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The first thing he notices about Martin Hart is that he's not nearly as straight-laced as he pretends to be. The second is the too-firm handshake and lingering eye that trails slowly across his body and lands squarely on his hips.
Rust doesn’t return the favor.
Few people figure him a queer—not that he hides it all that well. Or at all, really. Most men just assume that he’s as balls deep into women as they are, and the women are too busy worrying over whether they’ll end up in a ditch somewhere if they come too close to think about it. This suits him just fine for now, especially since he ain’t Crash anymore. Crash, who huffed lines of Coke off strangers' thighs and pressed his face inside them to taste it off their skin. Crash, who laid with anyone and everyone if it meant chasing that high, knife to his throat and horrible nothingness whispered in his ears or not. He’s Rustin Cohle, homicide detective now, or perhaps again. And he has to stay that way. Quesada already hates his fucking guts; one slip up, one glance that lasts a little too long in the wrong direction, and Quesada’d be more than happy to ship his ass off to whoever will take him, if anyone.
So Rust doesn’t return the lingering eyes. Rust shakes Hart’s hand and tries hard not to think about the way the man’s broad and roughly callused hands remind him of the hot sun beaming on even hotter sands back home. Nor does he think about the chill that runs down his spine when the pair of them lock eyes. Not the heady scent of pine and whiskey that rolls off him in waves, or the taste of sweet honey and yellow amber that settles low in the back of his throat.
“Right,” Quesada grunts and smacks Hart hard on the shoulder before stalking off like some great lumbering animal into his office.
Hart turns to watch him leave, and the moment is broken. The sounds and colors settle and the tastes subside for now.
Rust doesn’t watch the way Hart’s fist clench and unclench at his side or the way his shoulders droop in relief when Quesada shuts his door. He waits a moment and lets the tension in the room slowly lift before speaking. “I’m not much one for partners.”
And it’s true enough. He’s never really gotten along well with others—not that he made a real effort to try outside his stint as Crash, though that was more by necessity than any real desire for companionship.
“Ah, no, I suppose I’m not either. Been waiting for that perfect one, y’know?” Hart smiles shyly, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Hm.” Rust can’t imagine what the perfect partner would even be like. Quiet, probably. Unobtrusive. Wouldn’t complain about his smokes or his ‘weird fucking attitude’ as his old partner back in Texas described it. Ramses was a whiney little bitch who couldn’t take two steps without his foot shoved up his ass.
Rust doesn’t miss him. Hart clears his throat, dry and awkward—the taste and smell of chalk dust and old plaster assaults his senses. He tries not to wince or twitch. They never like it when he does that.
Hart raps his knuckles on the side of his desk. Nervous. Uncomfortable. “So, you uh been in the city long?”
Rust reaches into his pocket and pulls out a Camel and his lighter. It's a comforting weight in his hand. Sleek and clean. He lights the cigarette with a single flick and watches intently as the end glows bright and hot.
He takes a long drag. It doesn’t burn anymore. Sometimes he wishes it would, if only to give him something to focus on.
“Why do you care,” Rust asks, mumbling around the cigarette.
Hart tracks the smoke with half an eye but angles his body toward the door. Away from the cigarette. Hart would probably kill him if he lit up in the car. Rust takes another long drag and watches Hart through lidded eyes. “Well, I…was just making conversation is all. Quesada told me a bit about your stint undercover. Four years. That’s gotta be rough.”
Hart doesn’t need to know about Crash, no more than Quesada’s already told him anyway. Not that Quesada actually knows anything worth telling, save maybe his time in Lubbock’s piss stain of a psych ward.
“Hm. There wasn’t anyone else.” Rust doesn’t care to share that it was go undercover or be sentenced to a life in prison for manslaughter.
“Oh, well. I guess that worked out then.”
Rust stubs out his cigarette against the empty desk he’s leaning against. It’s probably meant to be his, pressed up against Hart’s the way it is. The ash smudges sickly gray against the table-top. “Sure. And the city stinks. Smells like old motor oil and tar. Tastes like it, too. So, about the same as any.”
“Right.” Hart shoots him the ‘fucking asshole’ look most send his way after they’ve spent more than, oh, say three minutes with him. Hart’s lasted about ten. It's almost a record.
(Claire shot him looks all the time, but it was more of an exasperated ‘honey, please?’ than anything else.) Hart fidgets in place, tapping and poking at things, then rearranging them back into place. “Quesada wants us to work together.”
“Yep,” Rust says, drawing out the vowels long and hard. Hart’s not amused. Rust doesn’t care.
Hart throws his arms up in the air, and suddenly the room’s not so gray and mushy anymore. That thick honey-orange tone is back, coating the back of his throat and drowning out the rest of the world. Hart runs a weary hand down his face before propping his hands up against the desk and leaning in close. Rust tries not to inhale.
“Alright look, I get you don’t wanna be here, and you’d rather be out doing fuck knows what, but you’re here now, and we’re partnered for the foreseeable future. So why don’t you get off your sorry fucking ass and help me break this case Ross brought in, hm?”
Hart glares at him, the blue of his eyes swirls wildly with the lingering orange. It's real and not all at once, and Rust’s not sure whether he’s seeing the universe unravel around him or if he’s just losing it again. Either way, it should be an interesting ride. “Sure, alright,” he says, sliding off the edge of the desk. Though they’ve already shaken, he extends his hand toward Hart and watches again as the man breathes relief. “Rustin Cohle.”
“Martin Hart.”
Hart’s hand is warm in his. The blue fades away into speckles of light, leaving only honey and amber in its wake.
“I think imma call you Rust.”
For a word so dirty, it sure does taste sweet.