he trapped in a cage.

“Curious. Everyone always blames the devil. But this wunn't his bidding.”

They are, so far, in agreement with each other. Kenny decides to take a risk. “The king in yellow. Is that you? Are you the king in yellow?”

His hand stills. He's quiet, so Kenny continues quickly, desperately.

“Are we in Carcosa? Can you tell me that?”

His hand leaves, then reappears on her cheek. Moving it, like an appraisal. Kenny is trembling.

“Have you seen it?”

“Seen what?”

The hand moves quickly to take her jaw into a bruising grip. Kenny hisses in pain, and the newly violent contact frightens her. She is only glad that the blindfold absorbs the start of her tears.

“Have you. Seen it.”

Blurs of her nightmare flash in Kenny's blacked out vision. She shakes harder in his grasp.

“I saw a lake of blood and a black star and I saw… somebody…”

She thinks of Rust's dead body and the blindfold stops holding in her tears.

“Was it you? Did you see yourself?”

Kenny attempts to shake her head.

“No, it was someone I…”

Before now, she hasn't been able to see what has caused his death, but he's been gorged. Rust's midsection is hollowed out and in it, Kenny can see the sky. The eclipse.

“Someone you love?”

She cries harder. “Yes.”

Finally, the grip on her jaw loosens and turns somewhat softer. He sighs.

“That's the way it has to be. A sacrifice.”

A thumb swipes at a tear and smears it across her cheek.

“Do you know why you're blindfolded?”

“So I can't see your face.”

“What would happen if you saw me?”

“You'd have to kill me.”

For a split second, Kenny is afraid he's going to rip the blindfold from her face like a cruel joke. But he doesn't.

“I don't want to kill you.”

“Why not?”

It's a stupid question, but one she can't help asking. He should kill her. She would.

“Because you were born there, in Carcosa. I can tell. I can see it, smell it.”

Kenny sobs, hiccups as she tries desperately to catch her breath. Suddenly, her not being in danger becomes the problem because he sees her as one of them and oh God what if he's right?

“Why are you crying?”

Kenny can hardly manage the words. “Because I'm afraid.”

“Of me?”

“No. Of the future.”

He takes a breath like he's going to respond, but then there's the sound of a door opening and slamming shut. Kenny cringes into whatever is behind her to escape whatever is coming.

“What the fuck are you doing?? This wasn't part of the plan!”

It's a new voice, a male's, and he clearly doesn't care about Kenny recognizing his voice because he's shouting. He and the whispering man disappear together, and Kenny is finally left alone, shaking, cold overtaking her because she doesn't know what's supposed to come next. How long is she supposed to wait before she begins to consider escape? Because, truth be told, unless the newcomer changes his mind, the whispering man doesn't seem interested in killing her. He may even let her go.

One thing is for sure- she has no idea if she can be found, and she's not interested in finding out.

It could have been fifteen minutes, it could have been an hour until the door opens again. Kenny braces. But he crouches next to her again and she's relieved.

“I tried to explain, but he doesn't understand.”

Kenny adjusts to allow blood flow to return to her hands.

“What comes next?” She asks. A sigh fans her face. Suddenly, a forehead presses against her temple. She tries very hard not to move away.

“I'm going to wait until he's gone, and then I'm going to let you go.”

“Why? I don't understand, why would you do that?”

“I don't want to. But it's not my place to keep you here. Some day, he'll call you back, and you'll heed his call, won't you?”

Just say yes. Just go along with him. Why are you asking questions?

For once, Kenny listens to herself.

“Okay,” she says shakily.

“You might wanna get some rest. I don't know how long this is gonna take, and you got a while to walk.”

-

The call to dispatch was from a side road at 6:47 in the evening, 73 hours after Kenny was reported missing by Andrew Doucet. The caller said a woman stumbled into the road, naked down to her underwear, dirty, blindfolded with hands bound behind her back. The caller said she would've hit her if she hadn't swerved into the field next to the road. Kenny was found some 65 miles in the opposite direction of where they'd been looking.

Rust thinks a lot of things as he and Marty wait in the ICU of Lafayette General. Marty's pacing- it's all he can do to keep from storming inside her room. Rust sits in a chair and stares at the blank wall ahead.

He had thought he was doing her a favor by being distant when he saw her last. She was getting too close too fast and it scared him, and what's more is he was scaring himself. Each time he got the urge to call her or go by her house, it felt too easy to drop what he was doing and do it.

When she didn't show up for work and Doucet went to her house and found it empty, save for Froggy who had busted through the screen door and was waiting on the front porch, he reported her missing. The first thing that came into Rust's mind was that she'd killed herself. The second thing was that it would have been his fault if she had, at least in some measure. But when they searched the immediate area and found no sign of her, then found a spot of blood far out in a neighboring field, that's when they started the search. That's when Rust got sick.

He didn't eat, didn't sleep, not on purpose. Didn't drink. Ate through five packs of cigarettes and let Marty drive him around. Marty was almost as bad off as him. His mess of a home life aside, Marty wasn't ready to deal with losing Kenny, either. And though it was always possible, and had almost happened many times before either of them knew her, it never felt real.

Back to the hospital. Both heads turn when Maggie quietly exits Kenny's hospital room.

“She's awake,” she says. Rust stands and both men move towards the door, but Maggie puts up a hand. “Just Marty. For now.”

Rust puts his hands on his hips and turns away. Marty tries to give him a comforting pat on the shoulder but Rust raises a hand to stop him. If someone touches him right now, he feels like he'll explode.

When Marty goes into the room, Rust tries to leave the ward. But Maggie catches him first.

“Wait. Just give her a few minutes. Remember that she's known Marty a long time and she's scared out of her mind. But don't leave her right now.”

Maggie's pleading eyes stab him with guilt and all Rust can do is nod before he returns to his seat. Returns to staring at the wall.

-

Kenny tries very hard not to scream when she wakes in the hospital. Well, the morphine helps, but beyond that, the memory of the stranger touching her, of her running and running and running until she felt her legs would break in half and her feet hit blacktop, causes her to cry at the very least. She needs someone she knows. Someone she trusts.

And like an answered prayer, Maggie enters the room and quickly closes the door behind her. Hey eyes widen, she takes in a shaky breath, and Kenny watches as she tries to decide what to say.

“Hey, honey. How are you feeling?”

Kenny tries to move but her whole body screams in pain, so she settles back down.

“I hurt all over. Am I allowed more morphine?”

Maggie cracks a small smile and relief blooms in Kenny's chest. Maggie goes to her IV and presses a few buttons and Kenny sighs when she feels the meds kick in.

“Who's here?” She asks once her heart starts to slow down.

“Just Marty and Rust. Made sure to wait until you woke up before anyone called your dad.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it, really.”

“You bet. Want me to get em?”

Maggie turns towards the door, but the sudden thought of Rust coming in here, of seeing her like this before she's really had time to sort through her own mind- Kenny shakes her head.

“Just Marty. At least for now.”

Maggie thinks something about that but elects not to say it aloud. She nods and leaves the room.

Kenny lays her head against the pillow and her wound pulses faintly. She blows out a steady breath, hears the chatter outside, then the door opens and Marty steps through.

Whatever she looks like is off putting enough to halt him for a moment. He closes the door and runs a hand across his mouth. Tries to smile at her.

“Hey, kiddo.”

And for some reason, that's what does it. The dam breaks and Kenny comes apart with tears streaming down her face and the salt stinging her split lips. Marty, the ever panicky father, rushes to her bedside.

“Damn, am I that bad a sight for sore eyes?”

Kenny laughs because she has to, for both their sakes. Marty sits down in a chair next to her and places a hand palm up on the bed. Kenny takes it. For a moment, she fears he'll run a thumb across the soft skin- an innocent gesture that would remind her too much of what she just escaped, but he doesn't. He's simply there.

“What happened?” He asks. There's probably some rule about waiting after a kidnapping victim waits up to start grilling them for info, but that doesn't matter between them. Kenny tries to pick through the pieces of what she can remember and what he needs to know.

“He took me from my house. Or, a nearby field, I guess. Dunno how long I was out.” Upon remembering the dark, Kenny stares up into the LED lights. “I woke up wherever I did. Nowhere near a road or a city. No other people. He had me blindfolded and bound.”

“Did he…?”

“No,” Kenny shakes her head almost too vehemently, damn near defensively. “No. We talked. He said he read my article. We talked…and then he let me go.”

Flashes to the waiting, to him coming back for her, pulling her up from the floor, dragging her outside, walking her a distance she couldn't trace before telling her to walk the rest of the way. Blind the entire time.

Marty asks the question she knows he has to.

“Why would he let you go?”

Because he saw something horrible in me. Something kindred. Something sinister.

“I don't know. I think I just talked my way around him. Maybe he thought killing me would be more trouble in the long run.”

When Marty is quiet, Kenny looks over at him. He's watching her from under his brow, carefully. Speculatively. If he doesn't believe her, she needs to know why.

“What all did Rust tell you?” She asks in a whisper, half afraid to hear the answer because of what it might reveal.

“That you two have been spending some time outside of work together. That, uh…” Marty looks at the floor. “Listen, kid, he really cares about you. I mean, in a way I didn't think he was capable of.”

A rogue tear slips from the corner of her eye and Kenny wipes it away furiously.

“No,” is what Kenny says. “No, I'm intriguing to him. I'm confusing and then frustrating. I mean, come on, look at me.” Kenny smiles sadly. “I'm damaged goods. Last time I was in here…”

“You know you got people who care about you. Me ‘n two others right outside that door. My girls care about you. Hell, your boss was the one who reported you missing. You got a whole heap of folks who ain't scared of you, kid. They're just scared for you, is all.”

But Kenny shakes her head. “No, I'm tired. I'm tired of it. I thought I could manage, but…”

You were born there. I can see it.

Shadows lengthen men's faces and Kenny doesn't know where home is.

“This isn't gonna get solved today. You're right, it's been a long time. But I know you'll do it for the job, and there's still a lot left to be done.”

You got a while to walk. Don't you dare.

“Rust didn't want me around it. He told me so.”

“Well, what the fuck does he know, anyhow.”

He means it as a joke but the question begs at Kenny.

The door opens and Maggie sticks her head inside.

“Hey, Commissioner’s calling again. What do I tell him?”

Kenny grimaces at the ceiling. “Goddammit. Tell him I'm awake, I guess. Can you swing something about no visitors? Cause of the case?” She asks Marty. He sighs.

“I'll try my best.”

Maggie nods. As she closes the door, Kenny catches a glimpse of Rust on the other side, far across the room, looking at her. Her chest tightens and she's thankful when the door fully closes so the taut tether can snap.

“We'll get through it. I promise.”

It's a nice sentiment, and Kenny allows him to give it, because he has no way of knowing if it's true, and she can't hold it against him for hoping.

-

Marty leaves to make a phone call to Quesada to tell him that Kenny is awake and plan next steps. Rust sits guard by the door. He still waits impatiently to talk to her, though he has no idea what he'll say. The glimpse he caught of her through the crack of the door had sent him reeling again. Her face was cut up from multiple impacts with the ground, she was bruised, and he can't help but think about who found her and how it wasn't them. How he can only wonder what that scene looked like.

There's a clatter from inside Kenny's room and it's still early enough that no one else is around and Maggie is gone with another patient. Rust is not a “fuck it” kind of man often, but this proves to be one of the rare few occasions.

He opens the door. Kenny's bed is empty, because Kenny is half supporting herself against the window of her room, trying to open it as her legs give out under her. Rust rushes to her, picks her up under her arms.

“What the fuck-!”

And for some goddamn reason, she's fighting him. He manages to get her on the side of the bed and places himself between her and the window.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“I was trying to open the window and get some fucking fresh air. Smells like sterility in here. My legs are still fucking useless apparently.”

She looks up at him and any quick fury, any frustration is gone in an instant. Even her under eye is peppered with bruises. She's not seriously injured, and he knew that, but it's like someone pelted her with gravel for hours on end.

Cherries in his mind are overripe and splitting apart, oozing and bleeding. Rotting.

But not her. That's their problem. He led her to believe that and all because he was in some sort of boyish denial.

“What? Stop looking at me like that,” she grumbles and pulls her legs onto the bed.

“Like what?” Rust asks, though he knows.

“Like you feel sorry for me.”

Rust, now content that nothing rash is going to happen, braces hands on his hips and looks around the room. Anywhere else than at her to get the truth out easier.

“I don't feel sorry for you, Ken, just sorry.”

“Well, you meant what you said. Which is fine, but I don't wanna waste time on pleasantries.”

Rust feels a spike of defensiveness.

“What exactly did I say?”

“Fine, you didn't say it but you still meant it. Happy?”

“You don't even know what you're talking about-”

“You came to my house and broke me off. Stay away from it, that's what you said. Wouldn't talk to me, you just tell me that you're going away, and thanks for the book, and I know what that all means.”

Rust grinds his teeth.

“And here I thought I had it figured out, but go ahead.”

Kenny chuckles humorlessly and pulls up her knees.

“As if I could possibly get in your head. I dunno if it's fear or something else but something was driving you away. And you knew I had to assume it was me.”

That takes him out of it and suddenly he remembers the revelations he had as soon as she was declared missing. God, he was so ready to stand here and fight with her. Any one strong emotion to replace the stronger one he feels right now.

“I asked Marty what he knew. He painted me a picture of a tortured you. So which is it? Are you scared of me, or are you scared to be without me?”

Rust isn't scared, though. Not even worried. Because here she is, and she's got enough strength to argue with him, not about nothing because this clearly matters to her, but something that, in the grand scheme of things, pales in comparison to the past three days of her life.

Rust sits on the side of Kenny's bed.

“I don't know what I am other than sorry, and fucking relieved. That's it. That's how simple it is right now.”

“I thought you hated me. Couldn't tell the difference between me and the people you see everyday.”

“No.”

“Then what was it? Can you tell me that, at least?”

They can finally look at each other again. The flames behind her eyes are quieting to embers. Whatever that was, it needed to happen.

“I thought about all the people Dora Lange knew and she still slipped away. I thought of her getting hurt and being isolated and I started thinking about you. And I couldn't extrapolate you from it. It wunn't ever actually about you.”

“Going away for a couple weeks, that was real?”

“Yeah.”

“And maybe you did try to tell me, but it wasn't what I needed to hear.”

That's exactly what it was. Kenny nods to herself.

“So, do you think you have the words to properly say to me what you were trying to at the farm?”

Rust has many options, none of which are particularly appealing right now, or feel particularly appropriate.

“I care about you very much,” he says carefully. Kenny nods.

“Alright.”

“And I made the very easy but very stupid mistake of thinking I knew what was best for you. Maybe I was right- I was right, because you're here, but that's not the point because I didn't know that and that's not really what it was about.”

“It was just an excuse.”

“Right.” Kenny takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Okay. So, when you saw me at the window, did you think I was trying to throw myself out of it?”

“It crossed my mind.”

“Right. See, that's always gonna be a possibility. It wasn't then, I actually really just want some fresh air. And I'd tell you that if I'm gonna do it, it's not gonna be from jumping because I'm scared of heights, but then if I said that, you'd decide in your head that it was true and in those in between moments where I don't want to live, that'll be the perfect choice because you won't expect it. I understand if you don't want to deal with that kind of baggage. I just don't want you or anyone else to lie about it. I know you understand that.”

“I do.”

Without a knock, the door to the room swings open, and there is Commissioner Charlie Marsden. Clearly heaving breaths, he sees Rust and his daughter and hooks his thumbs through his belt loops.

“What in the hell are you doing out of bed?”

Kenny narrows her eyes, looks at the bed she's very clearly sitting on.

“I'm literally in bed.”

“You're out of the covers. Your wires are all tangled.”

A smile breaks across Kenny's face.

“You're right. I tried to make a run for it. Rust caught me just in time.”

Rust, at this point, has had the good sense to stand. Charlie eyes him up and down.

“Detective Cohle, I think it'd be best if you stepped out. I need a moment alone with my daughter.”

Rust, remembering Kenny's trepidation about her father, doesn't miss a beat.

“Actually, we're in the middle of a conversation about the case. Proprietary information that requires total privacy.”

Charlie takes a step forward and out of the corner of his eye, Rust sees Kenny tense. His hand tightens to a fist at his side.

“You really don't wanna have a pissing contest with me, boy.”

“Lives are at stake. I'm taking this very seriously.”

Of course, Rust is, in part, bluffing, though there is some truth to what he says. Charlie looks between him and his daughter.

“Listen to him, dad. He's a good cop, knows what he's doing.”

Charlie glares at Kenny. Glares at her in a way no father ever ought to do. Rust wants to hit him.

“Well,” he says slowly. “You just let me know when you get a report of this conversation typed up and I think we can all sit down and have a loooong chat about it. Alright?”

Neither Rust nor Kenny respond, and when he realizes he's lost this battle, Charlie leaves, slamming the door behind him. Kenny flinches.

“That's gonna bite us both in the ass,” she says towards the door. Rust sits on the bed again.

“He may have the influence, but he ain't got the authority.” Then, quieter, and without looking at her, “Marty briefed me on what you told him. You said you don't know why he let you go.”

“That's right.”

“That's right you told him, or that's right you don't know?”

Rust knows he's got the correct idea when Kenny turns her face away and looks at the bed.

“What'd you say to him?” Rust asks, thinking of the grainy photo of Ledoux. Thinks of his hands on her.

“Have you read the book yet?” She asks quietly. Rust shakes his head. “I took a shot in the dark. Turns out it was the best thing I coulda done.” Kenny draws her knees up to set her chin on them. “Whoever he was…he's not the King in Yellow. Someone else is, and I think he's a real person. Like some small, contained cult. I asked if we were in Carcosa- the place in the book, and he didn't say no but he didn't say yes, either. So… there's more. Whoever I was with and wherever I was isn't the end of it. It can't be.”

And that's all important, but it isn't what Rust wants to know.

“But what did you say?”

Kenny rubs her forehead. He knows he's pushing her, but she's giving for now.

“I told him about a dream I had after reading part of the book. He seemed to think it was some representation of sacrifice. I think he expects it of me now. It's obviously crazy bullshit.”

“Sacrifice who?”

Kenny squirms in obvious discomfort. “Does it matter? It was just a dream, and he's a psychopathic serial killer who worships a literary character. And I didn't tell him who it was. So it shouldn't matter.”

With that, Rust knows it was himself. And while he would give anything to crack open her brain and see what she saw, he lets up. He gives her a second to relax before he tries to talk again.

“You know you'll have to be under surveillance now, right? They'll put you with…somebody, likely. And it'll probably be your father.”

“Like hell it will.”

“Ken, I'm serious.”

“So am I. That man had every opportunity to kill me and he didn't. I'm going to be fine. Besides, I can't leave Froggy.” At the thought of her dog, Kenny's eyes widen. “Holy- has someone been feeding him?”

“The dog's fine. Marty's got him at his house.”

Kenny seems to relax a little. “Okay. That's good.”

“You shouldn't be alone. Frankly, I don't want to hedge your life on the whim of, to use your words, a psychopathic serial killer.”

“So, what, I go into witness protection? They have someone posted up at my house, or I go somewhere?” Then, like an afterthought, “And you're still going away, right?”

“I still have to, especially now.”

Rust steals a look at her face. The more they talk, the more she's unwinding, the more exhausted she appears. Every bit of her is fraying at the edges.

“If it was a matter of leaving you or giving this job over to someone else, you know, I'd do it in a heartbeat. But it's not,” Rust says. Kenny's hand creeps to his where it sits next to his leg and takes it. She nods.

“I know that. I know that now.”

An apology teeters on her lips and Rust can't bear the thought of having to hear it, so he gently tilts her chin towards him, waits a moment to be certain, then silences that insecurity with a kiss. It's warm and chaste and doesn't last long because she starts crying. Throws herself into Rust and sobs into his shirt. He pulls his legs fully onto the bed and holds her there. Holds her for as long as she holds onto him.

There's something that happened out there she isn't telling him, and she doesn't have to. But it's got her scared to death, and so whatever it is, Rust is resolved to track it down and stamp it out.

[haliotropes]

Black Star (Rustin Cohle x OC)

7. I Am Gonna Grow Wings | Rated M

A/N: lots of internal thoughts of helplessness, on page mental break, mentions of parental death, mentions of suicide

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BEEP BEEP BEEP, BEEP BEEP BEEP, BEEP BEEP BEEP.

Kenny rolls over, flops her hand around, accidentally knocks her phone off its receiver. It clanks to the floor and continues its cruel and persistent ringing. Groaning, Kenny leans over the side of the bed and gropes blindly before she finally grabs the phone, and holds it to her ear.

“Hello?” she asks groggily. It continues to ring until she remembers to press the “answer” button. She tries again. “Hello?”

“Kennedy, did I wake you?”

Kenny does everything in her power, and truly everything, so suppress the groan of annoyance that threatens to slip when she hears her father’s voice. She pulls one eye open and peeks at her alarm clock.

“No, it’s only six-thirteen in the morning, why wouldn’t I be awake?”

“It’s not an unreasonable hour-”

“Only kidding, Dad.” She presses the heel of her hand into her eyes. “What’s up?”

“I’d like to meet you for lunch today, catch up.”

“I have work.”

“I’m fairly certain it’s mandated by law that employees get time for lunch, don’t they?”

“Well, I got errands to run, too. Gotta get to the library or public records office-”

“I understand. Do what you can to avoid me.”

His voice isn’t tinged with the disappointment her gut always expects but never receives. Instead, it’s condescension, which is somehow worse. Probably because she’s selfish.

“Dad-”

“The truth is, there’s some delicate matters I feel are best discussed in person and I’d like to give you the courtesy.”

Ah, he’s trying to do her a favor by trapping her in some restaurant and spinning her wise anecdotes and words of warning and thinly veiled criticisms.

“Fine, Dad. Where and when?”

“Blue Saloon, 11:30.”

“Alright, I’ll be there.”

“Alright. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Kenny presses to hang up, drops her phone beside her on the bed where Froggy stirs, looks up at her. Kenny frowns at him.

“Be thankful you never knew your father.”

-

Kenny goes to the Journal first. Rushes into Doucet's office before anyone can trap her in conversation. When Doucet looks from his computer to her, his eyebrows shoot up.

“What's the occasion?” He asks, referencing the sweater and dress combo that Kenny is sporting. She's even tries to make her hair look nice, but one second in the mid morning humidity and her dark curls have poofed along her shoulders.

“Lunch with the commissioner,” she remarks. “Do we still have the Britannica Subscription? For online?”

Doucet definitely notices how she brushes past the subject, but he allows her to do so with nothing but a stern look.

“We should. What're you looking for?”

“A title. Might be a book but I thought I could look it up before I make a trip to the library.”

Doucet shrugs. “You could give it a try. I'm still not a hundred percent with the internet stuff.”

Kenny huffs. “As if I could even have a computer at my place. Thanks, Andrew.”

“Say ‘hey’ to your dad for me.”

“Funny.”

Kenny sits at her desk and boots up her computer. She had never really worked with one until she started working for the Journal. And not every journalist had a computer, either. She just would do some research from time to time…and play Trail to Oregon in her off hours.

Eventually, to the tune of whirrs and clicks from the computer, Kenny is able to start the online Britannica Encyclopedia. She types “The King in Yellow” into the search bar. Nothing.

Well. Whole lot of time wasted for nothing, there. So much for this new technology.

Kenny pushes herself from the desk and shouts to Doucet as she leaves.

“Heading to the library!”

-

The Lafayette Parish Library has always been something of a safe place for Kenny. It has been long understood that any child who is outcasted for the ways their minds work can, and usually will, take solace in books. Naturally, Kenny was never an exception to that. The first time she ran away after her mother's death, the library was where they found her. It's where they found her the third time, too.

Because of this attachment, Kenny had formed a relationship with the librarian, Mrs. Renault. She was a middle aged woman then, and an older woman now, with glasses that hung on beaded cords and a seemingly endless supply of complicatedly embroidered cardigans. Her black hair is graying now, but she still gives Kenny that same smile when she enters the building.

“Kenny-Ken. Keeping print media alive and well?”

“Well, one of us has gotta do it.”

Mrs. Renault laughs at her and smacks the circulation desk. “What do you need, honey?”

“I’m here because I'm hoping it's a book. The King in Yellow?”

Now on the job, Mrs. Renault is suddenly serious, looking past Kenny in deep thought.

“Alright. Author?”

“No clue.”

“Genre?”

Kenny shrugs her shoulders pathetically. “Again, I think it's the name of a book. I'm doing a favor for a friend.”

Mrs. Renault quirks up her brow.

“A friend?”

“You know, those people you have in your life who-”

“Yeah, I know what they are. I just didn't think you knew.”

“Okay, well, I'm a slow learner.”

“No, you're just a stubborn one. Lemme check the catalog. Sit down or something; you're making me nervous.”

Mrs. Renault disappears into the card catalog area and Kenny leans against the counter, tries to compartmentalize. Lunch with her father. Lunch with her father to discuss a delicate matter. What could that be besides her involvement in the Dora Lange case? Kenny makes a mental note to leave the book in the car when she gets to the restaurant, if she gets the book at all.

A friend.

Kenny always fell too hard to fast into everything. Never one foot in at a time. She always either swore to never cross a threshold or she threw herself in entirely and there was no in between. And it wasn't just romantic relationships, either. There have been friendships she feels as though she ruined because she was a bit too “much”. Cared too much? Was willing to do too much? Not even in a self-congratulatory sort of way, either. Kenny didn't ever think it was a good thing. It scared her.

And suddenly, she's very scared of getting this book, because what can that open other doors to? What else will she stupidly volunteer for, or, god forbid, ask for?

“Honey?”

Kenny jumps at the sound of Mrs. Renault behind her.

“Sorry. Lost in thought. Where's the book?”

Mrs. Renault looks at a card in her hand and sighs. “Pulled from circulation. Follow me.”

Kenny does, moving behind the circulation desk.

“We have a copy. The King in Yellow by Robert W. Chambers. Horror fiction- right up your alley.”

Kenny doesn't respond to that particular point simply because it's true.

“Why was it pulled?” She asks, and realizes that the path Mrs. Renault takes is leading them to the archive room.

“It's a very old copy, falling apart, and no one was checking it out. Nothing too exciting.”

Which is for the best, Kenny thinks. They arrive at the archive room and Mrs. Renault unlocks the door. The room is temperature controlled, so it's cooler in here, and dry. Mrs. Renault consults the card in her hand and scans a bookshelf until she comes across the tome. She carefully pulls it and sets it on a table in the center of the room.

“1955. Originally punished in 1895- a hundred years old this year.”

It's a paperback, yellow and brown by both coloring and age. Under the title, a man's long and borderless face watches Kenny with smoldering embers for eyes.

“What are the chances you let me check this out?” Kenny mumbles, carefully tracing her fingers over the title on the cover.

“You got your library card?”

-

Despite knowing him for her entire life, Kenny will never understand why her father insists on sitting outside of a restaurant on hot days when it is perfectly well and air conditioned inside. They both sweat like pigs and it makes the entire experience worse. If Kenny were any more selfishly paranoid, she’d think he is doing it just to spite her, because now she has to take her sweater off for the whole world to see, leaving her in the white, thin-strapped dress.

Maybe it's a bit backwards for some, but Kenny doesn't mind showing bare skin when she's on the job because there's a social contract not to judge someone for the way they look, the things about themselves they can't change, in a professional setting. But socially, at lunch, outside of a restaurant, there are no rules. There's no social contract here, so anyone who wants to can stare. Kenny puts on her sunglasses so there's a barrier between herself and any prying eyes.

“What're you gonna get?” Her father asks from behind his menu. Kenny has her arms crossed, her legs crossed and bouncing, and she's looking out onto the road.

“Probably the same thing I've gotten for the past twenty years, dad. What about you?”

Despite her obvious displeasure, Charlie Marsden laughs.

“Probably also the same thing I've gotten for the past twenty years.”

Not too long a silence before their waitress approaches for their drink orders.

“I'll have an Arnold Palmer please, Sugar,” Charlie says.

“Water for me, thanks.”

The waitress leaves. Charlie eyes his daughter as she continues to stare at the road.

“What a responsible choice,” he remarks.

“Well, I don't think they're doing doubles of liquor yet.”

“I meant that I only ever see you drinking those diet Cokes.”

“Yeah, but you don't really “ever see” me. You don't have a very large sample size.”

Charlie clears his throat and adjusts his position in his chair.

“Kenny, I’m not sure-”

“So what’s this ‘delicate matter’ you needed to talk to me about?”

Regardless of whether or not Charlie was about broach the topic, Kenny wants to be the one to drive the conversation. The waitress brings their drinks, they order their food, they take greedy gulps of their water and Arnold Palmer, and they begin.

“I read your article.”

“And?”

“Good to know there's still a point to funding public universities.”

Kenny scoffs quietly. “That's nice.”

“Billy Lee Tuttle called me.”

Kenny taps the side of her glass. “Yeah.”

“Asked if he'd be steppin on any toes by goin to the CID.”

Kenny’s face screws like she just tasted something sour. “And did you tell him ‘no’, or did he just not care?”

Charlie sips his drink and chews on a piece of ice. “Nah, Quesada plays ball.”

“I'm not talking about Quesada,” Kenny says pointedly.

“Right…those two detectives. You’ve been spending an awful lot of time at the CID.”

“If by ‘a lot’ you mean, ‘twice before the article got published’, and even that was as a courtesy, then yeah.”

“You berated them in the parking lot, I hear.”

“Yeah, well, no one's ever gone under the impression I was polite.”

“You went to dinner at Marty Hart's house.”

Dread drips through Kenny’s veins and she leans across the table to hiss her next words, so as not to attract attention. “You having me fucking followed?”

Charlie shakes his head as though it's casual. “Cops round here have loose lips, word gets around. What's that other one's name?”

“Rustin Cohle,” Kenny says begrudgingly.

“He's not too popular.”

“Thank God law enforcement ain't a popularity contest,” Kenny bites, waits for engagement. When she doesn't get it, she squints. “What.”

“How much you know about him?”

Slowly, it dawns on Kenny that Charlie is making an assumption about her. A correct assumption. A dangerous one for both her and Rust. She grimaces and sits back in her chair, crosses her arms.

“Oh, fuck you.”

“He's got files I can't access.”

“That's cause you're a commissioner and not J Edgar Hoover.”

“I just think you need to be careful.”

It's at this point that Kenny decides she's finished. She reaches into her purse, grabs a crumbled handful of bills and slams them on the table, and stands.

“Dad, I spent my whole life around cops. I know how to spot the bad ones.”

She turns to leave. Charlie speaks.

“I heard about Marie. I’m sorry.”

Kenny's blood freezes. She hardly looks over her shoulder.

“Yeah. Well, if there’s one thing to be said about this family, it’s how fucking sorry we are.”

A pause.

“I want you to stay away from him.”

Kenny doesn't respond because she can't. Instead, she holds on tighter to her purse. She walks across the street, getting honked at for her jaywalking. Locks herself in her car and bemoans not being able to scream.

-

Kenny doesn’t see or hear from Marty or Rust for two days. They’re properly busy and she should be as well. She does menial write ups and digs tentatively for updated information about Dora Lange, to no avail. But mostly, she reads. At home, she curls onto her couch and cracks open the ancient copy of The King in Yellow.

At first, it's nothing particularly impressive. Thin pages of a cursed story and a place called Carcosa. Lost Carcosa. Dim Carcosa. Where the black star rises.

It doesn't mean anything, at first. Then, one night, Kenny wakes screaming. It isn't entirely clear why until later, once she's had some warm whiskey and sits on her porch with Froggy's head in her lap. In her head, Rust had been laying in a lake of blood, with an eclipsed sun, a black star, hanging over him. Dim Carcosa. It had made her sick.

And yet, she continued to read, and usually fell asleep doing so on her couch.

Three days after her searching had begun, in the orange evening, Kenny feels a large hand gentle on her shoulder. She's only half asleep now, but gone enough to have no idea who this can possibly be. She almost thinks she's dreaming again when she sees Rust's serious face searching hers.

“Hell, I gotta be dreaming,” she jokes, but there's no smile from Rust. He takes a finger and brushes a stray curl from her face.

“You left your door open.”

“Hm?” Kenny sits up a little and sees that her front door is open and the screen door is the only barrier between herself and the rest of the world. “Oh, yeah. I didn't fall asleep on purpose. I got that book-” She looks around for it on the couch but it's not there.

“Kenny, there's a murderer-”

“Oh.” It's on the coffee table. She picks it up and hands it to Rust. A yawn overtakes her and she stretches while Rust looks between her face and the book cover. “I haven't gotten very far into it. I've been…busy…” She lies. She hasn't gotten very far into it because making herself read it has become more and more of a task.

And Rust is quiet. He's tapping the book against his hand, staring into Kenny's back hall. It sends pinpricks along the back of her neck.

“Hey, what is it?”

Kenny places a careful hand on Rust's cheek and he flinches, takes in a sharp breath and blinks away some vision of Kenny doesn't even want to know what. She draws away quickly. Rust clears his throat, looks away at the coffee table.

“Listen, I'm gonna have to go away for a while.”

Kenny's shoulders drop, curl in.

No, no no no no.

“Oh. Uh, can you tell me why?”

“No really.”

“Okay. Can you at least tell me if it's related to the case?”

“It is.”

“Will Marty be with you?”

Rust nods.

It has to be something outside of her. It can't be her, she hasn't done anything. They've hardly done anything.

“What happened out there? What did you find?”

Rust works his jaw back and forth, moves something invisible between his fingers.

“We're getting closer,” he says finally, though it's not an answer. “This might be the final push.”

Kenny tries for humor, which she knows is a bad idea right after she opens her mouth.

“If you don't tell me, I'll just have to figure it out for myself.”

Rust's eyes snap to hers. They're bloodshot. She hadn't noticed before. “Don't. Don't you dare.”

Quick as a flash, Kenny sees herself, much younger, seventeen, after her first suicide attempt- the only public one and the only one that had landed her in a hospital.

Don't you dare ever do this again. It ain't who we are. It ain't what your momma woulda wanted. Don't you dare.

The words get twisted and confusing and Kenny feels her proverbial heckles raising. She clusmily pushes her way off the couch. A hand goes to her mouth and she bites into the side of her finger, grounds herself stuck onto one spot, and zeroes in on the kitchen. There's a coffee stain on the counter. It's been there for months. She cleans around it, just to see how long it will last before it disappears.

Kenny starts to hum low to herself because the coffee stain becomes something impossible. No one is ever going to clean it. If she disappears tomorrow, and they come to her house, what will they think?

She wants to get rid of it, but she can't move.

“I think you need to leave this alone,” Rust says from the couch. His voice goes like rushing water over Kenny's ears.

You're not good enough.

Did he see something that reminded him of her?

“I thought you understood.”

“I do. That's why I'm saying it.”

“No. If you're gonna be scared, go do it somewhere else. If you're not gonna share it with me then I don't wanna hear it.”

It's because she knows nothing about him. She doesn't know about his family, who he was before Texas. She only knows the word crushing tragedy he suffered and the fact that he's here now. Kenny gets the horrible feeling in the back of her head that something bad is going to happen but she doesn't know how to say it.

“Can't it be enough that I'm here, and I'm telling you?”

Kenny can feel herself shaking, shaking like there's bombs overhead and she hasn't blinked in over a minute and she knows this because the tears are falling on their own.

Oh god, oh god. They're all going to die. The world is ending. Doesn't he see it?

She wants to tell him yes, that it is enough, but everything is so fast. They don't have time to cradle each other like that. If they're going to be kind, then they have to be mean, too. And she can't be mean right now. And she still can't move.

Rust gets up. Waits. Kenny jerks at his movement but is unchanged otherwise.

Her floor creaks but it's in the wrong direction. He heads for the door. It groans open.

“Thank you for finding the book.”

God, if she could throw something, she would. Instead, she waits for the screen door to slam itself shut and when it does, she still doesn't move. She waits for the sound of the truck engine and then the gravel being spun. Once that happens, once she's alone, then she breaks. Goes to her church of a room and prays for any one of those dead girls and women to tell her that it isn't her, it isn't her. But there's no reply, and she'd given up talking to god a long time ago.

It's like moving through a haze, a clear haze but with no time or memory. She might have gone into the bathroom and taken a dry sponge and scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed at her skin to remove whatever it was about her that the universe both made her to be and seemed to detest so much. That was the real death, wasn't it? That she was made so imperfect and then they all had to suffer for it, didn't they?

She strips down to her underwear and grabs a bottle of some sort of alcohol and walks barefoot into the field across from her house. Doesn't notice that the final devil trap is gone; it's been gone for well over a day. Froggy barks at her from inside the house but mostly she just listens to the crickets in the tall grass. The sun is almost gone. She wonders how long she can walk until something happens. She's tempted to find out. She keeps walking, turns around and sees that her house has become no larger than her thumb. Takes a swig of whatever she grabbed.

There's a thud, a sickening crunch, and pain explodes behind her eyes. Kenny falls and the grass parts around her like waves. Something grabs her foot and as her vision blurs, she sees the sky moving above her.

Ah, what she had expected. What she had deserved, perhaps. Her last thought before passing out is about how goddamn funny it all is.

[haliotropes]

Black Star (Rustin Cohle x OC)

6. And One Day | Rated M

A/N: canon typical talk of grim topics

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Kenny wakes with a pounding head and stiff limbs. She moves her hand over to pet for Froggy, but it falls upon flat air. Then she stirs, and the plastic of the chair creaks under her. This is when Kenny realizes she isn’t in her bed at home.

She sits up and the light of morning, or day, could be afternoon but she sincerely hopes not. Not even immediately, but through a haze, she realizes she’s inside of Rust’s apartment. She’s alone, because obviously he’s at work. His wall of evidence tilts into focus as Kenny orients herself. Tries to remember what exactly she had done, said, or tried to do or say last night. Nothing extreme comes to mind, so she takes that as a small victory instead of a testament to how hard she hit the bottle.

Marie…

Kenny pushes herself up despite the fact that she's not fully awake. Stumbles toward the wall where she spies a couple polaroids of the geometric stick configurations that had been left at Dora Lange's site and in the Fontenot backyard. Groggily, Kenny peels them from the wall and slips them into her back pocket. She knows Rust will notice eventually, but these are good photos, and she's going to need a good reference for the plans she's forming in her still recovering head.

-

Rust's only real concern about leaving Kenny at his apartment was that she'd find his stash of pills from Carla. But, if she's fighting her prescription medications, she's probably not fighting to get ahold of someone else's. It barely puts his mind at ease about her.

They visit the commune and get Dora's bag, and around all those girls, Rust is thinking about Kenny. How close to the edge she always seems to be. How she dances along the precipice with a smile on her face and it's both fascinating and infuriating.

Rust is a hypocrite. Byproduct of the job. She's so lucky but she's so close to being devastated. These girls at this commune got here by some sad story or another, but he's willing to bet none of them had ever planned for it.

And just as he saw the power and violence in Kenny the first day they met, he sees her form now in the faces and bodies of these women, and he keeps his eyes to the ground most of the day.

They visit the burned church and Rust wonders if an attack on a holy building will trigger further repose from Tuttle and his gang. He can't stand it.

He wonders if Kenny believes in god and makes a note to ask her soon.

And on their way home, Rust remembers that birds in large numbers can create all sorts of strange patterns, and so maybe what he saw outside the church wasn't a hallucination. Still, he stares out the window of the car and waits for something to shift and turn evil.

“You alright, man? You seem distracted today.”

Marty asks from the driver's seat. Rust is always in deep thought, but apparently that thought was observably wandering.

“Yeah, I'm fine.”

“Alright. Listen, have you heard from Kenny? I thought about calling her after the Fontenot thing but, I don't know, I didn't wanna…I wanted to give her space, you know?”

Rust knows this is an opportunity, or rather, a test. If he isn't honest here, and it comes out, Marty will have no reason to trust him again.

“She came over last night,” Rust says as unaffected as he can. He feels Marty's eyes flick from him to the road.

“Kenny came over.”

“Yeah.”

“...Oh. Um. What did you…”

“We talked about Marie, she told me about her past, then she fell asleep dead drunk in one of my chairs so I let her stay.”

“She go home in the morning?”

Rust wonders why he asks.

“I left before she did.”

“So you weren't there when she woke up.”

“No.”

Then, Marty chuckles.

“Shit, man. You're gonna have shit missing.”

Rust looks over at him.

“What?”

“I'm telling you. The way you have all that shit stacked up in your place? Hope there wunn't any pertinent information laying around.”

“She knows better.”

Marty nods.

“She does. But that doesn't mean that she'll do better. Wonder what it'll be.”

Two photographs, as it turns out. Both of the devil traps at Dora Lange's site. Rust definitely knows this could be worse, but he's not out of the woods yet. He needs to go get them back, and he's not entirely prepared for whatever he's going to find when he gets there.

It's nearly seven when Rust pulls up to Kenny's farm. Sure enough, her covered porch has about four devil traps hanging from it, all increasingly better in quality from one to the next. Froggy is laying lazily on the porch and he picks his head up when he hears Rust's truck.

By the time Rust makes it up to the house, Kenny is coming outside. She doesn't look the least bit guilty, rather looks like she expected him. She's in overalls that are stained with paint and grease and her hair is pulled up and away from her face. Reading glasses are perched on her nose and Rust knows she's been working.

He looks at her. They're keeping eye contact now, longer than ever before. He moves his jaw back and forth as he debates what to say.

“Hey, detective,” she greets. Her voice drifts the honeysuckle into his mind’s eye and he shakes his head to get it away. He points to the traps.

“You gotta take these down.”

He goes to the one she obviously made first- obvious by the fact that it's barely staying together in its shape. Kenny watches him in interest as Rust reaches up to untie it.

“Practicing arts and crafts as a means of enrichment-”

“I'm not playing around, Kenny. Take em down. And I need my photos back.”

Rust sets the first trap down on the porch railing. Kenny crosses her arms.

“Why’re you so wigged out by me having em up?”

“Aside from it bein bad form?”

Kenny shrugs. “No one comes out here.”

“It's dangerous.”

Kenny is quiet for a moment, processing his choice of word.

“Dangerous?”

“And you know it.”

Now more frustrated with her, because she either is oblivious or stubborn or fucking with him, Rust moves to the next trap. Kenny follows.

“Whoever is killin these girls is not gonna wander out here and be offended I copied his art-”

“Well first of all, you wrote an inflammatory piece about Dora Lange, so you made it personal-”

“How the hell was it inflammatory-?”

“And you are a young woman, vulnerable, who is very openly investigating him.”

He isn't sure why they're arguing. Could blame it on the heat but the day is milder than they've been lately and he's barely breaking a sweat. Indignation colors Kenny's face.

“And so you think I'm making myself a target? That he'll find out where I live, kill my dog, kidnap me, tie me up, cut me, rape me, build a shrine outta me?”

Rust winces like she hit him. “Christ, Kenny.”

“That's what you're implying, isn't it?”

Rust runs his hands down his face. She's not gonna budge in her opinion of this, so he goes back to square one.

“Gimme the photos.”

She doesn't move. Grinds her jaw and digs fingernails into the firm flesh or her bicep. Rust narrows his eyes at her.

“What's your plan, Kenny? What do you want from me?”

He watches her face flicker. Some internal conflict. He didn't really expect a fight out of her about this, and she clearly got what she needed from the pictures. Her deep frown resets to a thin line, then flicks up, down, her brow breaks and her whole face relaxes. Whatever the fight was, she lost it.

Kenny walks towards the door and Rust follows her inside. Crosby, Stills, and Nash plays from the stereo. Froggy pads behind them and yawns.

“We don't have to fight,” Kenny says with her back to him. “I'll give you the photos, but will you tell me where y'all went today?”

Rust looks around her place, trying to determine if there's been any major or minor changes that might indicate mania. That might suggest some sort of break.

“You stole evidence,” is all he says in response. Kenny straightens from the coffee table and holds out the photos.

“Sure did. You wanna talk about it? Here.”

He takes them, slides them into his back pocket. Lights a cigarette. Kenny twists her face.

“Come on, I'm done being mean. I'm sorry. We don't even have to be friends. Just miserable cop and miserable beat reporter.”

Rust breathes in, out. Decides to sit on the far end of the couch. Kenny follows suits.

“Not for printing.”

Kenny smiles and shrugs.

“My recorder’s in my car. I need more tape anyway.”

And so he tells her. Tells her all about the commune with those girls, Dora's diary, and the church. Tells her about the sort of things she wrote in there. And, despite how easily it all comes out, he doesn't speak of the birds.

“King in Yellow?” Kenny asks, her brow knit in deep thought.

“Yeah.”

“Don't that sound familiar to you?”

“No. Do you know it?”

Kenny stands and goes to a bookshelf by her stereo. “I dunno. Maybe? Sounds like a book or something. Have you looked into it?”

“No.”

Rust watches Kenny as she peruses her shelf. Who has so many books that they don't remember? Rust notices on her back right shoulder is a tattoo of an eye. He imagines for a moment, or maybe he doesn't imagine it, that it blinks at him.

Kenny turns, her search fruitless.

“I'll do it first thing tomorrow. Get me back on your good side.”

“Kenny-”

“Don’t act like y'all won't be too busy to work on it tomorrow.”

He doesn't fight her on it because he knows she's right. Rust sighs and puts out his cigarette. Suddenly doesn't feel like smoking anymore. He wipes a hand over his brow. Kenny goes to the kitchen. The fridge door opens and closes.

“We gotta find something. Fast.”

Kenny hands Rust a diet Coke and he opens it, drinks greedily. She plops down beside him on the sofa, closer this time.

“Is there a rush aside from the obvious?”

“Reverend Billy Lee Tuttle.” Rust draws the name out and Kenny chuckles.

“Ho-ly. I completely forgot. I woulda said something but Marie…he, uh, he called me on his way to the CID. Asked why I said Dora Lange's murder wasn't satanic.”

“You know him?”

Kenny snorts. “Hardly. Friend of my father's. Did he give y'all a hard time?”

“Threatening us with a task force.”

“I understand the urgency.”

“Any chance you can get him off our back?”

“Jesus. I mean, he and I don't like each other. At all. He's just nicer about it. I could…try? Or… hah,” she chuckles.

“What?”

“I could ask Daddy to call him off.”

Rust thinks of Commissioner Marsden and Reverend Billy Lee Tuttle and that conversation and he shakes his head immediately.

“I wouldn't ask that of you.”

Kenny leans her head against her hand and blinks, smiles. “Well… we'll save it for the worst case scenario. Where y'all going tomorrow?”

“Trying to find a tent revival.”

“Which one?”

“Friends of Christ.”

“Don't know em. That's gonna take you a far ways out.”

“Probably.”

Their voices grow lower. Kenny leans closer.

“Listen, about last night…there's a lot about me that's difficult. People don't really like. I don't really like. Took me a long time just to learn how to survive it. And sometimes it helps me do my work. Other times, it doesn't. But for the first time, it feels like I got somebody who understands. Maybe even…I don't know, relates. Not to make assumptions, but…anyway. thank you, I mean. For listening. For not being afraid.”

As she speaks, Rust looks over her freckled, scarred, tattooed skin.

He holds out his hand, his palm facing her. Kenny looks from his face to his hand, her eyes wide. Rust doesn't say anything, doesn't move. Slowly, Kenny slides her palm against his. Their lines meet and split and meet again. He can feel her pulse hammering under her skin.

Fingers shift opposite and slowly but suddenly they're interlocked. “Helplessly Hoping” begins to play and Rust shifts, pulling Kenny from the couch. At first, it's just his other hand on her upper back, hers with his shirt in a fist. He waits for her to relax, and then they draw closer. Soon, they're swaying.

“You ever heard of synesthesia?” Rust asks.

“Like, things have colors associated with em?”

The way her voice vibrates through his shirt makes him shiver.

“Not just colors, but yeah.”

Kenny looks up at him. They're looking each other in the eyes now.

“Is that why you seem so far away sometimes?”

Rust cracks a smile. “Plenty of reasons for that.”

Kenny presses her cheek to his shoulder. Rust is tall, but Kenny isn't short, so she comes up to a little under his chin.

“What color am I?”

He had been hoping she'd ask.

“Dark cherry red. Shiny. Slow. Intentional.”

He thinks of the word dripping but decides not to use it.

“Sweet?”

“No, you don't taste like cherries.”

“What do I taste like?” she all but whispers. Rust's voice is husky when he answers.

“Earth. Smoke. Honeysuckle.”

Their bodies are flush now. For an infinite list of reasons, he does not initiate what they both want. So Kenny does. Slides her hand, shaking, to just where his neck meets the rest of him, fingers curl around, and she draws him down and pulls herself up.

-

His top lip between hers and mouths slightly ajar, almost as if they're surprised with themselves. He is every bit as hard and soft as Kenny had expected him to be. Wanted him to be.

She's shaking all over. Being this close to him would have been enough. Touching him, letting him touch her, was beyond it all. But now, to kiss him…

Kenny thinks she's a little in love.

Their hands detangle. Hers goes to his shoulder and Rust holds her by the waist. A bit of teeth, a bit of tongue. Kenny breaks to kiss and then breathe against his cheek. Rust's mouth travels down her jaw and lands at her neck.

They still. Kenny is pressed like a board against him and though she feels the warmth, her own blood pulsing loud in her ears, she wraps her arms around his next and pulls him into a hug.

Rust gets the message. He holds her back and one hand lands in her hair.

They hold each other until the song runs out. Rust strokes Kenny's hair- what of it isn't still tied up.

“You gotta be careful out there, okay?” She whispers against his shirt.

“Inn’t that what I was telling you earlier?”

“Yeah, well, you can knock down my stick figures but I can't follow you from place to place.”

“Quitter.”

Kenny laughs at that and he smiles. She likes his smile, rare as it is. She gets to see the lines in his face properly. Lifted, not pulled down by grief or fatigue.

“Well, I'll let you know what I find, and you let me know what you find,” she says.

“We'll see.”

“I could ransom all those murder books at your place.”

Rust checks his watch.

“Shit. Speaking of…I gotta go. Marty and I got an early start tomorrow.”

They finally release each other and Kenny finds herself cold without him.

“I mean it. Both of you- careful. People out there… they're different than here. Harder.”

“Careful,” Rust nods. He hooks a knuckle under Kenny's chin and lifts her face to his. “And you take that last trap down.”

“Alright.”

“Promise?”

She chuckles.

“Promise.”

“Alright.”

He kisses her quickly on the lips, and then he's out the door. Kenny follows, lets Froggy out as Rust gets in his truck. He gives a final wave before driving away.

A breeze wafts through and Kenny gets a chill. Sun's setting so she calls Froggy back in. Her lips are still buzzing with the kiss she shared with Rust. She finishes both their diet Cokes. The devil's trap goes untouched.

[haliotropes]

How are you pumping these out holy fuck I have to Catch up

ADHD is a blessing and a curse but also knowing that people are interested in my writing is a HUGE motivator so thank you 🩷🩷

[haliotropes]

Black Star (Rustin Cohle x OC)

5. Bouncing Back | Rated M

A/N: FLUFFFFFFFFFFFFF and lots of alcohol. Soft Rust??? It's more likely than you think.

₊˚ ✧.* ೃ ₊˚ ✧.* ೃ ₊˚ ✧.* ೃ ₊˚ ✧.* ೃ

Seven shrill rings of her desk phone before Kenny actually bothers to pick it up. Most times, if it's not urgent, whoever is trying to call her will give up. On the fifth ring. People are so impatient these days.

But, with the way her article has been out a couple of days, and now with higher and higher hopes that Marty and Rust will communicate with her, she's a little more inclined to answer. Neither of them are on the other end of the line, however. 

“Kennedy Marsden, speaking.”

“Miz Marsden!” Comes a deep southern drawl. It's a voice familiar, but distantly so. Kenny sits up in interest. “Good to hear your voice again. This is Reverend Billy Lee Tuttle. How are you doing, my dear?”

Not that Kenny was high on hopes, but she still deflates at the name. An old friend of her father's, a man who capitalizes on God and His word and abuses that power. Kenny has a backlog of smear pieces on him that Doucet won't even touch. 

“Reverend. This is an unexpected call. What can I do for you?”

Skip the pleasantries, he'll hardly notice. And he doesn't. He only laughs.

“I was reading your article in the Journal . We're on our way to have a chat with Quesada and I noticed a little detail in here I wanted to ask you about.”

“We?”

“Hm?”

“You said ‘we’?”

“Oh, just myself and a few friends of mine.”

Kenny exhales silently. Not her father.

“What detail?”

“You refer to the nature of the murder as being explicitly ‘ not satanic’.”

Kenny turns in her chair. “I believe my phrasing was, ‘not observably satanic in nature.’”

“I wanted to ask, was this a personal conclusion you yourself drew, or was this an opinion given by the, uh…police? Funny, the places you don't give names.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Now, no need to be coy, Miz Marsden. Nobody's in trouble.”

“So why do you want to know?”

Tuttle sighs heavily and Kenny can't help but smirk at the fact that she's giving him some headache.

“Some of our friends at the state level are concerned with the… anti-Christian rhetoric that tends to follow cases like these.”

“You mean the governor.”

“So, I'm just curious, who was it that pressed this was not a satanic crime?”

Kenny reaches over onto her desk, retrieves a cigarette and lights it. Answers through her first exhale.

“It was me. Happy?”

Another sigh, this one thick with paternalism.

“I know you and I haven't always seen eye to eye-”

“I printed what I printed because it's the truth. Don't forget that I studied this, Reverend. Dora Lange’s killing had none of the hallmarks of satanism and we both know it.”

There's a brief silence, the sound of Tuttle turning something over in his mouth.

“ That was her name. Thank you for the reminder.”

Shit. Her name is still unreleased. Kenny curses under her breath and slams the phone down, ending the call.

Later that day, the phone would ring again. This time, Kenny answers immediately because she expects it to be Rust or Marty. Instead, it's Geraci. And he barely squeezes out a sentence before Kenny sets the phone down, because he says the name Marie Fontenot , and she knows.

Oh god, she knows.

-

Rust knew it was only a matter of time until she showed up. He can't say why he expected her. Not because she has anywhere else to go, but because she's so goddamn private. Surely, if she's going to mourn, she's going to do it in her own way.

But when there's a heavy knocking at his apartment door, Rust already tastes the heavy sweetness and the iron of her identity. Already sees her through the wall. In an undershirt and his work pants he opens the door. There, on the other side, is Kennedy, as expected. She is, in every obvious way, drunk, from the smell of bourbon on her breath to the way she's leaned against the doorframe. Funny, how they've reversed positions yet again. 

Rust doesn't just let her in, though. No, some part of him, some curious, testing part needs to see how badly she needs to be witnessed- and how much by him.

Rust doesn't look her in the eyes- can't, for how fucking tragic they are, but he plays it as aloofness. He looks at the parking lot behind her.

“You're not a cop anymore, Kennedy.”

“I was never a cop.” Her voice is thick with grief. “As I am reminded every day. We both know what I'm here for so why don't you do the decent thing and invite me in?”

Good enough of a start, he thinks, and moves so she can enter. 

“Brought us Lonestars,” she says, and shoves a pack of beer against his chest. He closes the door behind her. 

“What about that liquor you been drinking?”

Kenny makes a popping sound with her mouth. “All out.” Rust sets the beer on the kitchen counter and watches silently as Kennedy moves about the room, picking up photographs of dead people, looks at his morbid book collection, all without batting an eye.

”Nice place,” she says. Then, nodding to the cross above his mattress. “Didn't peg you as a god fearing man.”

Rust moves from his spot and draws a bit nearer to her, but not too much, remembering to give her space.

“I'd like to think that if a god existed, I'd have enough common sense to fear him.”

Kennedy turns back to him with a mean smile.

“I'm sure you would like to think that.”

Rust's face doesn't change.

“Thought we were being decent.”

Kennedy looks away, then finds the tiny mirror Rust keeps on his wall. She clumsily closes one eye and peers at it.

“You're right. I'm sorry. It's not your fault.”

Kennedy draws back. Rust watches as her shoulders tense.

“I fucking knew it. I knew it,” she says. Kennedy walks to where Rust has spread out the evidence for Dora Lange's case. “Nobody goddamned listened to me. That little girl is dead. You're never gonna find her body, either.”

Rust winces like she slapped him. Her words punch, scratch, claw, kill. She's lashing out right now and he's catching strays.

“Why'd you come here, Kennedy?”

She grimaces. “God, don't fucking call me that, alright. Just call me Kenny. I hate my name.”

“When I asked if you had a preference-”

“I was tryin to be polite. Fuck all it gets me, anyhow.”

Rust shoves his hands in his pockets, follows her to where she's wandered. Resets his patience.

“Then why'd you come here, Kenny?”

Kenny picks up one of Dora's autopsy photos and traces the spirals on her skin, the bruises like clouds.

“Marty won't get it.”

“Marty's lost people before-”

“No,” she turns to him abruptly, her face now closer than before. “No, it's not about losing. It's about what to do with it.” Kenny seems to think of something and her face screws up and she cries harder. “I can't believe those sick fucks just left one of those things back there. What's the point? They already have her. There's nothing to worship. There's nothing to prove.”

Kenny puts the photo back and sits in one of the lawn chairs in Rust's living room. He watches her, curled into her knees, not openly weeping but just sort of… expelling, and Rust goes to the pack of Lonestars and pulls two cans. He sits in the chair next to Kenny and nudges her knee with the can. Wordlessly, and without even looking, she takes it. Rust opens his and takes a small sip. He's not looking to get drunk, but hell if he's gonna let her drink alone.

Kenny chugs half the can before setting it on the floor. She sighs, pushes the hair from her face, and looks at Rust.

“How much do you actually know? About why I left?”

Rust takes another shallow sip and shakes his head.

“No more’n what I've picked up by being around you and Marty.”

Kenny cringes and he knows what she's thinking. She's thinking that she can't believe she assumed he would be interested in her past. 

But he knows that she knows that when he looks at her the way he is now, it's because he's trying to figure her out. Strip her down to her barest components like a clock and learn which gears turn what. 

He decides to do her a favor so she'll stop torturing herself.

“I figured you'd tell me in your own time,” he says, trying to mend the injury his earlier comment had seemingly caused. 

Kenny sighs. Smiles, laughs at nothing Rust knows about, shakes her head, and leans back in the chair. Rust matches her. When she looks at him, there's no humor in her eyes.

“If I'm gonna do this, there's no bullshit. You gotta tell me that you actually want to know.”

He doesn't hold the insult of that against her because she's drunk.

“I wouldn't be asking otherwise.”

“Okay,” Kenny says. She closes her eyes and lays her head back. “Christ, where to start…um…well, no parent in their right mind actually wants their kid to take up the badge, right? They can lie about it, for family tradition or appearances’ sake but it's not something you dream about the day they're born, right?”

But my daddy, he really didn't want it. Tried every trick in the book. He gave a good effort. Real good. But, look, I'm wired weird. Not in a special, savant, reverence way…” The not like you that they both know is buried lingers on her tongue, but goes unsaid. “But…the kind of way that you don't mind the bad. A bit too much. So I went to school, I was good. Top of my class. Not because I was innately the smartest or the most talented, but because I wanted it. To prove to myself I could do it. To prove to him I was willing to. We really do spend half our lives trying to prove things to people.”

Kenny hesitates, looks at Rust to interrupt. He doesn't, only drinks.

“Well, my father couldn't deny me after that, but he did the next best thing. Pulled strings. Assigned me to Quesada and that flimsy bastard folded like a cheap suit. Put me with the one person he thought I'd never get anywhere with.”

And the pieces fall into place.

“Marty.”

“Yeah. He's a good guy. Can be hard to tell sometimes, but he is. And this… This was about the same time Marie goes missing. I'm doing my in-service training. I dig my nose in a bit, get my collar yanked at, went back to business. Didn't smell right. I kept up. I mean I knew , right? The same way you did. And then…I fucked up. I, uh,” she chuckles like it's a fond memory, for a moment. “I broke into the Vermilion Sheriff's Department. It was, single handedly, the stupidest thing I've ever done. I got into as much trouble as I deserved, and they kicked me. And then the second stupidest thing I’ve ever done- I follow up on a lead, solo, with no badge, no state issued firearm, just myself and my daddy’s old Smith n Weston. Wandered into the wrong person’s backyard, got a leg full of buckshot.”

“Now, I know what you’re thinking.”

He doubts it, because Rust surprises himself, thinking of how beautiful she looks when she’s vulnerable like this. 

“You’re thinking, if I wanted it bad enough, why didn’t I go back to my dad and beg him for it? He visited me in the hospital and promised me I'd be pushing case files from a behind a desk for the rest of my career if I didn't leave. So I left.”

And Rust, despite probably knowing better, asks the next obvious question.

“Why didn't you go somewhere else? If it was about the work, why didn't you leave the state?”

“That's the question, ain't it?”

“I'm asking it.”

All Kenny does is smile sadly. “I don't have a respectable answer.”

Rust lays his head back and closes his eyes. “Hm.”

“Plenty of us don't.”

“Never denied it.”

He can hear her fiddling with the tab on the beer can.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“What does person better’n you look like?”

Rust doesn’t answer, but he does look at her, because he knows this question has more to do with her than it can ever have to do with him. This proves true when she looks at the wall of evidence and smiles.

”I know what mine looks like. Yain’t gotta tell me. I more just wondering if you'd thought about it.”

“You’re talking about projecting personal improvement onto a reflection?”

“If that's the way you wanna put it.”

“That's what you do?”

“‘S what we all do. Dress ourselves up in our heads like paper dolls with the traits we want, the vices we're willing to succumb to and the burdens we're willing to shoulder. It's all allocation. A series of conscious decisions.”

Rust thinks of the give and take of his interactions at work, when he’s with Marty, when he’s in the interrogation room, when he’s alone with himself. Yes, he does it. “No, That's not what everyone does.”

“But it's what you do?”

“And it's what you do.”

“Well…there’s some comfort in that, I guess,” Kenny smiles lazily, blinking slowly at Rust.

“Comfort for who?”

“Don’t be an asshole.”

They settle into a comfortable silence. 

Rust finishes his beer. 

“We’ll find her,” he says, quietly. When he gets no response, he looks over. Kenny is dead asleep in her chair, facing toward him, her brows truly relaxed in a way he’s never seen them before. He sighs. It’s for the better, he thinks. He isn’t sure why he said it, because he doesn’t know if it’s true. He’d like to believe it, of course. But if this guy hasn’t made a show of it, and she’s been gone for five years…the chances aren’t good. Louisiana’s a big state with deep waters. 

Rust stands, stretches, reorganizes the evidence Kenny displaced, gets a spare blanket and drapes it over her. Checks the clock. It’s three am. He wasn’t going to get anything else done tonight, anyway, and he’s gonna be at work soon enough. So, he strips down and lays on his mattress, pulling the thin sheet over himself, and tries to sleep.

[haliotropes]

Black Star (Rustin Cohle x OC)

4. Floating | Rated M

A/N: Mentions of child death, parent death, and panic attacks.

Dinner time!!!!!

₊˚ ✧.* ೃ ₊˚ ✧.* ೃ ₊˚ ✧.* ೃ ₊˚ ✧.* ೃ

Kenny doesn't want to go to the Hart residence for dinner. It's not the people- Maggie is lovely and the kids are kids and Marty is Marty, but being raised around a very popular man with a hostess for a wife taught Kenny a lot of things, not least of which that she wasn't suited for social gatherings. 

She never knows when it's her turn to talk, when to start or stop eating, when to talk about herself or ask about others, which turns into what to ask, how to react, how to nod and look interested but not too interested, like overacting, but not too aloof as to come off rude. It's nuance gymnastics and Kenny decided long ago that she wasn't wired for it.

That, and…she's not great around kids. She doesn't mind them. She's not one of those misanthropes who hates children and forgot what it was like to be one. In fact, Kenny thinks kids are kind of neat, in the way that they ask whatever questions they want to ask, how they aren't afraid of getting hurt so they love to experience the world but they are afraid of all the right things. A child's Boogeyman is just an adult’s murderer, or worse. 

Maybe it's this that puts Kenny on edge when she's around kids. Like whatever poison she has, whatever darkness follows her will seep to them. Realistically, it can't be true, or not intrinsic, or else Audrey and Macie would've gotten it from Marty. Maybe they still will. 

Anyway, this is what Kenny thinks about once she's already at the Hart’s and helping Maggie prepare dinner. She'd brought a frozen pack of rolls because she doesn't trust herself to cook for people. Her general paranoia has her convinced she'll poison the food or something. But when she's with someone else, someone masterful and careful like Maggie, that concern starts to ebb. Makes it easier. Quiets the noise.

Of course, the noise is Audrey and Macie climbing all over their father throughout the house. It's the general excitement of waiting to meet a new person. Kenny is old news, more or less. But Rust is coming to dinner, and that's shiny. 

Rust. Kenny hasn't seen him or spoken to him since she disassociated right in front of him in her house. All he'd done was give her Dora Lange’s name- an enormous favor, and the enormity of it, whether it was born of pity or trust or respect or a concoction of all three, had frozen her to the spot. She hadn't moved until she'd heard his truck rumble down the drive.

At any rate, she considered their bridge officially built, securing two in’s at the CID. That could be the good news in any of this.

“He's here!” One of the girls shrieks when there's a knock at the door. 

“You two get along?” Maggie mutters as an aside to Kenny as they set the table. Kenny shrugs.

“You could call it that, I guess.”

They hear the front door open and then there's silence. Kenny's hands still. The front door closes and the girls enter the kitchen looking dejected.

“Where's our guest?” Maggie asks.

Audrey shrugs. “Daddy went outside with him.”

“He looks sad,” Macie adds. 

Kenny and Maggie exchange a look. Kenny heads for the door and presses her ear to it.

“The hell? You can barely stand up. What is it? You don't drink with me or the boys, and you got to get a load on before you visit my family?”

Kenny goes back to the table and gets the water glass from the table setting meant for Rust. She gives Maggie a tight, reassuring smile (or her best attempt at one), and quietly exits the front door.

“...And I don't drink 'cause I've had trouble with it before; I didn't mean to. I was checking on a CI…”

Kenny walks along the porch where Marty has pulled Rust to the side. The sight of Rust knocks the wind from Kenny's chest. Every bit of his face is red from crying. He clutches flowers in one hand like they're a lifeline. And when he sees her over Marty's shoulder, he blinks for a few moments, like he had forgotten she would also be at the house.

“I ended up hanging around a bar,” he continues. “I was sitting there. I couldn't think of a good reason not to. Usually I can.”

Kenny quietly slides past Marty and hands the water to Rust, who takes it, but doesn't drink. But he does look at her, and for the first time, their positions are reversed. He's staring her down with no inhibitions and she is ducking her head. 

At the shrill giggling sound of the girls inside, the brief spell is broken. Marty rubs his forehead.

“Don't worry about it. Have some more water, maybe some coffee, and just try to make 10 minutes of conversation.”

Rust lifts the glass to his lips.

“You got it.”

Marty looks back at Kenny like he's trying to confirm the next thought with her as well. Not that it means anything.

“I'll call Chris or somebody, get you out of here.”

He heads for the front door.

“Marty,” Rust says, coughs. “I'm sorry, man.”

And Marty, in his best nature, gives that crooked smile of his and half waves Rust away.

“Forget it. We'll try this some other time.”

With that, Marty makes his way back inside. Rust sips slowly on his water. Kenny digs her pack or American Spirits from her back pocket.

“Want one?”

He shakes his head.

“You mind, then?”

Another shake. “Nah.”

Kenny lights up and takes a quick drag. Doesn't want to get too light headed. She wants to be present enough in case he needs to talk.

“The flowers are nice,” she says, nodding to the bouquet. Rust looks down at him like he forgot he was holding them.

“Oh, yeah,” he says. He sets them on the porch swing.

“Not a bad idea,” says Kenny and she takes a seat. Pats the wood beside her. “Until you sober up a bit.”

Rust doesn't even hesitate like she expects him to. Just sits. She smokes in the brief silence.

“Is it the day?” She asks. Rust nods mutely. “Yeah. Is that why you brought the flowers? You're memorializing?”

“Reckon so.”

“For me, it's April 10th. That's the day my momma went. Cancer. In a weird way, I'm glad it happened when I was young. Exposed me to death early. Well, I guess some would say that was bad for me. But…I dunno. I think it helped.”

Rust stares out at the road for a moment, blinks slowly. “What do you remember about it? What was so significant?”

Kenny doesn’t even have to think about her answer. Her hesitation comes from her shock. No one has ever asked her that before. Not that she could blame them- she wouldn’t, either. The words she thought upon first meeting him ring distantly in her head.

Takes one to know one.

“The…the smell. I swear, it’s almost like a sixth sense thing. I feel like I can smell death. Maybe not really, not like a bloodhound, but I guess in a way that helps me understand it better.”

Rust nods. “The smell.”

The edge in his voice causes Kenny to tense. Oh, she thinks, he’s making fun of you.

“Like I said…” But what had she said? That people thought it was “bad for her”? No one really thinks that until you turn into a freak as an adult and they think you’ll do something crazy. 

“How old were you?” Rust asks suddenly. Kenny picks at her fingernails.

“Twelve.”

He hums. “My daughter was two.”

Kenny feels the breath leave her. When you hear the worst of tragedies such as this, the millions of sympathetic platitudes play through your head. Kenny says none of these because they go without saying. Of course she feels sorry for him. Of course two is too young, and of course it’s awful. What she says instead is,

“Yeah.”

But it’s broken, leaded. Carries all it needs to.

Kenny stubs out her cigarette and stands, thinks of offering her hand to Rust then thinking better of that thought. 

“We’d better get inside before the food gets cold. You could at least eat something before you make an exit.” 

“Well, uh, Rust, it is so nice to finally meet you.”

It’s the most awkward dinner Kenny’s ever sat through.

“Sorry it took so long.”

Marty half smiles. “Well, I tried to tell her you aren't big on socializing.”

“I said that, ‘your life's in this man's hands, right?’ Of course you should meet the family.”

Marty pokes around his plate. “Well, not quite as dramatic as that, hon. I've never fired my gun.”

“Have you fired your gun?”

The oldest girl, Audrey, is looking at Rust, asking. Kenny’s eyes flit to his, reddened still, as he surveys her.

“Audrey,” Maggie says firmly.

“Yes,” Rust says.

The younger one pipes up now. “You shot people?”

“Macie,” Maggie warns again.

“Did you ever shoot anyone when you were a cop?” Audrey asks Kenny from her seat next to her. Kenny shakes her head and shoves a forkful of food into her mouth. 

“I was never a cop. You know that.”

A brief silence.

“Dad's never shot anybody.”

Kenny looks to Marty who is working very hard to mask how that remark makes him feel. Is he jealous? Does he feel less of a man because he’s never taken a life?

Rust clears his throat.

“Well, that's good. You don't want to shoot people.”

The girl looks at him, hard.

“But you have.”

Another silence as Rust doesn’t reply. Maggie tries to shift the conversation.

“Marty says you're from Texas.”

“Yes, south Texas. I grew up in Alaska. Just been working here the last 10, 12 years.”

“What kind of work?”

“Narcotics, mostly. Um... was on the Robbery Squad in Houston until '89.”

The sound of a pager buzzes around them. Marty shifts, checks his hip, and clears his throat.

“Ahem. Oh. Be right back. Y'all keep eating.”

He stands and leaves the room. From another part of the house, a phonecall can be overheard. 

Kenny has always marvelled at Maggie’s ability to get someone to talk about themselves. Maybe Rust was just humoring her, but he is still spilling his entire career and at least part of his life to her, and indirectly, to Marty and Kenny. She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t the least bit jealous.

Maggie’s line of inquiry continues.

“Do you like your job?”

“Not exactly, but it's worthwhile. I'm good at it.”

“You're not married?”

“Once. Uh, not anymore.”

“Did you do this while you were married?”

The girls whisper to each other, then giggle. Rust watches them, Kenny watches him. 

“Children?” Maggie asks. Kenny’s feet go cold and she focuses on moving her food around on her plate.

“One. She passed. Marriage didn't last long after that.”

Maggie looks to Kenny for a similar reaction to hers, one of shock, pity, but Kenny’s drawing patterns with her fork like a child. Maggie looks back at Rust.

“I’m so sorry.”

Kenny cringes internally. Even coming from Maggie, it still feels stilted, forced. 

Marty chooses this exact moment to reenter the room and return to his seat.

“Chris Demma's on the phone for you,” he nods to Rust. “Something about a CI or…”

Rust stands, excuses himself, and Marty points him to the room. Marty looks around the table, expecting conversation to continue, only to find silence.

“What was that? What were y'all talking about?”

“Your job. What do you know about him, Marty?”

Marty shrugs, looks at Kenny, who is only now finding the will to look up again.

“Um, not a lot. He could be a good detective. He's running on this thing, but, uh... uppity.”

And Maggie…Maggie scoffs at him. Kenny freezes, looks between them. The girls feel it, too. The sudden tension. Marty looks at his wife, clueless.

“What?”

“Jeez. Have you ever asked him about himself?”

Marty chuckles. Doesn’t know what the rest of them know.

“Baby, trust me. You do not want to pick this man's brain.”

Rust reemerges from the back room and returns to his seat.

“What was that?” Marty asks.

“Oh, some details on the CI. Thank you for dinner, Maggie. This looks great.”

Kenny’s eyebrows twitch. He’s tucking his napkin into his lap. He’s more awake. Maggie smiles at him.

“My pleasure.”

Kenny realizes- he’s not leaving.

“I don't like that broccoli,” Audrey mumbles. Maggie reprimands her. 

“So you, uh, need to go or what?” Marty asks, clearly digging for an explanation as to why the plan is being abandoned. Rust doesn’t give one.

“No, it's nothing can't wait till tomorrow.”

“Rust, uh, what you were saying before?” Maggie asks. Kenny looks around the table at the three of them. Marty, wondering what he missed, Rust, having made a decision seemingly out of nowhere, and Maggie trying as tactfully as possible to get Rust to open up about himself in front of Marty. Kenny may as well not even be there.

“Oh, we can find something nicer to talk about,” Rust says, and begins to eat. “Kennedy-” At the sound of her name, Kenny’s head snaps to Rust in sheer confusion. “I heard you went to LSU for journalism. Was that your undergrad?”

Kenny gives a good ten seconds of silence. She wants everyone else to have plenty of time to change their minds about the stark shift in conversation. When it seems no one is going to, she takes a deep breath and twists the napkin in her lap.

“My master’s. My undergrad was…” her eyes dart to Marty, who is watching her because she’s speaking, but she suddenly feels afire with judgment. “In criminology.”

Please, don’t ask. Please, leave it alone.

“Right,” Rust says. And he leaves it alone. 

Maybe Maggie is feeling emboldened by her success with Rust, because she does something she’s never done with Kenny. She pushes.

“Have you considered, maybe giving it another try? Now that it’s been a few years?”

Kenny grimaces. “Um, I don’t know that things have turned necessarily in my favor for that to happen. I think it’s prob’ly a little too late for me.”

“Why didn’t you become a cop?” Audrey asks, and that’s what does it. She hardly gets the final word out before Kenny is pushing herself from the table.

“Excuse me,” she mutters. “I don’t feel so well. Be right back.”

Kenny doesn’t wait for any responses but stumbles back to where the knows the hall bathroom is. Opens the door, flicks on the light, shuts the door, collapses onto the tile floor. Opens the lid of the toilet and dry heaves. Mostly she needs cold. She lays her forehead against the toiletseat. 

It’s not Audrey’s fault. She can never blame a kid for asking questions that should, in their mind, have simple answers. But there was never a simple answer here. Kenny breathes in for eight, and out for eight. Tries to keep the oncoming panic attack at bay. Not here, not now. Not when Rust already worked so hard to keep his shit together. 

There’s a light rapping at the door. Kenny lifts her head and wipes her mouth, just in case. “Yeah?”

The door opens a crack and Marty pokes his head inside. “Hey, kiddo.”

Kenny lets her walls fall again and her head lolls against the toilet seat. “Hey.”

Marty lets himself in fully and closes the door with a soft ‘click’. He sits on the edge of the bathtub and clasps his hands.

“Sorry about that. You know she doesn’t mean anything by-”

“I’m not upset,” Kenny attempts to clarify before another wave of anxiety grips her chest and she dry heaves again.

“Yeah…you don’t look it.” 

Kenny chuckles and finds the strength to lean against the wall by the toilet. She sighs and shakes her head.

“I though I was past this.”

“You’re never gonna be past it if you keep hangin around it.”

The familiar spike of defensiveness shoots through Kenny. “Well, I’m not leaving.”

“I’m not tellin you to. Just sayin that as long as you’re around the CID, you’re gonna keep bein reminded of it. That’s the trade-off.”

Kenny’s chest caves with a hollow laugh. “I know all about trade-offs.”

“Yeah, I know. Want me to leave you alone?”

“I’m fucking embarrassed.”

“Nah, don’t be embarrassed.”

“You’ve fixed me.”

“I mean, one of you showed up drunk, the other had a bit of a freak out. I know which is worse, between you and me.”

“If we’re trying to out-dick each other, I got a few more tricks up my sleeve. Or, down my pants.”

“That is, perhaps, the funniest thing I’ve heard you say.”

“It’s easier to joke when I don’t have the wherewithal to think about every single little thing happening around me. Okay. Up.”

Kenny extends her hands. Marty stands and pulls her up. She stumbles a little, grabs onto him, and closes her eyes while the world balances itself. In the meanwhile, Marty’s put an arm around her shoulder’s to brace her. It’s the closest thing to a hug Kenny has had in a very long time.

“When was the last time you let someone give you a hug?” Marty asks the top of her head, half in earnest and half in jest.

“Don’t get used to it,” Kenny mutters, and they pull away from each other. They walk back to the dining room together and sit. Kenny takes a big drink of water and listens as Macie is completely lost in telling her own story of something that happened at school. Meanwhile, Kenny dodges Maggie’s looks of apology, because she doesn’t want them, and she avoids Rust’s curious glances, because if he really wants to know, then by god, she’s gonna make him work for it.

It’s never been easy for anyone else.

[haliotropes]

Black Star (Rustin Cohle x OC)

3. Floor Collapsing | Rated M

A/N: Depictions of self harm scars.

What happens when you put two neurodivergent obsessive detectives together? *Gestures widely to this mess*

Also there's a doggy!!!!

₊˚ ✧.* ೃ ₊˚ ✧.* ೃ ₊˚ ✧.* ೃ ₊˚ ✧.* ೃ

It's 7:43 in the morning. Kenny is sitting in the driver's seat of her Camaro outside the CID, smoking a cigarette, drinking a Diet Coke, and tuning her radio in to the live broadcast of Quesada's press briefing. One of the greener employees at the Journal, Stephon, is inside, actually doing the job of a reporter. And Kenny is outside, doing this.

“Yesterday, at approximately 6 AM, civilians came across the body of a female in a sugar cane field outside of Erath. Now, this person, we believe, was murdered, and we are not yet in a position to release the identity of the victim or the... details of the crime.”

Kenny's eyes widen as Quesada's words hit her fully. “Oh, you fucker!” She mutters around her cigarette. “You motherfucker!”

Kenny kicks the floor of her car, hits her steering wheel, which causes the horn to beep. She can hear it distantly through the radio. Good, she thinks, let it ruin their fucking press conference.

She can't run her article without getting burned, bad. She could quote an anonymous source, but who would that be other than her? The only reason the CID lets her within half a mile of their work is because they have a mutual understanding that she doesn't print before they're ready for people to read.

Why the fuck are they hiding this shit?

Kenny decides to ask them instead of pondering the question herself. So she does. Figures it can't be too long before Marty and Rust head out to do their work. She eats through two more cigarettes before they finally make their way out.

One Marty spots her Camaro, he throws up his arms in defeat. Kenny gets out of her car and slams the door.

“What the fuck!” She all but yells. Rust squints past her and doesn't break his gait, heading to the passenger side of Marty's car. Kenny had very intentionally parked beside it.

“Wunn’t our call,” Marty says.

“People deserve to know that there's some sort of sacrificing, idolatrizing serial killer out there!”

“Don't act like this is for anything but the job,” Rust says. Kenny shoots him a scathing look.

“Keen observation, asshole, I'd like to keep my job-”

“Marsden, you can't-”

“But you don't know me well enough to question my motives and you certainly ain't tied to this parish like the rest of us, so you stick to your sense of duty and I'll stick to mine.”

She sees black. Her fingers are numb. The air smells faintly of chemicals and she's carving her nails into her palms. And she's shaking. Thinks of all the women and girls who've come before. Thinks of all the ones who won't get saved.

Kenny doesn't care enough about his response to wait for it; she turns back to Marty.

“What's next?”

“We're following up on leads. That's all.”

Kenny bites her cheek so hard she tastes metal. Drums her fingers against the top of her car.

“What do I need to cut?”

“You can't run the story, Marsden.”

“Goddamnit, Marty, just tell me the least I can cut without getting burned.”

Marty sighs, massages his mouth with his hand, and looks over her shoulder at Rust. Kenny doesn't follow his gaze. She doesn't want his input. After a few unbearable seconds, Marty seems to find his answer.

“Look, you can't print the photos-”

“I got a wide shot of the field and the tree-”

“And you can't call him a serial killer.”

“But I can speculate?”

Marty lifts his hands to shrug the responsibility of that question.

“That ain't on me, that's on Doucet. And don't get gory.”

“Fine.”

Kenny swings herself back into the driver's seat and, without any final glances, turns the ignition and speeds to work, hoping beyond hope to scrape together something worthwhile with whatever she has left.

It’s not them that she’s mad at, not really. Not like she was going to print the more detailed, the more intimate photographs in the paper. Nobody gets those. What she really wants, more than anything, is to trail them, but they’re cops- good cops- and they’d catch her quick. What she really doesn’t want to do is go back to the Journal and have to scrap half of what she’s written and tell Doucet. But, there you go. It’s a day of nobody getting what they want.

-

Marie Fontenot. When Rust sees certain things, hears certain things, they lock away in his mind and he knows they’re important. He knows they’ll come back. They always come back.

And they have feelings, colors and tastes and smells. Marie is green. That never left him. Never left.

The Vermillion sheriff tells him two key details: one, that Marie Fontenot went to live with her daddy, and two, that Geraci was the deputy who originally got the report.

“The Fontenot girl?” Geraci’s face screws up when Rust asks him about it. “What d’you wanna know about her for?”

“Because she was a ten-year-old who went missing and no one looked for her,” Rust says, hands braced on his hips, the stance meaning to keep the bite from his voice.

“That ain’t fair, Cohle. Didn’t have a reason to think she needed lookin for.”

Rust shifts his weight, deciding to let that go and refocus the conversation. “Do we have anything on her?”

“Nothing you couldn’t have gotten from Vermillion. Heh, you know who you could ask? Marsden. Boy, she’d get a kick out of that.”

Rust’s ears pulse. Marsden. Who had developed into a dark cherry red, a taste like metal and honeysuckle in his mouth. He hates it. It distracts him.

“Why’s that?”

“That’s the case she got all bent out of shape about- one of em, anyway. You been to her place?”

“We’re not that well acquainted.”

“Weird shit, man. She’s got these little shrines, and these scrapbooks- freaky. Can’t stand her, honestly. But hey, guess you can do whatever you want when your daddy is the commissioner.”

That’s how Rust gets Kennedy Marsden’s address and drives over with a six pack of Diet Coke and a pack of American Sprits. They didn’t exactly part on the best of terms.

He pulls off the highway onto a sideroad of gravel, then another turn onto another gravel road. The sun’s starting to set just as he pulls up to a one story farmhouse. It faces West, with its peeling white paint and uneven porch. The only thing around is a sprawling, untended field, a barn that looks decades out of use, and, as Rust puts his truck in park, a lean mutt of a working dog that barks at him from in front of the house. Rust at least gets out of the truck but stands by the cab and waits.

A screen door swings open and shut. There stands dark cherry red, her dark hair frizzy to her shoulders, in a cotton nightgown and barefoot.

“Froggy! Heel!”

The dog obeys, or stops barking at least, but trots warily over to Rust’s truck. Rust, now somewhat confident he won’t get bit, retrieves the pack of soda and heads towards the porch.

“You name your dog ‘Froggy’?”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Wanted to talk to you about something, thought I’d break some ice a little.” He lifts the pack of Coke. “And I got a pack of American Spirits.”

“Must be one hell of a favor.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not exactly abundant of resources.”

“Ah, desperation. This a police matter?”

“Wouldn’t be nothin else.”

Kennedy crosses her arms, nods, squints up at him.

“Well, no sense in standin out here, I guess. Come on in. Make no remarks- I wunn’t expectin visitors. Froggy! Inside!”

She holds open the door and Rust walks in, the clacking of dog nails not far behind him, and then the slamming of the door again.

Rust holds his breath because it’s, in a word, overwhelming. She’s got to be burning five different things, candles, incense, something else he can’t identify. It’s small, cramped- shitty furniture inside a shitty house, but he supposes that’s what makes it home. Of course, what he’s really looking for is what Geraci had mentioned.

“You can just set those…�� She waves her hand and Rust opts for the linoleum countertop. Despite the clutter, nothing's necessarily dirty, more just confusing and overstimulating, and he wonders how a girl who can't stand to be at a press conference can live like this.

“So…what can I help you with, Rust?”

His head snaps to her when she says his name because it's the first time he's actually heard her say it. He clears his throat.

“What do you know about Marie Fontenot?”

Her casualness, if there was any to begin with, drains from her immediately. She crosses her arms in front of her chest.

“Not as much as I'd like to. Who sent you to ask me about her?”

“Geraci.”

Kennedy's eye twitches, and then the corner of her mouth quirks up. But she's not happy.

“That's good. That's really fucking good. Wonder if that's his idea of a fucking joke. I know you don't know. That's not your shit.”

Kennedy turns towards the living room area (and really, the front of the house seems to be one small, open space and a kitchen) and fumbles around a coffee table until she finds a pack of cigarettes. She pulls one for herself and then offers one to Rust. He accepts.

“Goddamn son of a…”

And despite the fact there's all that shit burning in her house, she can't find a match or a lighter. Rust fishes his from his pocket.

“Here,” he says. Kennedy stills. Walks back to where Rust stands and then pauses, like she can't decide what to do. Ultimately, she pulls the cigarette from between her lips and holds it to where he lights it for her, and then he lights his own. Kennedy takes a deep drag and blows the smoke out slowly. Rust does the same and for a moment, they stand together, smoking in silence. Rust looks around the room. Kennedy stares at him.

How can she do that? He can tell she's not fond of eye contact, either, but she'll stare anybody down when they're not looking, even if they know it. Or maybe it's just him. That makes it worse.

When the weight of her gaze begins to feel like too much, Rust decides to break the silence.

“Right. So, is there anything you can tell me about Marie? Anything at all?”

At the mention of the girl’s name, Kennedy's eyes blink through the smoke and she shifts.

“Nothing official, obviously, or the police woulda had it. But I can show you. Come on.” Kennedy jerks her head down the hall. There's three doors. Two are open. One's a bathroom. Through the other, he can see an unmade bed and desk and stacks and stacks of books. The third door is closed. Kennedy's hand goes to the knob and closes around it.

“Just, don't-” but she stops, shakes her head. Flexes her hand. “Nevermind. You'll see.”

She opens the door and turns on the light. It's not as bad as Rust had expected from Geraci's description. There's no half melted candles and rosaries dedicated to ten different missing girls, but it's obvious that there's sectioned-off areas, dedicated to different missing girls.

“They aren't all Lafayette cases, but they are all Louisiana,” Kennedy says. To his right, Rust finds a station for Dora Lange, though Kennedy doesn't know her name yet, so it just says “Jane Doe #3”. Meaning there are two other Jane Does.

These… stations- they're not too different from how his apartment looks, just more condensed. Photographs, newspaper clippings, map markings- the works. Most of it's all on the floor, taped off. He guesses she doesn't have the money to get desks or shelves for each one.

“Here's Marie's,” Kennedy says, softer than he's ever heard her speak, almost in reverence. And even though he's been in the business long enough to harden his heart, it still wavers a little when she says it. He follows her to the back wall where she sits down. Looks up at him when he doesn't.

“I'm not coming back up there so you might as well come down here.”

Rust obliges, regardless of the fact that he's all limbs and the room is as small as the others, and he doesn't want to disrupt her system. Froggy lays down outside the door.

“Right. So… I'd really dug in hard with this one. You can say it's stupid now because it's cold, but at the time it felt like I was the only one wanting to do anything about it. Here's a picture of her.”

Kennedy pulls a Polaroid of a gap toothed kid from where it's paperclipped to a drawing.

“This is a drawing of hers. There were lots so they didn't mind. It's nowhere specific, we checked.”

She hands it to Rust. It's a crayon drawing of a barn on a pasture with a smiling sun in the background. Rust's eyes land on Kennedy's arm as she hands him different papers. Scars that he hadn't noticed before pepper her skin. Deep, long, but similar enough and close enough together that he is almost certain they're self-inflicted. He isn't surprised, given the way he's watched her cope with discomfort.

“I even talked to some of her friends. You know what they said?” Kennedy looks over at him and her eyes are glossy. “That she was tough, kind. Always had scraped knees and would always share her lunch. That she didn't get the best grades but she really loved math.”

Kennedy isn't looking at the folder. She has this ingrained in her memory, and Rust is willing to bet that she could tell him any detail of any girl in this room if he asked.

“What was her favorite color?”

He surprises both of them with that question, but it makes Kennedy smile. “Blue. Each person who told me gave a different variation but everyone knew it was blue.”

With that, Kennedy gathers the files and replaces them, closing the folder. They both know there's nothing in there for Rust.

“I'm sorry you wasted your time,” Kennedy says, sniffling. “I probably coulda told you over the phone I didn't have much in the way of help. But, you see,” she gestures around the room. “I mean, this is why I do it, right? I know it don't always make sense. I know I like looking at death and it freaks people out. I probably never coulda made it as a detective for a myriad of reasons. But this shit can't keep happening.”

She's trying very hard not to cry and Rust doesn't want her to, because she clearly doesn't want to. Froggy whines from the hallway. As someone clinging to the memory of a person passed, Rust understands the obsessive ways Kennedy has captured these girls’ stories. If she forgets them, then so might the world.

And though he understands this, he can't say it.

“Still, I appreciate you taking the time.”

Rust stands and offers his hand, but Kennedy uses the wall to push herself up.

“D’you think Marie has something to do with the Erath woman?”

“That's kinda what I was hoping to find out. But I'll keep digging.”

Kennedy leads them from the room, turns off the light and shuts the door.

“Yeah. Me too.”

They wander quietly back to the front of the house. Rust buries his hands in his pockets, then finds the American Spirits. He pulls out the pack and sets it on top of the Coke.

“Sorry I couldn't be of more assistance,” Kennedy says. Froggy nudges her leg and she scratches his head absentmindedly.

“No, don't worry about it. I'll uh, see you around?”

“Yeah. See ya.”

Rust goes for the door, then turns back.

“You got the Erath woman as ‘Jane Doe’.”

“Yeah.”

“Her name was Dora Lange. Don't print it, but I thought you could, you know, write it down.”

Rust waits for a smile, for tears. He doesn't get them. Kennedy flexes her hand, pets Froggy's head repetitively. She nods, but Rust can see in her eyes that she's gone. He doesn't know where to, but he's lost her for now. Whether it's the name itself or the fact he gave it to her, he has no idea. Either way, he nods, mutters an “alright”, and walks out into a moonlit night.

On the way home, he buys two more bottles of Robitussin and does everything he can to get the memory of Kennedy's blank stare out of his head.

[haliotropes]

Black Star (Rustin Cohle x OC)

2. You Know Where You Are With | Rated M

A/N: The usual unpleasantness. Mentions of withdrawal. Slight SH.

₊˚ ✧.* ೃ ₊˚ ✧.* ೃ ₊˚ ✧.* ೃ ₊˚ ✧.* ೃ

Not fifteen minutes into the 339 and Kenny has to pull over onto the shoulder of the road to vomit. It’s not much, just her meager breakfast of a stale bagel and staler coffee, but it still stings and she feels the peel of it in her mouth when she sits back in her seat and wipes her chin. The effects of withdrawal kick her ass every time, but she knows it’s the tradeoff she signed up for. Because, what is worse? To have all voices, including the dissenters, silenced? Or to have your own voice to fight against them? Kenny was born with bruised knuckles. 

I’m sure that’s what Dora Lange’s killer thought, too.

Kenny leans out her open car door again and spits one final time onto the sizzling blacktop. She allows the thought to come and go. It’s an easy comparison to make, not an accurate one. Kenny was not a serial killer and she had no intention of becoming one. 

There were two options before her now: go straight to the CID, which seemed unwise seeing as how they wouldn't know much or wouldn't know much, or she can go back to the Journal office and keep herself busy. When she starts her car again, her Conway Twitty tape tries to wind itself to life in the tape deck of her soundsystem. ‘House on Old Lonesome Road’ fights to be heard through the hum of her busted AC and the rushing of commuters speeding down the road. And death…death still buzzes in her ear like a vinegar gnat. She heads in the direction of work.

A couple hours later, Kenny is in the darkroom, blue latex gloves covering her hands, as she meticulously develops her camera film. Kenny loves the darkroom. First of all, she loves the dark- that's almost a given. Secondly, the low red light is soothing. The darkroom is far back enough on the Journal's floor of the building that there isn't much residual noise, so it's all but silent as she carefully lifts the film from the reel and hangs it to dry. She's already started on enlarging and exposing photographs as well, dipping them into their trays and then leaning against the counter to wait. She closes her eyes. Sees what the slowly developing negative teased at her- the nude woman at the tree, and she wrenches her eyes open. Blows a stray hair from her face. Bites her thumbnail into the side of her forefinger through her gloves and returns to check the photographs. They're doing fine, but now is not a patient day for Kenny and she itches for a cigarette or to scrape at her skin. She chooses the cigarette.

-

“You wanna explain that interlude to me?”

Marty drives, looks half bewildered from Rust to the road.

“What, Marsden?”

Rust gives him a side glance then returns to staring at the blurring greenery they drive by and by and by…and it never seems to end.

“Yeah. Marsden.”

“Eh…look, I don't wanna make a big deal or nothing. It's not. She's been around a while, the CID I mean.”

“So y'all allow her to roll up to any crime scene?”

“Nah, man, it ain't like that. If you knew-”

“It's why I'm asking.”

Marty taps the steering wheel.

“Fair enough. Right. She uh, came to us some five years ago as a trainee. Wanted to be a detective for Lafayette Parish. Had an accident, there was some legal shit, she got booted from the program. Left to get her degree from LSU, came back as a journalist. Couldn't be around it in one way so she found another.”

Rust takes it in, the vagaries and nuggets of just enough specific information that most people might nod and accept it as a sufficient answer.

“What do you mean ‘it’?”

Marty shrugs like it's nothing, or like he's badly pretending like it's nothing.

“Crime, I guess. Murder.”

Rust doesn't even mention how extremely fucking concerning that all is, how, if Kennedy's father wasn't Charles Marsden she'd be out on the curb, and how some apparent fondness for an ex, not even full detective does not qualify as a free for all pass. 

Rust sighs, squints, moves for a cigarette.

“People out here…it's like they don't even know the outside world exists.”

-

When her best photos are done and dry, and Kenny has written her recorded notes on paper in the meantime, she gathers them all in a folder and makes her way to Doucet’s office. She catches the shimmer of her reflection in the window of his office and pauses, only for a split second, and realizes that not only is she far from dressed for work, but she also looks a mess in general. Her hair has puffed and frayed from the humidity, she's pallid from sick and lack of sleep…and she still has on her lab goggles. 

Quickly, Kenny shoves the plastic glasses up onto the top of her head and enters Doucet's office without knocking because she's still thinking about the apparent rings under her eyes and the way her freckles and spots are ten times as noticeable. But she raps a light knock once she's inside, just to be friendly. Andrew Doucet, chief editor for the Lafayette Journal, looks up from his computer screen. 

“Marsden. You look terrible.”

Kenny takes this as an invitation to sit so she does, and sets the folder on Doucet's desk. 

“Well, I feel terrible. I heard a call over the police scanner at, like, six this morning, got on the job.”

“And what were you doing in your car at six?”

“Waiting.”

Doucet watches her with watery blue eyes. He's a good man, doesn't tiptoe around her like some others. Kenny isn't fond of her father's reach, and it had reached her work as soon as she stepped through the door on her first day. All Doucet got was that she was a risk, so he knew to look out for her health. Otherwise, she got her shit done, so he let her.

As for the waiting, Kenny can't explain to anyone that some mornings, when the mist starts to creep away, she sits on her front porch in her underwear and stares at the empty farmland around, the approaching sunrise, while the world holds its breath. No one knows if tragedy will turn out yet. It's one of her favorite times, but also one of the worst. Because when that scanner lights up, and it's six in the morning, there's only a worse reckoning to follow.

“Was it that girl up Erath?”

Kenny pushes the folder across the desk. Doucet produces his bifocals from somewhere and places them on the end of his nose, starting with the photograph.

“Christ almighty…” He breathes. “I know they say it can happen anywhere, but here…”

Kenny cuts him off before he can grow too reflective. “Marty Hart is lead, and he's got a new partner from Texas. Rust Cohle.”

“What's their read?” Doucet asks as he thumbs to Kenny's written notes.

“I got there bout the same time as them. They wouldn't budge. New guy dunn’t like me at all, but nothing to be done. I ain't been to the CID yet. Wanted to give them some time.”

Doucet holds up her notes and looks at her over his glasses. “I can't read this shit.”

“It was more a procedural thing, and I didn't wanna waste a folder on a single photograph.”

“You got more?”

“Notes or photos?”

“I know you got more notes.”

“They're developing.”

“Good. Uh,” Doucet drops the folder onto the desk and removes his glasses, rubs his eyes. “Type up what you got, then get to the CID by noon. Bring em some lunch.”

“Don't really wanna risk alienating Detective Cohle further by offending his culinary sensibilities.”

“Jesus, Marsden, save your ten dollar words for copy.

“Me go type now,” Kenny sighs, gathers her papers, and heads to the office door.

“Marsden? Tread carefully around Hart. Commissioner gets wind of you digging in hard and fast-”

“Ain't nothin to be done about it, Andrew. But I'll exercise more caution than normal.”

Doucet nods. She's placated him. Kenny takes her things to her desk and returns to the darkroom to check on her photos. There's some decent stuff coming out. Golden ratios, sprawling fields cut against a cloudless morning sky, and one of Marty and Rust as they arrived on the scene. Kenny chews on her lip. She thinks of the Thai place Marty always took her to when she was a trainee. With little worry to what Rustin Cohle prefers, Kenny hangs up the last of her film and returns to her desk to find her takeout menu and place a order.

-

Rust is fairly certain that Marty knows that Rust is watching him through the slats of the blinds in Quesada’s office. He's also not ignorant to the way they nod vaguely in his direction. They haven't dealt with shit like this before. No one has, not really. No one ever should.

However, Rust is all too aware of the detectives and deputies and officers behind him. That part of his brain that can split apart and compartmentalize does its job quickly. They don't know what they're talking about, and they hate him because they know that he knows that. 

Jesus, how much of this place was just people being pissed at each other for perceived notions?

Speece passes by his desk and Rust stiffens at the mere aura of the man. He enters Quesada's office just as Marty exits. Rust doesn't look up from his desk. 

“Fuck that prick,” Marty says. He directs it to the general area of their desks, but it is meant for Rust. Marty makes it to his seat but isn't there for a second before Rust's half lidded eyes find his and stare. Geraci is on the phone behind him and he won't shut up about what he doesn't know.

“Yeah. You don't mark up a body like that…”

Marty, taking some sort of hint from this rare moment of trust, pushes himself from the desk and walks across the room. Rust returns his attention to the index cards in his hands.

“...She had antlers? What does that mean?”

It's so annoyingly obvious, or maybe it isn't and he just knows it too inherently, that Rust responds without thinking.

“It was a crown.”

And blessedly, for the first time, they were silenced. Marty makes his way past them towards the lounge.

“We'll do the briefing tomorrow, guys, early.”

Rust's ear twitches at the faint sound of a new voice because it is higher, distinctly feminine despite its edge, like when waves break against jagged and sharp crags. He looks out of the corner of his eye, and chatting with Cathleen at the front desk is Kennedy Marsden, carrying a cardboard box full of takeout. And though they are a room apart with about seven men between them, it's almost like she can feel his half gaze because she looks at him nearly immediately, and her stare is so locked on and unnerving that Rust focuses back on his cards.

“My guys does the AP Wire asked about Satanism.”

“It got Speece here. You're gonna have his nose up your ass.”

“It's not Satanism.”

Heads all turn as Kennedy stops in the middle of the room to set the box down. She looks worse than this morning but sounds better- Rust doesn't know we'll enough if that's a front or not.

“Satanism is a red herring,” she adds, then digs through the box to set aside specific orders. 

“Well, the prodigal daughter returns,” Geraci mutters, but loud enough to where everyone can hear him.

“Geraci, good to know you still use the same jokes. Some things never change.” She hands him a takeout box. “Peace offering?”

“What is it?” He grumbles skeptically.

“Pad see ew.”

“Hm. Accepted conditionally.”

Kennedy grabs another box and hands it off to Marty. 

“Pad Thai-”

“This feels…”

“Like bribery?” She cuts him off. “It is, kind of. Rest of you, I don't know you well enough to know what food you like so there's a variety. Go crazy.”

With a final box in her hands, Kennedy approaches Rust's desk. He pretends not to notice her, or tries to ignore her, or something in between. Regardless, he can't remember what he was writing.

“I took a chance. You don't seem like a vegetarian to me.” She sets the box on Marty's desk instead of his- a choice that does not go unnoticed or unappreciated. She doesn't want to interrupt his workspace. “Chicken satay. You said Texas, so I thought-”

“That's very considerate. Thank you.”

His response is clipped. He doesn't miss the way her hand flexes. The copperhead’s fangs flash at him. 

“Yeah. Well, I'm not particularly well liked either so I tried to make an effort.”

Either. His eyes finally lift to hers. 

“Marty seems to like you well enough.”

Her thumbnail digs into her index finger. 

“Yeah, well…”

Whatever she thinks about that, she doesn't say, and she doesn't have to, because Marty returns to his desk with his food open and three fresh bottles of water from the kitchen. He sets one on Rust's desk and hands one to Kennedy. She thanks him with a mutter.

“I think the combined energy you two bring to a room could cause a flower to die. Just saying.”

Marty sits back down at his desk. He ignores Rust's box of food, and Rust tries to as well. Rust watches with slight annoyance as his water bottle sweats a ring onto his desktop. 

“Listen, I need a quote,” Kennedy says to both of them, though it's obvious the statement is aimed more towards Marty. He sighs through a mouthful of his food.

“We'll have a press conference tomorrow morning.”

“That's great. I want something to run with it. Consider this getting my questions out of the way. I probably won't be there tomorrow anyway.”

“Don't like crowds?” Rust pipes up from his index cards. Kennedy looks at him.

“Not really.”

“Okay, what kind of statement are you looking for?”

“I want one fact and one opinion.”

Rust watches Marty carefully from under his brow. Marty is far from stupid, but Rust hasn't got him entirely figured as far as treatment goes. This seems to be a good test.

As for Kennedy- Christ, she's unlikeable for a journalist. No flattery or smoothness, all bite and digging. No wonder she wanted to be a cop first. 

“One fact and one opinion. Okay…fact is, the woman is yet to be identified, and who knows how long that'll take.”

“She a prostitute?” Kennedy asks very casually, and Rust gets the notion that she's been thinking about the possibility already.

“No comment,” Marty says.

“So yes.”

“Don't print that,” says Rust. Kennedy ignores him.

“So you don't know who she is. COD?”

“Not yet.”

“Yeah, I know I didn't give y'all a lot of time. Okay. I know rough times and locations and my guy can get the rest tomorrow. Okay, opinion. I have a prompt if you need one.”

Marty waves his hand. “Ask away.”

“Do you think this is gonna happen again?”

Yes.

Marty's words catch in his throat and he tilts his head. Looks to Rust. Rust finally sets down his cards and folds his hands. He leans forward.

“All signs and patterns of behavior indicate that this is likely not an isolated incident. He either has done this before or will try to do it again. We suggest that everyone exercise caution, particularly young women.”

Kennedy is staring at him again and for the first time, he's staring back. Her eyes are hazel, he realizes, strikingly and unsettlingly so. A person who carries so much darkness stares at you with eyes like fireflies and it puts you on edge. Louisiana, indeed.

“You gonna let me print that?”

“Cap it off with that general precaution and I think you'll be fine.”

“It's not me I'm worried about.”

The implication that this person who does not like him very much has some thread of concern for him makes Rust take a drink from his water bottle. He doesn't respond.

“Can I ask you a question?” Says Marty.

“Shoot.”

“Why'd you say it wasn't Satanism?”

“You think it was?”

“I didn't say that, I just wanna know why you think it isn't.”

Kennedy shrugs. “I mean, it dunn't have the look of it. The spirals and antlers and trinkets- it's all more paganistic than satanic.”

Marty hums thoughtfully. Kennedy tilts her head at him. “You think I'm right?”

“Oh, no. You're not getting me that easy.”

Kennedy leaves not long after she gets what she came for. At the end of the day, it's just Rust and Marty left. Rust shrugs on his jacket, asks Marty if he's good to finish up. He needs to move around. He's been stuck at that desk since morning and he just got a list of names to check out. So, he departs, leaving the unopened food on the desk, and tries not to think about how right Kennedy was, and how little any of them knew.

[haliotropes]

Please anything at all Rust x reader would legit heal my soul.

I need Rust with someone who is smart and capable but sweet and loving. PLEASE LET THAT AFFECTION-STARVED MAN GET CUDDLES. 😭😭😭😭

You Know Where You Are

A/N: Rated T ig, fluff for Rust, you are good for him, this will probably be inserted into the long form fic!

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You've slept on less comfortable surfaces than Rust's mattress, though it's thin and the floor is hard and the blanket is scratchy. But it doesn't matter. Nothing matters to you but Rust's softening outline each time a car's headlights breached the slats of the blinds over his shoulder. Nothing but the way his breathing is even, soft, never held or heavy. His eyelids, always half-lidded, now seem so because of this rare pocket of peace and not because he's burdened with some horrific scenery.

Speaking of his eyes, they flutter occasionally, like he's trying to stay awake, but all he does it look at you. Which is fair, because all you do is look at him. It's all you do, but what you want more than anything is to follow the carved marble of his face. Your eyes trail from a muscle in his jaw that twitches, to the tendon it connects to, and then way the tendon disappears into his clavicle. And you laugh at your desired softness for him, and your stark nakedness, and the corners of your mouth lift despite exhaustion.

"What is it?" He asks through a small smile of his own, because your joy is sometimes the only thing that can save him from drowning.

"It's just ironic...you don't much like being touched."

He thinks carefully before responding. "Not unprompted, no."

Your hand, from where it rests between you two, flexes involuntarily.

"May I?"

He doesn't respond, but nods his head. Now, he holds his breath. He doesn't think you'll hurt him, far from it, but that your feather light touch on his volatile skin would shatter it. If that happens, you'd only get injured in the blast.

You raise a hesitant hand, one delicate finger out, and start by tracing a thin line from his brow to his cheekbone. From the first moment you met Rust, you yeared to touch this sharpest part of him, wondering if it could cut. It doesn't, of course. He relaxes almost instantly, the lines on his face fall away and he looks nearly ten years younger. He closes his eyes. He sighs.

Your thumb travels from his brow bone to his hairline, where you brush away a stray copper curl that has fallen onto his forehead. The tickling of his long eyelashes on the soft skin of your forearm proves to be too much so you pull away. But he catches your hand- swiftly, but still gently. Slowly, he raises your wrist to his mouth and plants a sort of half kiss there, mostly allowing parted lips to linger over the thin skin. His warm breath spreads in stark contrast to the chill of the night and your skin raises in goosebumps.

You dare. Lay your palm against the hollow of his cheek and stroke under his eye. His hand travels up and down your arm.

"Is this alright?" Your voice is barely above a whisper. His reply is no reply at all, only gentle breathing. When you eventually move again to pull your hand away, he instead moves it to his chest, right over his heart.

He wants to be felt. He needs to be known. Someone needs to look at him and know he's alive, he's human, he's here.

Your elbow grazes his scars. With his other arm, he draws you closer, now touching you with more care than ever before, and like this, you both drift off into a dreamless sleep.

[haliotropes]

Black Star (Rustin Cohle x OC)

1. You Know | Rated M

A/N: I'll be posting one-shots and Rustin x Readers as well, but I'd like to try a long form fic. Warnings that apply: canon typical everything, descriptions of psychosis and nondescript mental disorders, medication, alcoholism, etc etc. I promise Rust will get the love he deserves, though I do also think he gets it from Marty 🩷

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The coil wraps tighter around the world and Rust wonders if this will be the place that kills him.

He likes heat, but Louisiana is different. It's oppressive. Sticks to you like a bad day you can't wash off and then follows you into the next. The kind of place that turns agitation into poetry, and that's the exact kind of thing Rust is looking to get away from.

Rust can't escape agitation as long as he's with Marty, his partner for three, official weeks at the CID in Lafayette. Marty isn't a bad guy as far as he can tell, and Rust can tell pretty quick. He thinks highly of himself, which seems to be a common symptom of a larger disease among state police- any police, for that matter, and Rust knows even he gets the cough sometimes. But Marty doesn't pry, not yet anyway (other than constant attempts to get him over for dinner which Rust finally acquiesced to), and that's well and good enough for Rust.

But three weeks is a long time to wait for something bad to happen and an even longer time to contemplate the moral qualms of that particular strand of impatience. That’s the irony and the biting hypocrisy of being in law enforcement: despising the evil, knowing that there’ll always be enough to keep work, but secretly hoping there’ll be something titillating along the way. It’s deplorable and dirty and shameful, but Rust is willing to bet that when the scales get tipped, any one of his fellow lawmen would admit the same wants.

And then the Dora Lange case came along, and the Tax Man was afforded his opportunity to lock up and lock in, to turn on and settle the matter of reputation finally. Rust didn’t worry about appearances, otherwise he’d mind the nicknames more. But if he was good at something, he wanted to be good. He and Marty pull up to the field outside of Erath and Rust circled the tree before which Dora was forced to kneel in a mockery of reverence. He sketches an accurate portrait for later, when he’s alone at his apartment, to stare at until the spirals begin to swirl, or until the swirls begin to spiral- whichever happens first. A local cop gives Marty his version of the basics and then Rust gives Marty his version of the basics. Tells him about the the occultish roots and psychosexual behaviors that manifest physically- violently. Marty hides his discomfort well but it’s still there, a wince disguised as waving an invisible bug away.

It’s about this time that Rust’s steely eyes scan the fields and settle on what looks to be a beat-up Camaro some 150 yards away. More than that, he can see a pair of binoculars poking from the driver’s side window.

Rust pulls out a cigarette and lights it against the damp air. “We've got a weathered eye from the horizon,” he mutters to an approaching Marty, who sighs.

“Goddamnit.”

“Who is it? A vulture?”

Rust tucks his book under his arm and they stalk through the fields. Marty shakes his head.

“No, not that cruel. Investigative journalist.”

“How’s that different?”

“She’s a good kid.”

Rust tries to get a better look at the reporter as she actually gets out of the car and lights a cigarette of her own.

“Kid?”

“Not actually, I just known her a long time.You think I’d let a kid around any of this shit?”

Rust doesn’t dignify it with a response. They finally come to the dirt road where the Camaro rests, where the journalist leans against it, one leg hiked up with the heel of her boot resting on the tire. She’s obviously local from the way she’s dressed- the boots, cut-offs, and a wife beater with a logo too faded to give any sort of novelty to it. A sheen of sweat clings to her tanned skin. The muscles of her biceps catch the low light of the early sun. Behind Marty, steel eyes trace an intricate tattoo of a copperhead that snakes, literally, from fangs on her fingers to the flicking tail across her right collarbone.

Marty braces his hands on his hips in that way a father does to any woman younger than him that he deems worthy of patronization. It makes Rust’s skin itch.

“Marsden,” Marty greets the girl- the woman. It’s hard to tell just how old she is. She nods from behind blacked-out sunglasses.

“Detective Hart.”

“Got a new scanner, I guess.”

“Had to, after you ripped my last one out.” Her head doesn’t move, but her voice seems to take new direction. “You're new.”

Rust wasn’t looking at her, not really, rather looking at the brightening sky in the reflection of the car window over her tattooed shoulder, so it takes him a moment to realize she was talking to him.

“Rustin Cohle,” he greets. The girl flexes her free hand, the other pulls the cigarette from her mouth. Rust folds his hands over his notebook in front of him. Neither of them move to shake hands.

“Jesus, there’s two of you now,” Marty remarks, and Rust can only guess what the leaden statement entails. “Rust, this is Kennedy Marsden. She’s a beat reporter for the Lafayette Journal.”

Using her thumb and ring and pinkie fingers, Kennedy removes her sunglasses and with her other hand, gathers the top of her shirt to wipe sweat from her forehead and the corners of her eyes. Pulling up the shirt exposes a bit of her tan stomach, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She doesn’t replace her glasses, but sets them atop her head. She sets her eyes on Rust, very intentionally meeting his gaze before shifting to his left ear as a point of focus.

“Good to meet you, Rustin.”

He allows a split second of eye contact. His chest contracts. Not every woman, for that would be torture, reminds him of Claire. But in every woman he sees some horrible amalgamation of violence and a struggle for power… And right now, something in Kennedy Marsden’s sharp, keen eyes punches the air from his lungs. Yes, he thinks of Claire.

And then he flicks his eyes away and silently bemoans not being able to check his pulse. He remembers to respond to her.

“Rust is fine. Do you prefer Kenny?”

She shrugs and flicks out her cigarette. “Don’t matter much t’me. I like anonymity.”

“Don’t think they give the Pulitzer to anonymous journalists.”

“Let’s hope not.”

She doesn’t look at him again- she won’t. That’s fine by Rust. In the interlude, while Marty asks some pleasantry, Rust lights a new cigarette and he stares at an untucked piece of dark hair from Kennedy's ponytail. He thinks of the last name and the brief moment he spent memorizing her face and comes to a quick conclusion.

“Marsden, huh?” He asks simply, taking a quick puff. Kennedy gives him her full attention again. Pulls down her glasses, to ward off the cresting sun or to see him without him seeing her- both, likely.

“Got there on your own?”

Her words are laced with a light sarcasm, meant to bite, but certainly not to draw blood. Rust thinks of Charlie Marsden, the police commissioner, whom he only had the displeasure of meeting once, and he can now see a muddled resemblance between him and Kennedy. It's in the face, only the whole thing and fuzzy, like an oil impressionist painting. That's where the resemblance stops, because Kennedy seems to have none of the saccharine political pandering of her father as far as Rust can tell.

Marty chuckles lightly. “He's sharp.”

Rust takes a longer drag of his cigarette but doesn't tap the ashes away. “How’s your daddy feel about you pickin’ at murder sites?”

Marty clears his throat, obviously as a warning for Rust to tread a bit more mindfully. Kennedy crosses her arms over her chest. Rust blinks hard because he could've sworn the snake on her arm began to move.

“Where'd you drift in from?” She asks.

Rust is immobile, holding his breath until he knows he's not hallucinating.

“Texas,” he exhales.

“Jesus. From one unlucky circumstance to another.”

“You seem to know a lot.”

“My job. Yours too.” She turns to Marty, likely certain she won’t get her next questions answered by Rust. “I got a pretty decent description of the scene. Wanna give a comment before I drop by the station and ask Quesada?”

Marty nods to the Camaro. “Get that scanner outta there before I impound your vehicle for interfering with police.”

“Y'all came to me,” she remarks flippantly. “All the same. Suppose I'll see you soon.”

“Maggie gets a whiff you were over here, she'll bust my ass to get you to the house.”

“Then you'd better not tell her.”

Rust burns down his cigarette and feels the pinpricks under his skin. He's getting restless and pretty soon buzzards will start to circle if they don't get a move on. He wonders a question that he'll ask Marty later.

“She'll hear about it one way or another.”

“Then you'd better invite me over, I guess.”

It's at this point that Rust refocuses and realizes he's about to have to spend dinner with not only Marty's wife and daughters, but also the beat reporter daughter of the police commissioner. He didn't believe in god, but he was certainly starting to believe in hell.

After a few more inconsequential words that get lost on a nonexistent wind, Kennedy returns to her Camaro and drives away, leaving Marty and Rust in the dust of the road. How can a place so suffocatingly soggy still be dry?

“We best be getting back,” is all Rust says, though he has more questions. All he really wants right now is a cup of bad coffee, about five more cigarettes, and to get to work.

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Kenny has a list of rules she follows. Rule number one: do not get within fifty yards of a murder site. Other crimes, she allows herself more intimacy. But when it comes to crimes like the Dora Lange case, she knows she needs distance. Rule number two: no touching anything that isn't on her immediate person, because she can't control the way her hands shake when there's death in the air. Rule number three: no talking unless she has a script.

She breaks the third rule that day.

The blame can't even really fall to her since Martin and his shadow stalked the length of a football field and some change to get to where she was posted up in her car. The police scanner she had mounted in her Camaro lit up like a Christmas tree only some fifty minutes earlier and Kenny tore through gravel back roads to get to the farmlands outside of Erath as soon as possible. She began about 75 yards out, taking what photos she could, then moved her car to a side road on a hill across one of the fields. Here, she set up her binoculars and just…watched.

This was her favorite part. She would start her recorder but often times, the first five minutes of tape would roll on in near silence while she gathered her thoughts.

“Some fifteen boys in blue… sheriff's office. Open fields all around. Whoever did this didn't worry about being seen at night. Not his first time…”

Kenny lights up a cigarette and adjusts her binoculars.

“A huge, knotty tree. Try a different word than ‘huge’. Dunno if he picked it on purpose, if he knows this place or not. It's a little too perfect to be accidental. Does the universe afford kismet to serial killers?” Kenny exhales. “I don't think kismet applies to moral wrongdoings actually…charms hanging from the trees, got those down in the journal. Like traps. I don't know if he wants us to think he revered her, but I don't think he did. Not the way her body looked. Coulda been dirt, though.” Another adjustment of the binoculars. “Aaaaand here comes Detective Martin Hart…who is that?”

Kenny finally sets the binoculars in the passenger seat and slides on sunglasses. She finds that social interactions, even with people she knows and especially with strangers, are infinitely easier if they can't see where she's looking. It's like those one way mirrors they use at the police station, and the irony is far from lost on Kenny.

She puts a hand on the handle of the car door, inhales, exhales, remembers her rules, counts to three. Lets herself out. Lights a second cigarette to give her hands something to do. Some days, Kenny likes working around cops. Other days, it's a brittle reminder of what she's lost, and it threatens to splinter and stab deep into her skin, damn near horizontal so she can't dig it out. Some days, Kenny feels as though she could scratch all her skin off and still not feel right enough. Those are the days she drinks and drinks.

Today, Kenny doesn't mind working around the cops until these particular cops show up, and for the first time she isn't sure what to think. It's Martin, and Kenny likes Martin (as much as anyone who ain't kin to him can). But behind Martin is this shadow. This elm, this skeleton, this husk of a man who lingers over Martin's shoulder like he has to adjust some internal settings before continuing.

“Marsden,” Matin greets as they stop before her, his hands on his hips, paternalistic as ever. Kenny nods at him.

“Detective Hart.”

“Got a new scanner, I guess.”

“Had to, after you ripped my last one out.”

Finally, because she can't put it off anymore, Kenny's eyes find the stranger fully. He's fringed, a live wire. She'd be scared to get too close if she believed in getting close at all. She wonders if her hairs are standing on end for the static emanating from him.

“You're new,” is all she thinks to say. His back straightens as if a steel rod ran suddenly through it and he moves a massive notebook that was hidden under his arm to hold in front of him.

“Rustin Hart,” he says. Kenny flexes her free hand and removes her cigarette with the other, blessedly relieved when she realizes that he's not going in for a handshake. Tension she didn't realize she'd been holding in her shoulders suddenly drops.

There's a moment of mutual understanding between them that Martin is obviously excluded from.

“Jesus, there’s two of you now,” Martin says with a sigh. Kenny can only wonder what that means. “Rust, this is Kennedy Marsden. She’s a beat reporter for the Lafayette Journal.”

Rust. What a fitting name for a man who seems so weathered. Too nervous still to put out her cigarette, Kenny holds it with slightly trembling fingers and lifts her sunglasses. While the action technically doesn't violate a specific rule, it sure as hell feels like it.

It isn't until now that he looks at her, and he isn't even really looking. Not in the eyes, anyway, but more behind her. Around her. And holy, when this guy looks at her, or near her, or whatever, Kennedy has to hold her breath. One word she'd thought of earlier rings truest: husk. His eyes are steely blue, damn near gray, and they are cold and calculating and there is something haunted there. He's handsome but he doesn't wear it. It's passive. And he's not looking at her.

It's not the first time Kennedy's gotten this feeling. Hell, she hangs around death like a bad habit, and it takes one to know one, but there's something fucking wrong with this guy.

Whatever it is, it's enough to move her focus to the side of his face so she doesn't have to look him in the eyes anymore.

“Good to meet you, Rustin.”

Even without eye contact, Kenny doesn't miss the way his face changes, like that steel pole up his back, some machine under his skin shifts to conceal what may be a betrayal of emotion. It passes as quickly as it came, but she clocked it, and she knows that he knows that she did.

Rustin seems to chew on something invisible as he looks off into the distance.

“Rust is fine. Do you prefer Kenny?”

Her cigarette is ash. She flicks it out. “Don’t matter much t’me. I like anonymity.”

“Don’t think they give the Pulitzer to anonymous journalists.

As if. “Let’s hope not.”

Another stretch of silence. Kenny knows it's not as long as it feels, but some strange vortex has begun to form, and she isn't sure she likes it.

“Marsden, huh?” Rust says quickly, like he's trying to ward something off. The sound of her own last name triggers thoughts of anthills and rotting things and moldy wood and Kenny gets an itch. She replaces her glasses.

“Got there on your own?”

She doesn't mean to be a bitch but goddamnit, the way he says her name is like he knows how it makes her feel and it's unfair. Like she's got eyes on her back. She thinks she feels a bug on the back of her neck but is too scared to swat it away in case it's not real.

Martin chuckles in that charming way he does where, even if you don't want to humor him out of enjoyment, you'll do it just to get him to stop. He's nervous. He's trying to break tension.

“He's sharp.”

Rust drags his cigarette to the filter. Kenny can feel him lining up his next shot.

“How’s your daddy feel about you pickin’ at murder sites?”

Kenny starts to get a little dizzy so she crosses her arms to ground herself. She looks at this handsome, sonofabitch stranger who's barely breaking a sweat, and gets quieter.

“Where'd you drift in from?” She asks. He's quiet for a moment, and at the stillness of his chest, Kenny realizes he's holding his breath. What the fuck?

“Texas,” he breathes.

“Jesus. From one unlucky circumstance to another.”

“You seem to know a lot.”

“My job. Yours too.”

She cuts it off there. Kenny doesn't need more enemies. She certainly doesn't want to make one out of Rustin Cohle. It's the heat. It's forgetting to take her meds again. It's the naked, murdered woman a football field away. It's a lot of things.

Kenny addresses Martin. “I got a pretty decent description of the scene. Wanna give a comment before I drop by the station and ask Quesada?”

He nods to her car. “Get that scanner outta there before I impound your vehicle for interfering with police.”

“Y'all came over to me,” she says. “All the same. Suppose I'll see you soon.”

“Maggie gets a whiff you were over here, she'll bust my ass to get you to the house.”

Kenny thinks of Martin's kind wife, how she hasn't seen her in about a year, and she sighs dejectedly.

“Then you'd better not tell her.”

Kenny wrenches her car door open and starts the vehicle up. Grips the steering wheel with sweaty hands. Martin leans on the open window.

“She'll hear about it one way or another.”

“Then you'd better invite me over, I guess.” Kenny looks over Martin's shoulder at Detective Rustin Cohle, fights a shiver at the way he's glaring at the space around her, and she swallows the bile that withdrawal is threatening to pull from her empty stomach. “It's ugly out here, Marty. Keep an eye out.”

With that, Kenny drives away, realizing only on the main road that her recorder has run out of tape with a resounding ‘click’, and only then does she really feel like she can finally breathe.

[haliotropes]

Sick in the brain and I wanna write some True Detective fic. I have a couple ideas and if y'all have a preference for something specific let me know!

1. It's gonna have to be about Rust, but either Rust x reader or Rust x oc.

2. MC is either Marty's ex partner or an investigative journalist that gets tangled into the Dora Lange case.

Any of this can be one-shots and long form. PLEASE lemme know what you would be interested in!!!