he was always a difficult man—hard edges, harder silences. the only reason you knew him was because Maggie, ever the matchmaker, had to meddle. tried to play cupid, and failed spectacularly. you and Rust? oil and water. he’s a hazard to himself, had adventures glued to his heels, always brooding, arms crossed, eyes locked and loaded with don't-even-try. he takes his whiskey neat, sets vodka shots on fire. you, on the other hand — permanent smile, easygoing, life breezing by with barely a scratch. you like your alcohol light and sweet, taking it with some sliced fruits and sweets. yeah, they say opposites attract, but you both know that’s a cliché that never quite stuck.

his life is hell, yours – a fairytale. he’d break it to you; you’ll make him too soft and wrapped up in bubble wrap to keep him safe from himself. you think he’s someone else, he thinks you’re too sweet it actually creaks on his canines.

things would've stayed simple — polite nods, a couple forced jokes at the bar — if you hadn’t transferred to his department. Maggie’s dad had a hand in that, surely; family friends pulling strings so you’d land right in the middle of their chaos. suddenly you’re stuck in the same precinct, paired up as Marty's supposed keeping-an-eye person. Rust’s ready to chew through the walls — you could see it in his jaw, see it in the way he started showing up in all your peripheral scenes: at work, at the Hart family’s Sunday dinners.

Marty’s daughters adored you. tiny tornadoes of energy — they made sure you didn’t get a minute alone. you played along, became the human jungle gym, tumble and laughter on repeat, and every single time it chipped away at Rust’s defenses. it was obvious, parenting fit you. but for Rust? no way in hell he’d walk that road again, not after what he’d lost — wife, daughter, hope.

still. he watched you. couldn't not. even though he hated small talk, there he was, listening to your tweeting, hovering near the outer edge of the circle. no strings, no expectations, just the way his eyes tracked your drink across the bar, just the way he’d be there whenever someone circled too close on the dance floor. that silent warning. and you noticed. of course you did. the not-accidental touches, the glances, the way he stuck around even when he acted like he’d rather be anywhere else.

but above all, you both kept it simple. no confessions, no grand speeches. he didn’t want to drag you into his darkness, you didn’t want to break his silence with your sunshine. you didn't have to dance around it — just existing in the same orbit was enough. for now.

nevertheless, each time you shortened the distance more and more. it happened by itself, a light touch of your fingers on his tattooed forearm, his hand on your shoulder, pulling you away from an overly drunk passerby. he didn't understand why there was joy in that poison, and you didn't understand at what point Rustin Cohle stopped faking smile and just pretending to be interested.

tonight, the bar is impossible — too crowded, the air fevered and thick with unspoken hunger. driving miles to capture this excitement, you ended up being Hart’s plus two again. somehow, chaos moves you together, bodies pressed in the surge. his warmth bleeds through the fabric of his crumbled suit; your breath, all citrus and sugar, leaves sparks on his lips. it’s not a kiss — just nearness, just fact, as ancient and inevitable as the dark. he bends to your ear, voice scraping low to outmuscle the music, and suddenly the world falls away — all eyes, all noise, some unsayable thing trembling between you.

eyes locked. no awkwardness, no mask — just the grim realization: there are wounds in him you’ll never reach, soft places in you he cannot touch. you don’t have to dance. yet, for yourselves, you do — swaying together, slow, secret, lit only by the haunted music of the crowd. in his arms, you’re fragile. against your laughter, he’s afraid. the darkness between you sings, and, for tonight, you dare let it hold you both.