Charlene says: 4,574 words. Written in third person. She/her pronouns used. Age gap. Mentions of alcohol & smoking. Brief themes of stalking and coercive relationship (not involving Rust), brief physical violence (not directed at MC). — NEIGHBOURS SLOWBURN(ISH) WITH RUSTYYY💃 Many, many thanks to @meowingvee for giving me this idea! Reblogs & feedback appreciated! 💌
The first thing Rust noticed was the candy-painted lilac Cadillac in front of his building. Then the empty moving boxes left outside the apartment next to his. Then the low sound of some edgy indie rock echoing from the other side of the wall. Low, yes, but still insufferable. Then the sound of a glass falling and shattering.
He sighed, stepping into the shower. The sound of the water thankfully drowned out the music for at least a little while. When he got out, the music had gotten louder. He dropped onto his mattress and knocked on the wall. Twice. Hard. The music stopped.
“I’m so sorry!”
A young woman. Probably an ingénue. Perfect. This was his life now. Living next to someone who didn’t even know not to play music at 1 AM.
As he laid awake, the clutter on the other side of the wall continued until the early hours of the morning.
—
Rust got ready for work in silence.
She did too.
They got out of their apartments at the same time. Rust clenched his jaw as he passed her without a glance. “Hi, good morning,” she said as she hurried behind him. He finally turned around. Pretty. Early twenties. Wearing a white dress and baby pink ballet flats. Bruise on left ankle and clavicle.
She smiled brightly regardless of his uninviting eyes.
“I’m really sorry about last night. I was unpacking and lost track of time.”
She extended her hand and offered her name after that, to which Rust shook it and did the same. “I’ll make it up to you sometime, I promise,” she said as their hands slipped from each other’s. “No need,” Rust replied, turning back around and walking out. She chuckled. “See you around, Mister Cohle.” They both got into their cars and drove in opposite directions.
—
When Rust came back shortly after sunset, her powdery perfume was lingering in the corridor. The boxes were gone and this time, Leonard Cohen was on. This was a bit more tolerable. As he took his shirt off and cracked open a beer, there was a quiet knock on the door.
Rust was once again greeted by the girl—same bright smile but faint bags around her eyes. He stared at her blankly.
“Good evening, Mister Cohle. Is this a good time?”
“Depends.”
“I… Um… I accidentally cooked too much and I was wondering if you’d like to eat with me.”
The gap between the door started narrowing slowly.
“I’m okay. Thanks.”
She nodded, smile faltering for a brief second. “Oh. Okay. Sorry.”
Rust shut the door and the sound of her doing the same came a few seconds later. Rust chugged half of the beer, groaned, then chugged the remaining half down. Another knock on the door. He groaned again as he walked back and opened it once more. She wasn’t there. He looked around. Her door was closed. He thought he was just hearing things. Just as he was about to close the door again, his gaze flickered to the floor. A container with some food in it. He almost smirked as he took the container and put it in the fridge.
—
The next day was Sunday. 10 AM sharp and the album from her first day was on again. Some song about not being able to stay and having seen it all before. Or something. Rust didn’t pay that much attention.
A knock. Rust pulled himself off the mattress and opened the door.
“Hi, Mister Cohle. I made pancakes. You wanna have breakfast with me?”
“I’m good.”
“Do you ever eat anything?”
“Have a nice day, girl.”
The door closed with a slow click. She stood in front of it for a few more seconds, thinking, before smiling and going back inside.
Rust sat down, staring at the files on the counter before starting to go through them.
—
By the time the sun set, Rust got dressed to go to a bar and unwind with a few drinks. Just when he got out, her door opened. Here we go, Rust thought. He turned around. She was leaning against the doorframe with a wine glass in her hands. Baby pink nail polish chipped at the edges.
“Oh! Hi, Mister Cohle! I was just coming to ask if you’d like to drink with me. I bought this wine. Pomegranate. Real cute stuff, really. Pretty easy on the throa—”
“You always talk this much?”
Her smile faltered before taking its place once again. Just like yesterday evening.
“Sorry. Have fun!” she replied, lingering on the doorway and watching him leave the building.
“Who are you, Mister Cohle?” she whispered to herself when she closed the door and walked further into the flat.
—
The next morning, she left earlier than he did. He heard impatient knocks on her door as he washed his face. Her calm voice and the angry chatter of a man as he brushed his teeth. Her door closing loudly, complaints leaving her lips and the man telling her to “Shut it,” as he got dressed. When he stepped out of the building, her car was still there but there was no sight of her. His brows furrowed as he looked around for longer than he normally would have. He finally drove away after he realised she wasn’t anywhere near anymore.
Throughout the rest of the day, she lingered in the back of Rust’s mind. Detective urges, he figured. Pattern recognition and all that. Unusual behaviour naturally caught his attention. Nothing more.
“Earth to Rust Cohle?”
Marty took him out of his daze with a fingersnap in front of his eyes. “I’m present,” Rust said, flicking the ash and looking elsewhere. Marty scoffed and chuckled to himself in annoyance before continuing whatever it was he was talking about.
Rust left work earlier than usual that day, using “Slow day, nothin’ useful to do,” as an excuse. Her car was still parked where she had yesterday when he came back home, no sound from her apartment. She still wasn’t back. He took out a beer and the food she’d left yesterday from the fridge. He didn’t bother heating the food up. Cold lasagna. Yummy.
He ate and drank in silence, slumping down in the chair and lighting a cigarette after. Towards the end of his cigarette, an argument started outside. Her voice. The same man from this morning.
“You thought I wouldn’t find out? You thought moving would keep me away, huh? Stupid.”
“I just want you to leave me alone. Please just leave me alone.”
“Nah, sweetheart. You’re stuck with me. Now be a doll and take me inside.”
“Stop touching me!”
Rust got up and ran out faster than he thought he would. Standing outside the building, he stared at the two. The guy was a skinhead with tattoos all the way up to his neck. His hands were all over her as she tried to push him away.
“Leave the girl alone,” he said, diverting both their attention to him. “Who the fuck is this? Your new man?” the guy asked her, hand wrapped around her arm. “He’s my neighbour,” she said, voice low and scared. “Take your hands off her and get,” Rust said, slowly stepping closer to them. The guy just laughed and passed Rust holding the girl, walking towards the building. Rust clenched his jaw, sniffed once, shook his head and turned around, fingers wrapping around the back of the guy’s collar and yanking him backwards. His grip left the girl and she urgently took a few steps back as the guy fell to the ground and Rust punched him. Only once. Then:
“You will not get near this girl again.”
As the guy laid there on the ground, shocked and pissed; Rust put a gentle hand on the girl’s back and led her inside, walking to his door with her. The two got inside and she sat down on the chair he’d gotten up from a few minutes prior. Rust leaned on the counter with crossed arms.
“Thank you.”
The words came out almost like a whisper. She looked like a little bird trying to chirp its broken wings.
“You girls just can’t bear nice fellas, can you?”
Her head snapped up, eyes widening.
“He’s nothing to me!” she defended. “Back in Baton Rouge, he kept coming to the diner I worked at. He’s in— insane. That’s why I moved. He just… doesn’t take no for an answer.”
Rust regretted his accusation as he looked into her eyes. “Ya never went to the police?” he asked. She chuckled painfully.
“Like they do anything.”
“I did.”
She frowned.
“You’re a cop?”
He took out two more beers, keeping the door of the fridge open. “You wanna drink?” She nodded and he closed the door after that, opening both bottles and giving one to her. She thanked him again, looking around the almost-empty flat. A small smile crept up to her lips when she saw the empty container. “Did you like the lasagna?” He nodded. “It was… food.” She giggled. “Okay.”
They drank their first few sips in silence. Then Rust sighed. “Where did you go this morning?” he asked, making her sigh too. “He took me to meet his mom. She’s dying of cancer. He told her I was going to give her grandchildren before she died. Knock-off Buffalo ‘66.” Rust lit a cigarette before speaking again.
“He hurt you?”
“No. He probably would have… if you didn’t come out and I took him inside—”
“Enough.”
She rolled her eyes. “You keep cutting me off! You did this last night, too!” she said, a playful pout on her lips. Rust scoffed as he bit back a smirk. “Drink your beer, girl.”
She took another sip and opened her mouth again. Undoubtedly.
“Can I have a cigarette?”
Rust frowned. All she ever smelt like was that disturbingly sweet perfume. “You smoke?” he asked, taking a drag. “No. But I wanna try it,” she replied, smiling again. Rust took out a cigarette and gave it to her, lighting it for her. Well, he definitely tried. “You gotta inhale for it to light.” She giggled, inhaling and immediately letting the smoke leave her mouth. Rust watched her as she coughed and giggled. It was fascinating, really. “I feel light-headed. It’s just tobacco, right? You’re not smoking weed on the low?” Rust put out his cigarette and chugged the remaining beer. “That happens on the first few times,” he said, taking out another bottle. She wasn’t even halfway through hers.
She eventually gave up, leaning to put off the cigarette. Rust held her hand, pausing for less than a second but what felt like an eternity, before taking the cigarette and smoking the rest himself. The filter had strawberry-flavoured lipgloss all over it. Rust internally cursed himself for not being bothered by it. “That’s a perfectly good cigarette,” he said. “You froze,” she replied; smirking, amused. Rust stared at her with the emptiest eyes before they went back to the bottle.
“Did he do that? The bruise on your collarbone?”
She touched her collarbones, eventually wincing when her fingers pressed on said bruise. She giggled. “Oh, no. Don’t even know how that happened. I’m clumsy.” Rust stared at her, hoping that was the truth.
She watched him like a kid looking at rides she’s not old enough to get on. She slowly got up as he put the cigarette out, right hand inching closer and closer to his lips. He watched, not saying or doing anything. Her thumb slowly ran across his top lip, then the bottom one. “Lipgloss,” she said as she shyly sat back down, eyes at her feet. “Are you hungry?” she asked and looked back up. Rust clicked his tongue. She smiled. “I know you are, Mister Cohle. Come on.” She got up, led him out of his flat and to hers with the beer bottles still in their hands. She got in and looked at Rust, who was just standing in the doorway and scanning the inside. She huffed and pulled on his arm, getting him to step in by force.
“Welcome, Mister Cohle!” she said as her arms opened widely. A warm welcome indeed. Lilac dresser, neon pink CD player on top of a light pink two-story shelf, powder blue headboard. It almost made him dizzy, staring at so much colour. As she took out the ingredients for whatever it was she was going to cook, Rust wandered around her space. She had a zebra-patterned couch right in front of her bed, facing the blank wall. He almost laughed. Maybe they weren’t so different after all.
The light pink shelf was what he diverted his attention to after that. He went through her CDs. She had way too many of them. B.B. King, Queen, The Ramones, Ella Fitzgerald, Megadeth… Is this what people mean when they say they listen to everything? He picked up the one she’d left right next to the player. The cover was black-and-white. Leather against skin. Suggestive enough to seem performative. Rust had never heard of the band. She sneaked up behind him, a hand resting on his forearm. “That’s The Strokes,” she said, her pinky tracing the name. “They’re a new band. I spent some time with the lead a few months ago when I was visiting my mom in New York. He gave this to me. It’s their first album. Good stuff.” Rust put the CD back down, freeing his arm of her touch in the process, and turned around. “Is this the one I made you turn off that night?” She chuckled, walking back to the stove and dumping leftover rice in a pan. “Yeah. This is the one. You like fried rice?”
Rust sighed and dropped himself on the couch. “It’s food.” She laughed, filling the small flat. “You’re like if unseasoned chicken became a person,” she said, still laughing as she cracked some eggs. Rust bit back another smile as he rubbed his eyes. They both didn’t speak again until sitting down on her tiny dinner table.
“So,” she started after her first bite. “Are you a cop?” He kept on eating without looking her way. She frowned. “Okay… Sorry.”
They ate in silence until Rust got up and started heading to the door. “Thanks for the meal,” he said as his hand touched the doorknob. She got up quickly and met him by the door. “Did I say something wrong? I’m sorry,” she said as he opened the door and walked to his own in two small steps. Rust shot a look at her as he opened his own door. Nothing meaningful. As always. “Good night, Mister Cohle,” she said, defeated and confused.
This was dumb. Why would he even go in? Why would he even wander around her space, let her cook for him? Fuck this. This is going to end before it even starts. Yes.
Rust opened another beer, seeing that his knuckles had started bruising up already. He went to bed early that night, the same song about not being able to stay and having seen it all before quietly creeping from the other side of the wall.
You said you couldn’t stay
You’ve seen it all before, I know
And sold you on their way
Oh, honey, that’s okay
—
Morning again. Rust got ready for work as usual, though her side of the wall was quieter than it had ever been before. He tried to shake the thoughts off as he got dressed.
When he opened the door, though, there was a book left on the ground. A sticky note on the cover.
Thought you’d like this more than pancakes… or lasagna… or fried rice. Have fun ♡ Sorry again
He lifted the sticky note upwards slightly. The Metaphysics of Love by Schopenhauer. He stared at the book and the note for a few seconds, taking in the sight in his hands. Then he smirked, yanking the sticky note off the cover, folding it twice and tucking it into his pocket. He threw the book on the passenger seat before making his way to the station.
He set the book down on his desk when he arrived, going over some paperwork as his eyes kept drifting over to the book. He sighed, deciding the files could sit aside for a few minutes. He skimmed the pages first. Lots of lines highlighted in bright pink and even more annotations in glittery purple. He went back to the first page and started reading the lines she’d paid the most attention to.
“Rochefoucauld says that love may be compared to a ghost since it is something we talk about but have never seen…” It doesn’t need to be seen if it’s FELT.
“Every kind of love, however ethereal it may seem to be, springs entirely from the instinct of sex; indeed, it is absolutely this instinct, only in a more definite, specialised, and perhaps, strictly speaking, more individualised form.” Just say you’ve never felt the warmness of gentle hands around you, Schoppie.
“The purpose of every man in love, however objective and sublime his admiration may appear to be, is to beget a being of a definite nature, and that this is so, is verified by the fact that it is not mutual love but possession that is the essential.” Now this is simply stupid. Why would I wanna ‘possess’ someone that doesn’t even care if I live or die? I’m not insane. Fuck off if you don’t love me back.
“What’cha readin’, Rust?” Marty whispered into his ear teasingly, catching him off guard and making him snap the book shut and throw it on the table mindlessly. “Your girlfriend gave you that?” he questioned cockily, hands reaching over his shoulder to take the book. Rust slapped his palm on it, eyes burning into Marty’s. He chuckled—slightly uncomfortable, slightly amused. “Okay, man. No one’s touching your prized possession. Need ya at the briefing room in ten.” Rust nodded, lighting a cigarette and getting up to take the book back to his car.
The briefing was like a blur.
Have fun. Sorry again.
“I say we lay low for a bit…”
…the warmness of gentle hands around you…
“But wouldn’t that mean…”
It doesn’t need to be seen if it’s FELT.
“Cohle, you listenin’?”
He looked up.
“Yeah.”
—
He was particularly drained by the time he left work. Him and Marty headed to a bar to further discuss the case. Juggling both work and her in his mind wasn’t treating Rust right. He drank a beer, then four, then six. “Something’s up with you, man. I mean, something’s always up with you but this is different. You all right?” Marty said after a few minutes of silence. Rust looked up, took the last drag of his cigarette and put it off. “I’m me.” Marty laughed. “You got a girl in-between the ‘faded memory of a town’ and cigarette ash?” Rust slid down the chair slightly. “You know I don’t do that shit,” he replied, gaining another laugh from Marty. “So you, Rustin Cohle, use a glitter pen for annotations?” Rust finally had enough of this conversation after that, getting up and patting Marty on the shoulder twice.
“See you at work.”
—
There were two voices in her flat when he came home. He paused. Hers and that of another man. The tattooed skinhead he’d punched? No. This was a different one. Lighter voice, gentler tone. They were talking in low decibels and laughing very frequently, accompanied by the occasional clinking of glasses. They must be drinking that pomegranate wine she invited him in for the other day. He took his clothes off for a quick shower as her laughter grew louder by the minute. He stood inside for a few seconds, trying to make out the words. It all translated into muffled sounds on his side of the wall. He finally turned the water on, the sound and heat cancelling out everything else.
Music had started playing by the time Rust stepped out of the shower. The same album by The Strokeys. Strokies? Strokes? Whatever. But he recognised the song this time. The one she keeps playing over and over again.
No harm, he’s armed
Setting off all your alarms
When I find out
I hope it’s you who set this trap
He checked the time.
01:34
Had the guy left? Or was she using music to mask out their voices? Rust listened as he dried his hair. He couldn’t tell if it was them talking or the music carrying shapes of voices through the wall. He threw himself on the mattress, bouncing off it for half a second. He closed his eyes. Maybe he’d be able to get some rest tonight.
The music stopped abruptly, the sound of her telephone ringing emerging. He heard some quiet chatter. Then a broken “Okay.” Then the sound of the handset snapping loudly against the switch hook. Then a sniff. Then a sigh. Then sobbing. Pushing himself off the mattress slowly, he threw on a tank top and some old sweatpants he rarely wore before getting out and knocking on her door.
“Not a good time, Mister Cohle. I’m sorry.”
He knocked one more time. Firmer this time. She finally opened the door after a few seconds; eyes glossy, nose runny and bottom lip quivering. Rust thought it was depressingly out of pocket to think she looked beautiful like this.
“I woke you up again,” she whispered. “I wasn’t sleeping,” he replied, leaning against the doorframe. “What happened?” She sniffed, walking to the zebra couch. Rust debated five million outcomes of him entering the flat in just two seconds. He went in and closed the door behind him anyway.
“Nothin’ important. I don’t wanna keep you up.”
He sat down next to her, looking around. “The guy leave?”
“An hour ago.”
He hummed. The context behind it unclear.
“He’s not…” she paused and wiped her eyes. “He’s not what you think.”
Rust nearly rolled his eyes.
“Girl, I don’t even know what I think.”
She chuckled, awkward and watery. Then she got up and picked the wine glasses up from the dinner table, washing them. “The wine was really good. You missed a great opportunity,” she said as her fingers wrapped around the sponge. Rust didn’t speak. Just looked at her. A new bruise on her arm. She really is clumsy.
She looked back at him for a brief second and smirked. “Did you take a look at the book?” she asked, giddy. “What book?” he questioned with fake cluelessness. She shot him a knowing look.
“I know you took it, Mister Cohle. Did you find anything interesting?”
“That glitter pen smudges a lot.”
She laughed as if she’d heard it wrong.
“That’s all that caught your attention?”
It doesn’t need to be seen if it’s FELT.
“That’s all.”
She laughed yet again.
“You’re so full of shit sometimes.”
Taken aback by the comment, Rust froze and stared at her. She finally put the glasses down to dry and hit her head with the back of her wrist. “I’m so drunk. I’m sorry.”
Rust shook his head.
“It’s okay.”
She sat back down. “Who called?” he asked as he got up; walking to the CD player, resuming the track and lowering the volume slightly. “My… my mom.” He raised an eyebrow. “I suppose that’s… bad? Judging by your… reaction.” She nodded. “Kinda.”
There was nothing but the music filling the small flat for a few seconds.
And store fronts rarely change
She finally spoke again. “She wants me to come back home.”
“New York?”
She smiled. “You remember!” Her face softened. “Yeah. New York. Tiny town. Boring. Everyone marries their high school sweetheart and names their kids after grandparents and dies six streets away from where they were born.”
“Sounds horrible.”
“It really is.”
At least I’m on my own again
Another tiny smile from her. Rust was beginning to understand it now. She smiles the way other people bleed or scream.
“She says I’m ruining my life here,” she continued quietly. “That I should’ve returned after graduation.”
Instead of anywhere with you
Rust looked down at his hands. Bruised knuckles. Veins standing out beneath thin skin.
“And what’d your friend say?” he asked casually. Too casually.
“The guy from tonight?”
Oh, tell me it’s all the same
Rust shrugged. She studied his face. Really studied. Like she’s just caught sight of something slipping through the cracks. “That wasn’t my boyfriend,” she said. Rust stayed silent. “He’s getting married next week. We survived Tulane together,” she said flatly. Tulane? What’s she doing in this apartment if she can afford Tulane?
He clicked his tongue as he stared at the shelf that the CD player stood on. “All these albums and you keep playing this one,” he said. She shrugged. “This one’s just… I don’t know. Feels like being twenty-two.”
“You are twenty-two.”
“Exactly.”
That almost made him smile.
Almost.
She looked at him carefully after that. So careful it could be dangerous.
“You ever been in love?”
And I’ve lost my page again
Rust let out a dry laugh immediately.
“No.”
“That fast?”
“Question got a fast answer, girl.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t care.”
She leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
“I think you loved someone before,” she murmured. “I think it scared the hell outta you, Mister Cohle.”
Rust’s jaw tightened.
“You got this habit,” she continued softly, “where every time something gets too close, you run from it like a mouse to a cat.”
I know this is surreal
“That Schopenhauer book messed up your brain.”
She grinned; faint, almost missable.
“Maybe.”
The room got quiet again.
“You wanna know why I was crying?” she blurted out.
Rust rubbed a hand over his cheek tiredly. “You’re gonna tell me regardless.”
“My mom said…” Her voice cracked suddenly. It was kind of painful to hear. “She said I make people feel sorry for me—on purpose.”
Rust’s eyes found hers again.
“She said that’s why men keep trying to save me.” She laughed, shaky and a little breathless. Like she was refraining from crying again. “Isn’t that evil? Saying that to your own daughter?”
Rust stared at her for a long moment.
Then, very quietly, “You don’t seem manipulative to me,” he said.
But I’ll try my luck with you
Something in her face changed when she heard that. Subtle. Nearly invisible. An emotion Rust had never seen on her face before.
“You’re the first person that’s ever said that,” she whispered, eyes watering up again.
Rust instantly regretted saying it when he saw that. Not because it was untrue. No, quite the opposite, actually. But because he meant it. He got up before the feeling could materialise into something meaningful.
Oh, this life is on my side
“Get some sleep, girl,” he said.
A frown took its place in her face as he moved toward the door. “You always leave right when conversations get real?”
“Yes.”
“I think that’s kinda sad.”
Oh, I am your one
Rust opened the door.
Her voice came from behind him, softer this time.
“Good night, Rust.”
Not Mister Cohle.
Just Rust.
His hand paused on the doorknob, categorising whether or not this was supposed to mean anything.
also known as "armand discovers the power of manifestation and speaks his greatest fears into existence, and he's left to watch that boy stumble his way to publication and that very book reunite louis with his ex"
