Nothing but the Dark Between Us
Ch. 2 - I been all around the world, and don't nothin' bother me
Summary: A surprise visit from Rust. Dora Lange's autopsy. A razor-sharp line you feel yourself stepping over.
The condo is quiet in that way only government housing can be. A silence that feels installed rather than earned. Manufactured. Thin walls, thinner peace. The kind of quiet that makes you listen harder instead of relax.
The lamp on the side table hums faintly, casting warm amber light across the living room. It softens the edges of the deep green sofa, the oak table, the framed prints you hung because the walls looked too much like a holding cell without them. Goose sprawls on the carpet, belly-up, paws twitching in some dream you hope is gentler than the ones you get.
You sit on the floor with your back against the sofa, the case file open in front of you like a ritual offering. Photos arranged in a grid, each one angled with deliberate precision. The room smells faintly of sandalwood and smoke from the candle burning low on the windowsill. You’re not sentimental, but the scent keeps your mind from drifting into places you don’t want to revisit.
You flip a page in your notebook. The paper whispers. Your pen taps once, then again, a steady rhythm you don’t consciously start. You’ve been doing that more lately, tapping and counting and measuring the seconds between thoughts. Old habits. Old training. You don’t think about it.
Outside, a car passes. Headlights sweep across the blinds like a searchlight. Goose’s ears twitch. Yours don’t, but your shoulders tighten anyway. You reach for the next photo. Dora Lange’s body, staged like a sermon. The moment your fingers touch the glossy paper, something shifts in your chest.
You exhale slowly.
You sit on the edge of the couch, heels kicked off by the front door, still in your slacks. Your blouse is gone and replaced with a soft strappy undershirt and the soft lamplight catches the shimmery scars along your shoulders and arms. Some are thin and surgical, others jagged and old. You don't hide them, you don't ever explain them.
You’re halfway through rereading the patrol notes when a knock breaks the quiet. Goose bolts off your lap with a startled meow and disappears into the bedroom. You roll your eyes.
“You’re a little scaredy‑cat, huh,” you mutter, amused at your own terrible joke.
Three short raps follow, measured and intentional. You rise slowly, your SIG tucked behind you out of habit. You check the peephole, then open the door with an expression that’s more tired than welcoming.
Rust Cohle stands there, hands in his pockets, cigarette tucked behind his ear. His shirt is wrinkled and his boots are scuffed to high hell, his expression unreadable. You notice his eyes are slightly glassy, reddened. Something about it catches your attention.
"Mind if I come in?"
He doesn't say how he found you - whether he followed you from HQ or pulled the file from Quesada, you don't ask. You step aside, despite your better judgement. Rust walks inside like he's been there before, scanning the room with that quiet, calculated energy. His eyes move from the candle to the couch to the case file then to you. Slowly, not leering or predatory, but cataloging.
You're clean. Neat. Pretty, even. But not delicate. You carry yourself like someone who's been through fire and didn't flinch. He trails over the scars and it screams history, your posture says control, your eyes something else entirely. Something in his expression shifts, not pity, not curiosity.
Recognition.
Rust's own presence is stripped down; no watch, no wallet bulge, no pretense. He moves like someone who's learned to live with less and trust even less than that. You sit back down at the edge of the sofa, letting him look around.
"You come to talk about the case?" You ask, voice softer than he's heard before.
He mirrors you, lowering himself into an armchair across from you. You never told him he could.
"I came to see how you think."
You raise a brow, "You want me to narrate my process?"
"No," he says, "I want to see what kind of person stares at this mess and doesn't flinch."
You lean back slightly, "You think I'm detached."
"I think you're different," Rust replies, "you don't smell like this place, you don't talk like it, you don't move like it."
You tilt your head, wetting your lips, "And that bothers you?"
He shrugs, "not sure yet."
You let the silence stretch and Rust's eyes flicker over your scars again, then to the way your undershirt is tucked neatly into your slacks, the way your condo is arranged like a crime scene - with everything in place and nothing left to chance. Made to feel homely, but in reality its quite devoid. The condo is arranged exactly how you want it. How you need it. Nothing out of place except the cat toys scattered across the carpet. The only chaos you allow. Everything else is controlled. Predictable. Safe.
"Roommate?"
He nods his head at the toys and you huff a laugh, "Yeah, somethin' like that."
Rust’s gaze lingers on the bedroom door a moment longer, then returns to you.
“You always keep your place like this?” he asks.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re expecting someone to search it.”
You don’t answer immediately. “Old habits.”
You study him for a beat. “You always show up at people’s homes uninvited?”
“Only when I’m curious.”
Rust’s gaze drifts back to the case file, to the photos you’ve arranged in a grid. Dora Lange’s body, the crown, the antlers, the staging. His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
“You rearranged the sequence,” he says.
You blink. “Excuse me?”
He nods toward the table. “The photos. You put them in a different order than the report had them.”
You glance at the layout — you hadn’t even realized you’d done it. “I put them in the order that makes sense.”
Rust hums, low in his throat. “Makes sense to you.”
You narrow your eyes. “Is that a problem?”
“No,” he says. “Just tells me something.”
You wait. He doesn’t elaborate. Of course he doesn’t.
You lean forward, elbows on your knees. “What does it tell you, Detective?”
Rust studies you for a long moment, then says, “You’re not looking at what he did. You’re looking at why.”
You feel something tighten in your chest. He’s right. You hate that he’s right.
“That’s how you work too,” you say.
Rust doesn’t deny it. “Most people look at the body. You look at the hands that put it there.”
You swallow once, slow. “Someone had to.”
Rust’s eyes flicker, not softening but sharpening. “That’s not what I meant.”
You shift slightly, the scars on your shoulder catching the light. Rust’s gaze follows them again, but this time his expression changes. Something closer to understanding.
“You’ve seen this before,” he says quietly.
Your pulse stutters. “Seen what?”
“This kind of staging. Ritual. Symbolic violence.” He tilts his head. “You didn’t flinch when you read the report. Most people do.”
You force your voice steady. “I’ve seen worse.”
Rust nods once, like he expected that answer. “Yeah. I figured.”
You look away, suddenly aware of how exposed your arms are, how the lamplight makes every scar a story he doesn’t get to read.
Rust leans back, boots planted firmly on your rug. “You know what bothers me about this case?”
You exhale. “Enlighten me.”
“He took his time,” Rust says. “Whoever did this he wasn’t rushed. He wasn’t panicked. He wasn’t improvising.” His voice drops lower. “He enjoyed it.”
You feel a cold ripple crawl up your spine. You’ve thought the same thing, but hearing it out loud makes it heavier.
Rust watches your reaction. “That bother you?”
You meet his eyes. “It should bother everyone.”
Rust nods slowly. “But it doesn’t bother you the way it bothers most people.”
You tense. “And what way is that?”
Rust’s voice is quiet, almost gentle. “You’re not afraid of him.”
You don’t answer. You can’t.
Rust leans forward, elbows on his knees, mirroring your posture from earlier. “People who aren’t afraid of monsters usually fall into two categories.”
You raise a brow. “And what categories are those?”
He holds your gaze, unblinking. “People who don’t understand what they’re dealing with.” Your lips twitch, “And people who’ve already met worse.”
The words land like a pressure point pressed too hard.
You inhale through your nose, slow and controlled. “Which one do you think I am?”
Rust’s mouth twitches, not a smile, but something close. “That’s what I’m here to figure out.”
Goose chooses that moment to hop onto the arm of the couch, staring at Rust with wide, suspicious eyes. Rust glances at him, then back at you.
“Your cat’s got good instincts,” he says.
You huff a laugh. “He doesn’t like strangers.”
Rust stands, slow and deliberate. “Neither do you.”
You don’t deny it. You don't respond. You just watch him now, the way he's watching you. Two people circling the same truth from opposite ends.
"I better let you catch up."
You hum, Goose stares at Rust, big shimmery blue eyes watching the man and Rust stares back.
"I'll see ya tomorrow, Miss Special Agent."
You give an amused smile, 'I'll see you tomorrow, Detective."
You emphasize the word again but less harsh this time. Less pointed. If Rust notices he doesn't comment. He just walks himself to the threshold of your door and throws his jacket over his shoulder, pausing with a hand on the frame.
“Oh. And about Hart?” Rust fishes a lighter from his jacket and takes his cigarette out from behind his ear.
“Don’t take him seriously. He doesn’t know how to handle women who can outshoot him.”
Then he's gone, slipping into the dark like a ghost drifting back into the underworld that spat him out. You shake your head and lock the door. You exhale, tension leaving your shoulders in a slow, reluctant trickle. The room feels different now, like he left a draft behind. Goose steps closer the door, tail flicking like he’s not sure if the danger’s passed. You scoop him up when he brushes against your legs.
"Come on silly Goose, let's look at more pictures of dead people."
Goose meows in mock protest, squirming and you kiss the top of his soft head and laugh.
-
You pull into the parking lot of the Acadiana Regional Forensic Unit, tires crunching over sunbaked gravel. The heat hits you like a slap; thick, blistering, relentless. It rises off the blacktop in shimmering waves, warping the air like a mirage. The kind of heat that makes your clothes stick and your patience peel. The building squats low and square, its stucco exterior faded to a jaundiced beige. No other cars in sight, no sign of your lovely CID partners. Perfect. You get the call before the locals do, that the body is ready. Now you know you should wait for Rust and Marty, but you always did do better when not being loomed over like some grade schooler.
Just off the sidewalk, a payphone leans against a rusted pole like its trying to escape the sun. The receiver dangles slightly, its cord twisted and stiff. You approach it like you would a crime scene with caution and skepticism. Its grimy, the kind of grime that's been layered since Nixon was in office. You fish a quarter from your pocket, slick with sweat, and slide it into the slot. The line clicks as you punch in the Baltimore field office number and a bored receptionist answers,
"Baltimore Field Office, how may I direct your call?"
"Patch me through to the big man, please." You say, wiping your brow with the back of your hand. A pause, paper shuffling and you hear the faint clack of a keyboard.
"Name and badge number."
You give it, rolling your eyes up to the hazy blue sky, a bead of sweat rolling down your spine.
"Thank you, Agent. Hold for the SAC's office."
Suddenly a click, then a dead second of static. Then a new voice, sharper and older, all business:
"Assistant Director Wolfe's line."
You straighten instinctively, even though you’re standing alone in a sun‑blasted parking lot with sweat trickling down your spine.
“This is Special Agent—”
“I know who this is,” she cuts in. Paper shuffles. A typewriter clacks. “Hold for the Assistant Director.”
A click. A beat of static. Then Wolfe’s voice slides through the receiver, cold and precise.
“Agent.”
You shift the phone against your ear, the metal hot enough to sting. “Sir. I’m at the ME’s office. The body’s ready.”
“I’m aware.”
Of course he is. Wolfe always knows before you tell him.
You free your left hand, patting your pockets for a cigarette. Nothing. You check the other side. Still nothing. You curse under your breath and glance toward your car, shimmering in the heat like a mirage. The cigarettes are in the glove compartment, baking into a single fused brick of tobacco and regret.
Your fingers brush something in your pocket. A crinkled wrapper. You pull it out.
A Dum‑Dum.
Root beer flavored.
You stare at it like it personally offended you.
Wolfe keeps talking, his voice steady and clinical. “You’ll go in first. I don’t want you waiting on Cohle or Hart.”
You peel the wrapper with your teeth, grimacing as the artificial root beer smell hits you. You were hoping for cherry. Hell, even grape. But root beer? That’s punishment.
“Yes, sir,” you say, popping the lollipop into your mouth. It tastes like someone carbonated a war crime.
“You’re there to work,” Wolfe continues. “Not to observe. If the detectives can’t keep up, that’s their problem.”
You half listen, half glare at the lollipop like it’s responsible for every bad decision you’ve ever made. Goose probably knocked it into your pocket weeks ago. You should’ve thrown it out. You didn’t.
“Understood,” you say around the stick.
Wolfe exhales, a sound like a man settling into a leather chair. “Good. And Agent?”
The sun beats down. The payphone hums. The root beer flavor refuses to die.
“Remember what I told you before you left.”
You do. You remember every word.
If you can’t move it forward, I’ll find someone who can.
“Yes, sir.”
The line clicks dead.
You lower the receiver, the metal scorching your palm, and pull the lollipop from your mouth with a look of pure betrayal.
“God,” you mutter, flicking the stick between your fingers. “Of all the flavors.”
You toss the wrapper into the trash, square your shoulders, and head toward the morgue door.
You don’t wait for Rust. You don’t wait for Marty. You don’t wait for anyone.
Wolfe isn’t here to watch you.
Which means you can be yourself for exactly thirty more seconds.
Then it’s back to work.
-
The cold hits you first, a relief from the heat outside but too sharp to be comfortable. The fluorescent lights overhead flicker faintly, casting a sterile glow across cracked tile walls. The smell hits you first, no matter how many times you've done this; bleach, formaldehyde, metal, and a hint of mildew. You've already greeted the ME and read the analysis on your victim, her prints matched for prior shoplifting, possession and solicitation.
Dora Kelley Lange.
You raise a small busted-looking microcassette, "Do you mind, sir?"
The coroner shakes his head.
"Go right ahead, ma'am."
You nod, pressing record. A soft click and a red light blinks. Dora Lange lies on the stainless steel autopsy table, her limbs arranged with clinical precision. Her skin already sterilized. You know the detectives are on their way, rehearsing their lines and pissed to hell you've taken the lead. For now, you have Dora Lange to yourself.
"Initial observations," you say into the mic, "victim is a white female, approx. mid-twenties. Identified in report as Dora Kelley Lange. Prints and DNA lifted prior to this examination, results negative."
You approach closer, the ME nearby flips through his clipboard.
"Pallor is pronounced, not solely postmortem. Waxy, jaundiced tone suggest long-term substance abuse."
You thumb a gloved finger over her inner arm, "Arms show extensive trauma-needle tracks, faded bruising inconsistent with accidental injury."
You trail down to her wrist, "Ligature marks present on wrists and ankles by half-inch rope. Depth of bruising indicates prolonged restraint."
You gently lift her hand, eyes narrowing, "Fingernails appear chipped, uneven. Nail beds caked with dark particulate, likely soil or dried blood. Possible crescent of dermal tissue beneath left index nail. Still awaiting scrapings for trace analysis."
You let go of her hand and round the table, "I observed no defensive wounds but presence of foreign tissue suggest a potential contact with assailant."
At this point, you don't even want to look over the antlers and blindfold that sit on the tray beside her. You glance at it, wondering how it must've felt to have to tie antlers to someone's head. Someone strong did that, no doubt. Someone used to handling sharp bone. You study her face for a moment. Not the wounds. Not the evidence. Just her. A woman who never stood a chance.
You focus back on her, leaning over her slightly and parting her mouth with two fingers,
"Oral cavity is in poor hygiene. Gingival recession and inflammation consistent with chronic neglect. No foreign material present in airway. ME confirms asphyxiation as cause of death, no obstruction noted."
There are so many things about this woman that make your heart sag in your chest, something sharp and brutal stings in your throat the more you examine her.
"Victim made efforts to maintain appearance despite deteriorating health."
You almost push the steel-top table away from you, not out of disgust but rage; you gaze down at her abdomen. Steeling yourself into that familiar nothingness.
"Lividity present, lower left quadrant shows multiple visible stab wounds. Blade was narrow, single-edged. Penetration reached peritoneal cavity, liver and small intestine lacerated. No hesitation marks, wounds appear inflicted postmortem or during final moments. She has no defensive wounds on forearms."
You pause, inhaling and letting the silence settle before continuing. Your guts stirs horribly.
"Petechial hemorrhaging in sclera confirms asphyxiation. Preliminary tox screen reveals trace amounts of lysergic acid and amphetamine. Stomach contents are minimal, victim had not eaten in approximately 48 hours."
Crystal meth and - LSD? You scrunch your nose, "How much LSD?"
The coroner clicks his pen and the sound is loud in the empty cavern of the autopsy room.
"Hard to say. Have to wait for a mass spec."
Your jaw tightens, goddamn under-funded staff. You close out of your examination,
"Conclusion: victim was bound, drugged, strangled and staged. Cause of death: asphyxiation, manner: homicide. There are ritual elements present, stabbing suggests a personal motive though unclear at the moment. Victim was possibly targeted. Given the-"
The fluorescent lights buzz overhead as the door slams open behind you. Rust and Marty barrel in like they own the place and the air shifts, thicker now, charged with anger.
"What're you doin?" Marty barks, his tone already halfway to pissed.
You don't turn around, simply clicking the recorder off with an annoyed sigh, "My job."
He scoffs, "Thought you were supposed to be workin’ with us."
"I am," you reply, still focused on the body. You don't owe them an explanation for the way you do things. You're a federal officer for gods sake.
Rust steps forward, boots echoing on the tile. Rust’s eyes flick to the body before they land on you. He takes in the scene in one slow sweep, cataloging everything.
"So why’re you here without us?"
You finally look up, turning to see his sharp gaze. There's a challenge there, coiled and waiting. You keep your posture steady, your breathing even. You don’t give them the satisfaction of reacting.
"I'm seeing it for myself," you say evenly, no elaboration, no apology.
Marty folds his arms, jaw working.
"You know it's funny. You feds always say you're not here to step on toes, but somehow always end up in our damn boots."
You glance at him, "Maybe if you laced yours tighter, they wouldn't fall off so easily."
That lands and his face flushes a shimmery pink but before he can fire Rust cuts in,
"You think you're gonna magically solve this?" Rust asks, voice low and flat.
"You think we've missed a clue somewhere down the road? Or are you just here to collect credit when its all over and send it back to the big man for approval?"
You step back from the table and peel the latex gloves with a snap.
"I think a woman was murdered in a way that suggests ritual, restraint, and rage. I think someone went to a lot of trouble to make a statement. And I think if you two are done measuring dicks, we might actually get somewhere."
Silence.
The coroner clears his throat, suddenly very interested in his clipboard.
Rust narrows his eyes and Marty shakes his head, "Jesus, this is gonna be fun."
You tuck the recorder into your pocket, "I'd like copies of all the paperwork, sir."
The coroner nods quickly, grateful for something to do. You brush past the two detectives without another word. You can feel their eyes on your back — Rust’s like a scalpel, Marty’s like a hammer. You’ve worked with men like them before. Territorial. Suspicious. Loud when cornered.
You tuck the recorder into your pocket and turn toward the door. The morgue’s cold air clings to your clothes as you pass the two detectives. Marty mutters something under his breath, but you don’t bother catching it.
Rust doesn’t move out of your way. He just watches you, eyes narrowed, studying you the same way he studies crime scenes. Like he’s trying to peel you apart layer by layer.
You stop beside him, close enough to smell the stale cigarette smoke clinging to his shirt. His gaze flicks over your face, searching for something he thinks he’ll recognize.
You meet his stare, unblinking.
“Stop trying to solve me,” you say quietly.
It isn’t a threat. It isn’t a plea. It’s a boundary drawn with surgical precision.
Rust’s jaw shifts, the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile. Not quite.
“Can’t help it,” he murmurs. “Some people read like open wounds.”
You hold his gaze a second longer, letting the silence sharpen between you.
“Then try not to bleed on me,” you reply.
You push past him, the morgue door swinging shut behind you with a hollow thud. The Louisiana heat hits you like a wall, thick and punishing, but somehow easier to breathe than the air you left behind.
Behind the glass, Rust watches you go.
And you can feel it.
He’s not done trying to figure you out.
Not even close.
The door thuds closed behind you, leaving Rust and Marty in the cold fluorescent hum of the autopsy room. The coroner pretends to busy himself with paperwork, eyes down, shoulders tight.
Marty lets out a sharp breath, somewhere between a scoff and a curse.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “She’s gonna be a real pain in the ass.”
Rust doesn’t answer right away. He’s still staring at the door you walked through, jaw tight, eyes narrowed like he’s trying to solve a riddle that won’t sit still.
Marty notices. Of course he does.
“What,” Marty snaps, “don’t tell me you’re impressed.”
Rust drags his gaze back to the body on the table. He picks up a pair of gloves, turning them over in his hands like he’s checking for holes.
“She’s thorough,” Rust says quietly.
Marty barks a laugh. “Thorough? She went behind our backs.”
Rust shrugs one shoulder. “She got here first.”
“That’s not the point.”
Rust slips the gloves on, snapping the latex around his wrists. “She didn’t contaminate anything. Didn’t touch anything she shouldn’t. She ran the exam clean.”
Marty stares at him. “You’re defending her?”
Rust doesn’t look up. “I’m stating a fact.”
“Bullshit,” Marty says. “You don’t like anybody. You barely like me.”
Rust’s mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “That’s true.”
“So what’s different about her?”
Rust pauses. Just for a second. Just long enough for Marty to notice.
Then Rust says, “She’s not afraid of the work.”
Marty snorts. “She’s not afraid of anything, apparently.”
Rust’s eyes flick to the door again, softer this time. “People like that usually have a reason.”
Marty frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Rust doesn’t answer. He just turns back to the body, voice low and even.
“She sees things. Same way I do.”
Marty stares at him like Rust has grown a second head. “Christ. Don’t start getting weird about her.”
Rust ignores him, focusing on the corpse, but his voice carries a quiet finality.
“She’s not the problem here.”
Marty throws his hands up. “Great. Fantastic. You and the fed are gonna be best friends.”
Rust doesn’t rise to the bait. He just studies the wounds, his tone almost thoughtful.
“She’s not here to play games, Marty.”
“Yeah? Then what is she here for?”
Rust finally looks at him, eyes sharp as broken glass.
“To do the job.”
Marty shakes his head, muttering under his breath as he grabs a clipboard.
Rust doesn’t watch him.
He’s still looking at the door.
The fax machine sputtered and whined like it was trying to cough up secrets it would rather keep. Two days had passed since you sent Wolfe your report, and the silence that followed pressed against your ribs like a weight. So much for quick, you thought.
In the meantime, you paced your cubicle until the carpet showed the path of your worry. You rearranged pens that were already straight, sorted papers that did not need sorting, and tried to settle into the space wedged between a very irritated Marty and an even more irritated Rust. Marty had forgiven you in that easy, good‑natured way of his, waving off your apology with a lazy flick of his wrist and a drawled, “Eh, don’t worry about it, sweetheart. Gotta do whatcha gotta do.”
Rust was another story. He watched you with that cold, hollow stare of his, the one that made you feel like he was peeling back your skin just to see what you were made of. You could not blame him. You had jumped the line, and Rust was not the type to forget a slight simply because someone told him to.
Still, your hands needed orders the way lungs need air, and without them your mind circled the case like a buzzard over roadkill. Close enough to smell the rot, never allowed to land.
Then Thursday arrived.
You shuffled into the kitchen barefoot, the linoleum cold enough to make you wince. Morning light slanted through the blinds in dusty gold stripes, catching on the curl of fax paper waiting on the counter like a cat curled in sleep. You tugged it free, the paper warm from the machine, and scanned the bold, typewritten words:
Good. Keep working and stay on their heels. – Director.
You let out a long, controlled breath. No briefing. No praise. No warning. Just a green light and a leash.
Your fingers tightened around the page. You had been thorough in your report, painfully so. Marty had been easy to write about, almost fun in his familiar Southern charm. Rust had been harder. Too much of him reflected pieces of yourself that you preferred to keep buried. You had written more than you meant to, more than you should have.
Yet somehow your rambling had bought them a reprieve. Wolfe would let them stay, but only if you kept them in line.
The paper crackled softly in your grip as you stared at the Director’s words, feeling the weight of everything unsaid settle across your shoulders like a second shadow.
Suddenly, a warbled meow breaks you from your stupor. Goose pads into view, white fur fresh as snow and his tail flicking with sleepy indifference. He looks up at you with pale blue eyes and you crouch to let him bump his nose into your palm. Scratching behind his ears, you smile despite yourself.
"Looks like we need to get on those detective's good side, huh stinky?"
He meows again, a simmering purr vibrating out, a halfway being complaint and agreement.
"Rust's got the emotional range of a brick wall and Marty's wound tighter tan a preacher's collar. Should be fun."
The cat blinks slowly then flops onto his side like he's already given up on the day.
You stand, "Yeah, we've dealt with worse, huh?"
The house was silent save for the hum of the AC and distant buzzing of insects outside. You glance at the clock, time to play nice and watch two men chase leads while you kept your hands clean.
Time to see what Rust Cohle and Marty Hart had in store for you.