Guys were are all the Rust Cohel fics? 🤨 You’re gonna tell me people weren’t infatuated with him as much as i am? The show came out in 2014 ya’ll i was expecting there be so much more fanfics 😔
Warnings: no use of Y/N, alcohol consumption, being drunk, age gap (implied but not specified), fluff, mutual pining, kissing, Rust's pessimistic worldview, possible inaccuracies in his characterization (I've only watched three episodes so far), not proofread
Word count: 3.7K
a/n: his accent gets to me man
You were making a mess. Even in your slurred mind, you could tell as much was true. You stumbled across your apartment, cursing softly every time you bumped into something. A soft clang sounded as something fell to the floor, causing you to grimace.
You stood in the middle of your living room, your body swaying gently as your hand moved to your mouth, teeth nibbling softly at the skin around your nails.
There was a knock at your door, the sound causing your brows to furrow further, partially because of the effect the noise had on your drunken senses and partially because of what was behind it.
Your feet padded against the ground as you made your way to the door. Not opening it was not an option—you knew that. He did not play about your safety, and even though most of the time you were glad for it, there were moments, moments like this one, where you wished he would care a little less.
You don't open the door all the way. It's intentional; you don't want him seeing the mess you're sure your apartment is in.
Rust notices it, of course. He's a cop. His whole job is noticing things.
You press your cheek softly against the doorframe, resting your weight against it in an attempt to make yourself look more composed than you actually are. Rust's eyes trail over your face for a second, searching for something, you're sure, but you can't bother yourself with thinking about that right now.
"Night, sir," you mumble, trying your hardest not to slur the words.
Rust lifts his head in silent greeting, a slight grimace appearing on his face.
You know what it means immediately, your hand moving to cover your mouth, trying to dilute the lingering smell of alcohol on your breath.
"Sorry," you mutter.
You're not sure he hears it because he doesn't react to the word. He just keeps looking at you with that slightly distant stare he always seems to have. The eyes of a man who has seen far too much.
"You alright?" he asks, his voice void of any sentiment.
He isn't judging you, you know that. He doesn't feel he has the right to judge anyone, much less you. But he is worried—or he was until you opened the door and he understood why there had been so much noise coming from next door.
"I'm fine, sir," you manage, still avoiding looking at him head-on.
You're a bit ashamed he's seeing you like this. You don't usually drink this much, but you'd had a shit day at work, and your mind had been giving you hell recently. You just wanted to be numb for a little while.
So you overindulged.
You figure Rust must understand that a bit, despite him never really giving you much information about himself.
"Already told you, just Rust is fine."
"Yes, si—Rust," you say, giving him a small smile.
He glances down the hallway as if something has suddenly caught his attention. You catch the way his eyes widen just a fraction as he stares, but before you can ask what he sees, his head snaps back to look at you.
It's the first time you notice how tired he looks, and you immediately feel bad.
"Did I wake you up?"
Rust sees the guilty look on your face and is quick to reassure you.
"No," he says. Then, after a beat, "I don't sleep much."
He mutters the last part almost as if he's unsure whether he should let you know.
You're not really sure what does it. Probably the alcohol in your system, but before you know it, you're asking him if he wants to come in.
Rust stiffens at your question.
You catch it. It's almost impossible not to with the way his whole body seems to wind itself tight in the span of a second.
Something about your expression must show that you noticed his sudden unease—and that it saddens you—because a moment later, his shoulders relax. He lets out a tired sigh before uttering a rough,
"Sure."
Rust's eyes scan over the fallen objects on the floor as he walks into your apartment, closing the door behind him.
Your apartment is sad, but it's not as depressing as his. At least you have a bed frame, which is more than he can say.
"You want anything?" you ask, moving through your apartment. "There's apple juice in the fridge."
You knew he didn't drink. Or shouldn't drink was more like it. He'd told you once, and you'd stored it away in your mind for moments like this.
"Nah, I'm alright," he answers, his eyes still trailing over your things, like maybe they'll tell him more about you.
"Well, make yourself comfortable. It's not much, but..." You laugh softly as you settle onto the couch. "Well, I guess you'd know better than most, huh?"
Rust lingers, standing before you in a way that makes the whole room feel small.
It's not uncomfortable, exactly, but it is strange.
You moved in a couple of months before Dora Lange. And since the case, Rust had been keeping a closer eye on you. Whether it was because you were a young woman living alone or simply because you happened to be his neighbor, you weren't sure.
Neighbors.
That's all you were, really. But you managed alright.
You'd say good morning and goodnight to each other. You'd call him sir even though he'd told you not to. You were a good neighbor, quiet, kept to yourself, worked hard at one of the bars in town at night and at the grocery store in the mornings. Of course, Rust told himself he knew all of this because you could be a potential victim in the case he was working on. But that wasn't the whole truth.
He finally allowed himself to settle down on the couch, keeping as much space as he could between the two of you.
"You wanna watch something?"
"No," he answered.
Curt. Dry.
You were used to him talking like that. You supposed that was just the way he was, but you'd be lying if tonight it didn't tug your lips into a soft frown.
The silence stretched for a while.
Why had he accepted to come in? He would have just gone back into his apartment and lay sleepless in bed alone like he did almost every night. There was no reason to be here. He was—
"Why'd you knock?" you asked suddenly, breaking the silence.
Rust's head turned to look at you, his eyes trailing over the way you sat, feet tucked beneath your legs, elbow resting against the top of the couch, head resting in your palm as you looked at him.
"The noise got me worried."
You hum at his response, fingers moving to trail against your scalp almost unconsciously.
"'Cause of the case?" you questioned, not meeting his eyes.
"That too."
"Not sure I'm a potential, though. I mean, I just work the bar. I'm not a... well, you know."
"Don't mean you ain't an easy target," he starts. "We don't know why he picks them yet. Might not even be a specific thing. Probably just goes for pretty girls he can get his hands on easily. Might even go to the bar you work."
He kept rambling on, talking like the detective he was, just spouting information.
But you weren't listening anymore.
Your brain had stuck itself on one word, and nothing else seemed to matter much after that.
"All I'm saying is that—"
"You think I'm pretty?" you cut him off mid-ramble.
It catches him off guard because, for the first time, you see his usually dead eyes widen slightly.
He doesn't mumble, doesn't try to take back his words. He just stares at you for a while, mouth slightly agape as if he'd just let some secret slip without noticing.
A yawn tugs at your lips, your mouth opening before you can try to suppress it. The action causes a whiff of the alcohol in your system to reach his nostrils.
You're drunk.
He remembers it in that moment.
You might not even remember this in the morning. He might just get away with this.
If he plays it smart.
"We should watch something," he says, hoping that his words will make you focus on something else.
"Nice try," you say, smiling softly. "Answer me first."
Well, shit.
That didn't go as planned.
There's no easy way out of this. He could lie, say that wasn't what he'd meant, but that might end up hurting your feelings, and he didn't want that. Ignoring it wouldn't work, so the truth would have to do.
"Well, I've got eyes," he said, hoping that would be enough.
It seemed to work because your face spread into a big ol' smile.
You didn't say anything else, just reached for the controller and flipped the TV on. You skipped through the channels until you found something somewhat interesting, turning to ask him if it was okay to watch, and he just gave a silent nod.
His eyes are glued to the television. He's not taking anything in. Not really. But he prefers this to having to try and make awkward conversation with you. Not because of you, but because he seemed to have a knack for always saying the wrong thing.
Best not to say anything at all.
He's noticed you shifting every once in a while just in the corner of his line of sight. He doesn't mind it. But then you do something utterly unexpected.
He doesn't process it right away. Not until your head is resting against his leg, the rest of your body curled up on the sofa.
His hands stay in the air, eyes a bit wide as he tries to compute the sudden contact of your body against his. But then you let out a soft sigh, and he finds his arms relaxing, one of them resting against the edge of the couch while the other comes to rest lightly against your arm. You hum as you feel his body relax, your cheek nuzzling lightly against his thigh.
It's only when he knows you're asleep that he allows his hand to move to your head, fingers threading through your hair as softly as he can manage.
The knock catches him off guard. Marty isn't supposed to be coming over to talk about the case. And other than him, there wouldn't be anyone knocking at his door, especially not at this time.
He takes his gun, just in case, but as soon as he cracks the door open, he knows he won't need it. You stand in front of his door, wearing what he assumes are your pajamas and holding a bunch of containers.
"Hi," you say with a soft smile.
"Hello," he answers, opening the door fully. "Everything alright?"
"Oh yeah, just fine. I just... well, I thought I'd bring you some food," you say, kind of sheepishly. "Figured you hadn't had time to eat yet."
He stares at you for a moment. Long enough that the smile on your face begins to falter.
You shift your weight from one foot to the other, suddenly very aware of the fact that you're standing in front of Rust Cohle's apartment in your pajamas, holding a collection of Tupperware containers like some kind of overly concerned housewife.
You can feel your face getting warm. Last night comes back to you in pieces. The alcohol. The couch. His leg beneath your head. His eyes when you asked if he thought you were pretty.
God.
You'd really asked him that.
You clear your throat, breaking the silence.
"I, uh..." You glance down at the containers in your hands. "Thought I should thank you for yesterday."
Something shifts in Rust's expression. Barely. His shoulders tense, and his eyes flicker over your face before dropping to the containers you're holding.
"Well," he mutters, reaching for one of the containers, "ain't gonna finish all that by myself."
You blink.
"You eat?"
"Oh." You glance down at yourself, almost as if you'd forgotten you hadn't had dinner yet. "No. Not yet."
He nods once.
"Well, might as well come in. Help me finish it."
You hesitate for half a second.
Then you smile.
"Okay."
Rust steps aside to let you through. You walk into his apartment, trying not to think too hard about the fact that this is the first time you've ever been inside.
Rust sits across from you at the small table, one hand wrapped around a glass of water as he listens to you talk about your day. You don't seem to notice how much you're talking, jumping from one thing to another.
Every once in a while, he makes a quiet sound of acknowledgment, but for the most part, he lets you talk. Usually, people don't like silence around him. They rush to fill it, like they can't stand the idea of being left alone with their own thoughts.
You don't seem to mind it.
"So," you say eventually, setting your fork down. "How's the case going?"
Rust's eyes lift to you.
"Slow."
You nod.
"You'd be surprised."
"About?"
"How much people make sense when you stop expecting them to."
You wait.
Rust seems to realize you're actually waiting for him to continue.
Most people wouldn't.
"People like to think there's something complicated about violence. There usually isn't. You look at what somebody wants, what they're afraid of, what they think they deserve. Most of the time, that's enough."
You listen quietly.
He's staring somewhere past you now, like he's looking at something that isn't really there.
"Everybody wants to believe they're different," he continues. "That they're better than the people who do bad things. But take away enough of the right circumstances..." He trails off, shaking his head slightly. "Ain't much separating anybody from anybody else."
You rest your chin against your hand.
"Is that what you believe?"
His eyes return to yours.
"Sometimes."
"That's kind of sad."
"It is."
He says it so plainly that you don't know what to do with it.
You expect him to stop there.
He doesn't.
"Think people spend most their lives trying to convince themselves there's some meaning to all this. Makes it easier to get up in the morning."
You don't interrupt.
So he keeps going.
He talks about people. About violence. About death. About the case.
Then about things that have nothing to do with the case.
You don't understand all of it, but you don't pretend you do either. When you don't understand something, you ask. When you disagree, you tell him.
And somehow, he doesn't seem bothered by it.
Hours seem to pass without either of you noticing.
Eventually, the containers are empty.
"Been a while since I had a home-cooked meal."
Your expression softens.
"You should eat better."
"Yeah."
"You agree?"
"Didn't say I was gonna do it."
You laugh softly.
Rust looks at you for a moment.
He likes the sound.
He doesn't say that.
Instead, he gets up and takes the empty containers from the table.
"You can leave those," you tell him.
"I'll wash 'em."
"You don't have to."
"I know."
He carries them toward the sink anyway.
You watch him for a moment before getting up to follow.
"You're weird, you know that?"
"Been told."
When everything is cleaned, there's an awkward pause. Neither of you seems particularly interested in saying goodbye. Rust looks around his apartment, as if only now remembering that there isn't exactly anywhere else to sit.
His eyes settle on the mattress. He walks over and sits down. You remain standing. He looks up at you.
"You can sit."
You hesitate. Then you cross the room and sit beside him.
There's more space between you than there needs to be. You notice. You're sure he does too.
For a while, neither of you says anything.
"Do you always talk this much?"
Rust looks at you.
"I don't."
You smile.
"You did tonight."
"Yeah."
He looks down at his hands.
"Guess you didn't tell me to shut up."
You laugh softly.
"No. I liked listening."
He looks at you for a long moment before turning his gaze toward the wall.
"You ask a lot of questions."
"Sorry."
"Didn't say it was a bad thing."
Your smile fades into something softer. You shift slightly, your hand settling against the mattress between you.
He doesn't know if you're doing it on purpose or not, but he's suddenly very aware of your presence. Suddenly, the space that had been between the two of you seems smaller, as though you'd both shifted without ever really realizing it.
You swallow, suddenly feeling a little too aware of how close you are to him.
"Hey," you mumble.
"Hm?"
"Did you..." You hesitate, eyes dropping to your lap. "Did you put me in bed last night?"
Rust goes still.
"What?"
You look back at him.
"I remember falling asleep on the couch." Your brows furrow as you try to piece it together. "But I woke up in my bed. And I don't remember getting there."
He stares at you for a moment.
"Yeah."
"You carried me?"
"Yeah."
There's a pause.
Your lips twitch.
Then your eyes lift back to his.
"You think I'm pretty."
His expression changes before he can stop it.
"What? Didn't think I'd remember that?"
"You were pretty drunk."
You laugh softly.
"I wasn't that drunk."
Rust gives you a look.
"Okay. I was that drunk," you laugh softly. "But when an attractive man calls you pretty, you don't exactly forget."
His head snaps toward you.
"You think I'm attractive?"
You shrug, suddenly feeling shy.
"I mean..."
Your fingers play with the edge of your sleeve.
"I've always thought you were."
Rust stares at you.
For once, he seems to have absolutely nothing to say.
"What's wrong?" you ask softly.
"Nothing."
"You look like something's wrong."
"Just wasn't expecting that."
"Why?"
He looks away again.
"You're younger."
The words come out quieter than you expected.
You study him for a moment.
"So?"
"So..." He pauses. "I'm older."
You smile faintly.
"I noticed."
That gets the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
"You don't seem bothered."
"I'm not."
He looks at you again. There's something different in his eyes now. Something cautious.
A strand of your hair falls forward and before he can stop himself his hand is moving up fingers toying with the piece of hair.
He shouldn't be doing this. He knows that. You're younger than him. You're his neighbor. You've known each other for months, and tomorrow you'll still be living right across the hall from him.
And he's—
Christ.
He's not exactly the kind of man somebody ought to get involved with.
Too much history. Too much wrong with him.
He'd ruin this.
He'd ruin you.
And then what?
He'd have to see you every morning after that. Have to pass you in the hallway and pretend nothing happened. Have to watch you realize you'd made a mistake.
"What's going on in that head of yours?" you ask softly.
Rust's eyes flick back to yours.
"Nothing."
You give him a small smile.
"That's not true."
He exhales through his nose, looking away.
"You don't know what you're getting yourself into."
"Maybe not."
"You should."
"Why?"
He doesn't answer.
Because there are too many answers. Because there are parts of him that don't know how to love something without eventually destroying it. Because you're looking at him like he's something worth wanting. And he doesn't know what to do with that.
You shift closer.
Rust's hand finally drops from your hair, settling against his thigh.
You look at him for another moment.
"You're thinking too much."
His brow furrows slightly.
"Probably."
You smile.
"Then maybe you should stop."
He looks at you.
"Just for right now."
Before he can respond, you lean forward. Your lips meet his.
For a second, Rust doesn't move. His mind goes completely blank. Then his eyes close.
His hand lifts almost instinctively, hovering beside your face before settling gently against your cheek. Instead of smelling the alcohol that had lingered on your breath yesterday, he catches a whiff of your perfume. He stores it away in his memory, trying to savor this as much as he can.
He doesn't deserve it.
He doesn't know how long it will last before you both crash and burn, so he tells himself to make the best of it.
Your hand is soft against his cheek, cupping him with a gentleness that surprises him. You're shifting onto his lap before he can stop you—not that he wants to.
And suddenly the kiss is much needier than it started as.
But before he can let himself get carried away, before he can fuck this up before it's even really started, he pulls back.
You whine softly as he does. He's not sure you even notice it, but the sound shoots a lightning bolt through him.
Even so, he pulls back enough to look at your face fully. His hands come up to cup your cheeks as he gazes at you.
"It's getting late," he finally says, his voice quieter than before.
"I thought you didn't sleep," you mumble, clearly a bit upset by the sudden stop.
"I don't. But you should. You got work in the morning."
A bit of your heart drops at his words.
So this was his way of telling you to get out. You weren't dumb enough not to realize it, but it stung all the same.
You start to untangle yourself from him.
"What are you doing?" he questions, his brows knitting together.
You wonder if he's trying to be cruel, but the thought leaves your mind as fast as it enters it. Rust had never been cruel.
Not with you, at least.
"Thought you wanted me to leave."
"That's not what I said," he replies, more sternly than you've ever heard him. "I said you need to sleep."
Your brow furrows softly.
"There's a perfectly fine mattress beneath you, darlin'."
It catches you so off guard that your mouth falls open slightly.
But before you can say anything, Rust leans forward, placing a gentle peck against your lips. Then he shifts the two of you until you're both lying down, your head resting against his chest.
"You rest now."
"Yes, Rust."
You nuzzle into him, letting his heartbeat lull you into a good night's rest.
