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It takes longer than people in the bullpen think it does. That's the only thing that makes it even remotely a secret at all. It was a foregone conclusion as far as Rust is concerned.
They're not far from the bedlam of the stash house raid-gone-to-fuck-all when it happens. Marty's stomping on the gas, cruising near 85 with no sign of letting up and Rust is doing his best to keep a choke hold on Ginger, who's squirming like a newborn calf.
"Pull over," says Rust, Ginger starting in on his "fuck man" and "don't do nothin' crazy" and "you evil fucks."
"You crazy?" Marty shouts over him from the front.
"I mean it." Cause Rust feels like he's about to come apart on a subatomic level if he doesn't fucking... If he doesn't... The thoughts don't even come out full until he's onto the next. Until he's onto Ginger's bitch-yelping.
Marty finds a good spot off a rural route with marsh and gravel the only thing dividing them from the backwood. The tires squeal to a stop, kicking out mud all wild and Rust tumbles out of the back seat with Ginger before he can even think about it, shoves him to the ground, and kicks him straight in the side of the head.
Now's when Marty finally decides to shut off the goddamn engine and the goddamn headlights and Rust can really, and I mean really see those stars now, shining like pinpricks down on him from the heaven he doesn't believe in. Ginger lies bleeding and unconscious at his feet, a face like dog food, and Rust just breathes, throws his head back, arms out. Fuck it feels good, felt good, will feel good. The violence, the anger, the cocaine sucking down his nose like fucking falling in love. He's not sure what's forward and what's backward or even what dimension they're in but he's gonna chase this rabbit for all it's worth.
"What the fuck are you doing?" asks Marty, coming around to Rust's side of the car, where now he sees Ginger immobile in the tall switch grass. "Aw, Jesus Christ," he says with little conviction as he comes to stand next to Rust. Rust turns to look at him, sees his eyes shining out of the dark, mostly blown pupils staring down at the pile of white trash.
Marty's dick is half hard. Rust's tweaked out super fucking night-vision sees it all. He reaches down and adjusts himself in sympathy. Fuck, he's been half hard since his second bump. Just that little bit of contact draws out this little guttural sound he doesn't bother to stifle. He needs this. So does Marty if the flick of his eyes to the V of Rust's thighs is any kind of tell. (It is.)
Rust crowds Marty away from Ginger, back to the car, steering him reluctantly, Marty's little, "Hey man, wait a sec," dying in the hot bayou night. Rust is an inch from his face, looking at Marty's black hole pupils. Might as well, he thinks.
Marty's hard on feels hot even through his jeans. "Jesus fucking Christ," Marty huffs out like he's been sucker punched. He grips the back of Rust's head, grabbing a fistful of hair while Rust roughly palms his dick. It's Rust who leans in first, pushing the length of his body into Marty, and it's like he's ignited, every electron in his whole body colliding where they touch.
Funny enough, Marty's the one who kisses him first, biting hard at his lower lip, like he's got something to prove. The taste of blood spikes across Rust's tongue from his busted lip and it tastes like a sacrament. When Marty pulls hard at the hair on the back of his head, his lungs forget to work, stuttering out a few shaky exhalations.
"What the fuck you want, Rust?" Marty whispers nasty in his ear. Rust grinds his dick into the crook of Marty's thigh, then pulls him forward by the collar of his borrowed t-shirt, shoving him hard back onto the chassis with a thud, long fingers working at Marty's belt, his button-fly.
He wants it. He. Wants. It. He wants it he wants it he wants it. His heart is beating in his ears as his knees crash onto the soft earth.
Marty's hand is still in his hair when he pulls his dick out of his underpants, sliding all the clothes just far enough down Marty's ass to get it free. There's a small tensing of Marty's fingers. A question. You mind? Is this cool? Are we fucked for good? Rust just licks his split lip, leans forward, taking Marty in his mouth, sucking hard.
"Holy fuck," says Marty sagging under his own weight, his center of gravity focused on the spot along the underside of his dick where Rust's tongue drags.
Rust gives head the way he does everything else, violent and rough and nihilistic. He sucks hard, the girth of the dick in his mouth making his jaw ache in a way he remembers well, a friendly ache, and he swallows as much of Marty down as he can, feeling it hit the back of his throat, pushing him to the edge of choking. It's not enough, even if he can't keep all of Marty in his mouth, can't keep all of his own fucking saliva in his mouth.
He reaches one hand up to the back of his own head where Marty is still clenching his fingers and pushes his own head forward on Marty's dick.
Marty pulls Rust's head back, his dick falling out of Rust's mouth with a shiny pop. "Yeah?" he says, his pupils practically filling his eyes now. Rust looks up at him, gives him a breathy, "Yeah," then reaches up his free hand to grab at Marty's hip, digging in fingernails.
That's all the encouragement that Marty needs, before he's shoving Rust's head rough on to his dick.
"You like it?" he asks, knowing fucking well he won't get an answer. Rust knows he's not interested in one anyhow. "Like me fucking your throat?" Maybe he asks everyone who sucks his dick. Who knows. But yeah. Yeah he likes Marty fucking his throat. His own dick is so hard it actually hurts.
"Fuck." Marty pulls his head back again, this time dragging him up to his feet. "Get in," he says to Rust, half shoving him into the back seat of the car, of their car.
He half falls, half crashes into the car, Marty tripping over his own half-down jeans, slamming the door behind them. Rust hears their combined breathing in his ears like a goddamn hurricane, gale force white noise filling the empty spaces of the car with warm fog.
Marty yanks the shirt off his head, chucking it on the floor amidst the mud and cigarette butts and the occasional crumpled up can of Lone Star. He doesn't bother with Rust's shirt, just paws at the tight jeans, at Crash's tight jeans, Rust thinks.
"Should've fuckin' guessed," says Marty when he sees Rust has gone commando. Rust likes to think of it as getting into character, like the hard rub of denim, the pleasure-pain of tight jeans around his junk, isn't enough of an excuse to do it. Keeps him keyed up like a fucking fox, everything in his body pricked, never mind his fucking ears.
Having his dick free is a big sigh of relief, thank whoever, because that shit was getting unbearable.
"Turn over," says Marty, his voice horse in that familiar timbre Rust recognizes as lust. Its stirs a warm thrumming in his belly and he does it. "You got anything like..." starts Marty, only now getting hesitant.
"Gun oil in the glove box," says Rust, turning himself over so that he's leaning on the window, back to Marty, who's digging around in the glove compartment, making a real shit fest of things, searching around for that gun oil like his life depends on it. It probably does if Rust is making a guess. Finally Marty strikes gold, slicking up his dick. It probably ain't safe but who the fuck really cares at this stage of the game? Not Rust, that's for goddamn sure. He tugs at his balls, anything to kill that little skip toward the edge every nerve in his body has been angling for for the past twenty minutes, twenty years, twenty centuries, Jesus that coke was a joy. His whole body is tight like a bowstring as he hears Marty slicking himself up, just one grunt escaping him as he does.
"Hurry the fuck up," says Rust, not giving a single fuck whether this kills him or saves him or feels transcendent in the slightest so long as he's getting off.
Marty lines himself up. Rust can feel the thick head of him trying to push in, so he just relaxes, lets it happen, lets the pleasure-pressure-fire-annihilation happen inside and it's like being broken and put back together all in one go.
"Jesus fucking Christ almighty," says Marty as he slides all the way home, the force of the thrust sending Rust careening into the window. "You're real fucking tight." He pulls back rough, then slides back in until Rust can feel the bulk of Marty's pelvis up against the backs of his thighs.
"Sound like an authority on the subject," says Rust through gritted teeth, sure to the core that if he says it any louder then it'll come out as a shaky, virginal breath. Much of a lie as that would be, he doesn't want any chance for second guessing, can't bear the thought of this ending before it's goddamn supposed to. "Just how many assholes you fucked in your day?" He turns to look over his shoulder, sees the look of intense concentration on Marty's face, the shaking of his hand where he braces himself on the headrest like it's the only thing tethering him to the earth.
His shit talking has the effect he expected, hoped for even, and Marty pistons hard as he can in out in out, his jackhammering matching exactly the lub dub of Rust's coked out heartbeat. "Help me out man," he says, and even as he says it, he knows it comes out stuttering, between breaths, like help is the very last thing he probably needs.
Marty hikes up the back of Rust's jacket, the back of his t-shirt so that the long line of his spine and the tight knots of muscle are exposed under his hand, soft under the dig of his fingernails. It takes this infliction of pain for him to finally man up and give Rust the courtesy of a reach around, the rough skin of his hand rasping against Rust's over sensitized dick.
Nothing has ever felt so good, so perfect. He's sure of it, Rust, can't possibly think of anything better. It's even better than that high quality shit he snorted and well, ain't that a thing. Marty's hand is flying at his dick now, jacking it for all it's worth. "Talk to me," Marty says, the movement of his hips getting jerky and uneven. "Say something."
"Ah fuck," says Rust, and, "Don't fucking stop," reaching behind him to grab a hold of whatever part of Marty he can reach, landing on thigh meat, all hard, knotted muscle, grinding his hips back in a move he's sure he's seen a hooker do more than once, but it works like a charm. Marty flicks his thumb across the head of Rust's dick and fuck if that's all it takes for him to be coming all over Marty's hand and the backseat of the car. Marty isn't far behind, thrusting forward once, twice, before Rust feels him tensing up behind him, gripping the back of Rust's neck for purchase, and shit if he hadn't already come already, that would've done it. "Fuck, fuck fuck," says Marty like it's a prayer, one hand still pushing Rust's head further into the glass of the window, the other digging nails into the leather of the headrest, legs quivering as he comes.
He pulls out too soon for Rust's tastes. It leaves him feeling cold, exposed, empty, and that's when it hits him that the warm embrace of the coke and the fucking and the bloodshed has left him, abandoned him if he's being honest, and it's like being left in a cold, grey wasteland to die.
Next to him, Marty is already tucking his shit back into his jeans, buckling his belt, wiping come off his hand on the shirt he'd had on under Rust's Pink Floyd t-shirt. Rust just looks at him, peering up at him from where he slumped down in the seat all slack-jawed.
"Shit," says Marty, like that adds in anyway to the gulf of silence between them, the one that Rust makes no attempt to bridge.
"Someone should get Ginger," Rust says to the window, sliding his sore ass back into the tight denim of his jeans, cursing himself for the come down he allowed to happen. It's Marty who drags Ginger in a fireman's carry across the gravel and into the backseat of the car. Rust still hasn't moved, the world moving too fast for how slow his brain seems to be going, the sharpness of the coke giving way to the dull edges of reality, and it makes him want to tear his own eyes out, the half-dim colors and the half-felt emotion of it all.
It takes him a minute to summon the willpower to get out of the backseat, half-hobble up to the front, and slide in next to Marty. The engine revs up and the lights kick back on, but they just sit there for a minute, not going anywhere.
Marty makes a couple failed attempts to say something, but Rust doesn't want to hear it anyhow.
"Drive," he says.