Rust, put very nicely, looks like shit.

It's been years since you two talked. Makes sense really considering the extent of your relationship was your being his drug dealer in Texas. Who would have known you'd both end up in Louisiana?

Normally, you'd have had reservations about selling to cops, law enforcement characters, but you had met Rust whilst he was so conveniently undercover as Crash. And you had only accidentally found out that he was a homicide detective after you moved to Louisiana, when the Dora Lange case hit the local news. At which point he was no longer even undercover and stopped buying from you, so it all worked out.

At the time though, you mourned the loss of a good, consistent client— but you were happy for the guy. 'Least he managed to get clean. Years passed and you forget that Rust exists until the papers.

Dead man walking was a good description for him. He's got so many bottles open, so many half–empty and an ashtray so violently overfilled that you could taste it, and some better part of you wants to say no, refuse to sell and then maybe get the fuck out.

Then, you remember that you don't have such an upstanding part of you and any reservations about selling to a detective is so nicely negated by the fact that he'd just been suspended. So you pass along the joint when his hand comes for it.

"Thought you went clean," you mentioned, off–handedly once your inhibitions clears and leaves way for curiosity.

Rust eyes you— all threatened predator like, open and ready. "Why's tha'?" Smoke blurring any prominent features that might have given you any indication of what he might be thinking, feeling. Only his eyes are visible, stagnant, still— scary.

"You stopped buyin'." Your eyes dragged 'round his place with all the macabre photos and case files, then back to Rust— who was hogging the fucking joint. You swat at him, "y' alright?"

"Fine."