Rust has never blamed you, faulted you for your actions— hell, if you'd caught him a couple bottles in, he'd have congratulated you for getting out. Not many people can do that. Get out of the place they grew up in, especially in a town like this. This drab and faded Louisiana that promotes community to the numbness of the word, to a silent God who doesn't exist. You got out into another corner of the world and Rust stayed. That was it.

His stay was never quite bad, it was just. After closing the Dora Lange case, Rust had to reckon with himself. Years passed. Life was okay— you were gone, yes, but he'd hit it off with one of Maggie's set–ups; Dora Lange was dead, and she'd maybe rest easy knowing her killer was just as dead. But Rust can't rest, to any stretch of the word.

He'd deluded himself for a while, quite well— but temporary solutions are only good when they're used as they're meant to be. An itch exists just beneath the skin, nothing quite fixes it, not other cases, confessions, not Lori; irritated, Rust finds his teeth grinding down without cause, ready to bite at anything that comes too close— eager, wanting, testing. He wants to bite.

His life is about, just about, to blow up. Rust is a bomb that'll blow and take everyone with him. He's no doubt you will be the fuse— sat across from him on a random Thursday night like you hadn't left all those years ago.

"Don't look at me like that," he scolded. Rust tries to keep it all down, the bile and the ash, and meets the kicked–puppy look on your face with an even, cold look. He doesn’t know when you came back, why you came back, but he can't imagine that it's a good omen in any way.

Rust isn't a man good enough to pretend, though, that he doesn't know why he's across from you. Staying here at the bar, hidden in darkened shadows and tiny corners— entertaining you. Nearly (he catches himself) wanting you again.