Chapter Text
A particularly mean message on Match.com spurs them into action.
"She called me a 'chrome dome'," Marty complains, the TV remote held limply in hand. "Told me I'd be better off tryin' my luck at an old folks' home."
"And what'd you tell her in response?" Rust drawls from over by the kitchen sink, his hands busy with the dishes.
Marty raises a hand, the one without the remote, and turns back to glare at Rust. "I didn't say shit. I tried to wish her a good evenin' but her profile gone."
Rust hums, his eyes lazy as they rise to meet Marty's. "Same ole openin'?"
Marty keeps his hand in the air, his body poised as if he's taking oath in a courtroom. "You got a problem with how I talk to the ladies? Last I heard, you ain't gettin' laid either."
"Yeah," Rust nods, "'cept it's entirely voluntary on my part."
Marty flips him off, shaking his head as he returns to squinting at the TV. A football game plays on the grainy screen, the numbers on the jerseys barely legible.
From the kitchen, Rust lifts a soapy hand, his middle finger rising slowly.
"I saw that," Marty says, his eyes glued on where one player tackles another.
A small smile sits at the corner of Rust's mouth as he returns to doing the dishes.
Through the living room's thin blinds, a passing car throws orange into the room, its bright headlights dislodging the shadows. Rust turns off the tap, one hand reaching for a towel as the other slaps a path along the counter in search of his cigarettes.
"By the microwave," Marty mumbles, a beer can held to his lips. He's half-leaning out of one lawn chair, a hand braced behind him to massage at the small of his back. Rust makes a mental note to look at cheap couches.
The cigarettes are by the microwave, the blue and yellow pack half-buried beneath a grocery list for laundry detergent and canned beans. "Thanks." Rust lights one cigarette up, his cheeks tightening as he inhales deeply, his eyes closed in bliss.
"Can't see shit," Marty gripes, scooting the entire chair closer to the TV.
Rust ignores him in favor of enjoying the way the nicotine hits his senses, his head as light as a cloud for a moment.
"You reckon—" Marty starts and then cuts himself off. The beer in the can sloshes loudly as he takes a large swig. He starts up again, "I mean... well, do you maybe..."
"What, Marty?" Rust's eyes snap open. "Do I reckon what?"
Marty slouches in the lawn chair, his head lowered as he considers the can gripped in his hands. "I don't know, man. That maybe... that just maybe, she mighta been right?"
"Well shit, Marty." Rust leans down to cross his arms on the counter, the cigarette dangling out of his mouth. "Which bit specifically? The chrome dome or the old folks' home?"
"All of it." Marty turns, his teeth at worrying his bottom lip. Behind him, on the TV, some player scores a touchdown. "I mean, yeah I know I'm bald as shit. A woman at the store tried to sell me some snake oil the other day... told me I'd grow a full head again, look half my age, but, yeah, no—not that. And not the goddamn old folks' home either. Fuck that shit."
Rust shrugs. "A'right. Then what?"
Marty takes another swig of his beer, the lawn chair scraping against the floor as he turns it to face the kitchen. "Is there somethin' I'm not doin' right, Rust? I mean," the beer can sloshes dangerously as he waves his hands around, "I take good care of myself, right? I ain't smoke, I ain't gamble, I ain't buy no prosts... I have a job, car, home... I try to get some exercise in, eat healthy where I can, and I ain't drink half as much as before."
Rust's eyes slowly move over to focus on the beer can.
"Fuck you," Marty says, smooth and quick before continuing his tirade. "I take the ladies out, somewhere nice. Like real nice, authentic Italian, all that shit. I listen to them talk and ask them questions about themselves, and tell them they look like Pamela Anderson. Hell, I've even been bringin' them flowers as of recent."
Rust inhales the cigarette noisily, his throat working around the smoke. "Marty the gentleman," Rust grunts out. "It's a mystery how you manage down the street at all... how you dodge all the ladies throwin' themselves at you."
"You know what," Marty drawls, his face flushing. "You can be a real sonovabitch sometimes. A real pain in the ass."
Rust shrugs, rising to step around the counter. He exhales smoke lazily, one hand reaching back to tap the ash into an empty mug. Marty's mug. "Some men just ain't made for lovin', Marty. It is what it is."
"Look," Marty rises from the chair, the beer can crinkling slightly in one fist. "I know you have your thoughts about the people of the world... how we're all inhalin' some psycho's fear and dreamin' of fadin' towns. But you gotta remember," he takes one step forward and then another, "that people are alive, Rust. People are alive." He comes closer, the flush of his face a pale pink in the low light. "They eat, drink, fuck, paint, sing, piss, fight, dream, and love. They love, Rust. Or at least, they try. Try their goddamn best."
One of Marty's fingers jabs into Rust's chest, the white wifebeater he wears a thin layer of separation. Rust follows its movement with his eyes, the cigarette slowly returning to his lips. "No, Marty. People adapt... it's our curse as a species."
"Oh yeah?" Marty jabs him harder in the chest, one eyebrow raised. "And how's that?"
Rust's eyes rise to bore into Marty's, two fingers moving to pluck the cigarette from his lips. He softly exhales, blowing smoke into Marty's face. "Our curse as a species is that we're too adaptable. That despite us bein' the most deservin' of extinction, we never really fuckin' die."
This time, when Marty jabs his finger into Rust's chest, it remains there, the pad of his finger warm against Rust's skin. "Well, I don't buy none of that bullshit." He stands firm, the edges of his eyes watering from the smoke. "I'm determined to find love... find some pretty gal to love me. You say we're adaptable?" He pushes his finger even deeper into Rust's chest. "I'll show you fuckin' adaptable."
"Yeah?" Rust drops the cigarette, stubs it out beneath one foot. He'll clean it up later, once Marty's gone to bed. "And how are you goin' to do that exactly?"
"Remember '94?" Marty asks, the beer on his breath stale. Rust inhales it anyway. "Remember how we looked back then, how we were?"
Rust nods, his eyes on where the beer can dangles from Marty's fingers, its body a half-inch away from slipping. "Yeah, I remember."
"I'mma bring that man back," Marty promises, his voice desperate with something dangerous.
Carefully, Rust takes the can from Marty's fingers - catching it just before it falls. "And how you goin' to do that?" Their eyes both follow the can as Rust sets it aside onto the kitchen counter, by the pack of cigarettes. "Goin' to use some of that snake oil? Build yerself a time machine?"
"No." Marty's finger falls away from Rust's chest, his eyes lowered to stare at the spot where his fingertip had been. "Im—We're gonna work together, Rust. Yeah, yeah that's good." He nods, as if reassuring himself. Slowly, his eyes crawl a path back up to Rust's eyes. Rust inhales reflexively, holding his breath. "You and I... we're gonna prove you wrong. Put Mister Pessimistic to shame."
"A'right." Rust nods, unable to do anything else. "I'm listenin'."
Rust's brushing his teeth in the bathroom when Marty barges in, the buttons of his pajama shirt undone. "I have a plan," he announces, his arms crossed as he leans back against the door. "Three foolproof steps."
"Is that right?" Rust meets Marty's eyes in the mirror. Light twinkles in Marty's gaze, small and hopeful, like the stars outside of a hospital.
"One," Marty holds up a finger, the digit raised above the crook of his elbow. "We work on our appearances. That's the first thing women see, right?"
Rust holds his tongue, doesn't point out that that's the first thing Marty sees, too.
"Two," a second finger joins the first, "we find the two prettiest gals in Louisiana. Take them out on a date, somewhere nice. You can tell yours all about... scented meat and how the air around here tastes like aluminium. I'll hold my gal's hand, call her a dear, maybe take her dancin'."
Rust sighs, long-suffering, their stares severed as he bows his head to rinse out his mouth.
"Three." Marty's voice rises higher as Rust splashes water noisily in the sink. "We hopefully get laid. And maybe even... a second date."
Rust dabs at his face with a washcloth, his ponytail dangling across one shoulder as he straightens to his full height. "And what will that achieve exactly?"
In the mirror, Marty's brow furrows. He blinks slowly, as if in disbelief, the fingers above his elbow lowering. "Well, I don't know, Rust. Maybe you loosen the fuck up, and I finally see a smile on your goddamn face. Or, maybe, just maybe, we find a woman willin' to take us in, and we quit livin' like the two saddest bachelors in existence. And, I, for one, like getting laid."
"A bachelor is different to a divorced man," Rust points out, unhelpfully.
Marty uncrosses his arms to wave his hands in exasperation. "Well, fuck me, Rust! If I didn't know any better, I'd think you like livin' this way!"
Rust shrugs as Marty leaves, the towel behind the door falling to the floor. When he turns back to the mirror, there's something sad in his eyes; something tragic, like a man with a dead daughter stood outside a family home. With a sigh, he turns from the mirror to bend down and lift the towel off the floor.
"Rust?" Marty's voice comes from behind the door.
Rust's head snaps up. "...Yeah?"
The door opens further, Marty's head and shoulders tucked around the side as he looks down at where Rust's reaching for the towel. "You like women, don't ya?"
Rust almost drops the towel. Marty's looking at him with fearful eyes, the beginning of a storm curled into the blue layers. His pajama shirt buttons are still undone, the paunch of his stomach visible in the thin green light. At this angle, Rust can see the scar the axe had left behind, the pink line jagged and raised. The matching knife wound on his abdomen burns lightly.
"Course I do, Marty." Rust gives him a nod of his head, the towel in hand as he rises to stand. "What kinda fuckin' question is that?"
Marty visibly exhales, a smile creeping onto his lips as he gives Rust a quick wink and a click of his fingers. He disappears back around the door.
With both hands braced on the edges of the sink, Rust considers himself once more in the mirror. Each scar, each strand of gray hair, each wrinkle, stands out more, as if beneath the lens of a camera with the sharpened setting turned all the way up.
"We start the plan tomorrow!" Marty calls out from the hallway.
"Yeah." Rust swallows, the towel abandoned in the sink. "Yeah... sounds good."
They begin implementing Marty's plan the next day.
The microwave meals are taken out of the fridge and donated to the nearest food bank. Rust gets handed a razor and nudged in the direction of the bathroom. Marty goes on a twenty-minute walk, and returns with a bicycle.
"You'll kill yerself on that," Rust tells him, one hand running over the smooth shaved skin of his jawline. "It floods out here pretty bad, y'know. Or, with the sheer amount of gators y'all have here, I reckon you'll slip and fall swervin' 'round some dinosaur."
"I can handle myself just fine, thank you plenty." Marty squints at the laptop screen, his eyes honed-in on some hideous looking toupée. It resembles the roadkill Rust had seen earlier that morning, when he'd gone out on a run at Marty's prompting. Put some meat on ya, he'd said.
Rust sighs, stepping away from where he'd been digging through the paper bags Marty had brought home. A large broccoli sits on top of two cartons of eggs, a dozen each, and three different types of meat battle for space beside a comically-long baguette. "You plannin' on cookin' t'night?"
"Hell yeah," Marty grins over at him, his teeth glinting in the fading daylight. "I'mma make us my Memaw's famous meatloaf. Potatoes, green beans, cornbread... y'know, all the fixins'." He returns to staring at the toupée, his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth.
"Aight," Rust moves over to a plastic bag with all sorts of clothing from the nearest thrift store. He draws a white shirt out of it, the linen crumpled and streaked with something that vaguely smells like coffee. A plaid shirt lies beneath it, followed by black slacks, a gray blazer, and a random assortment of socks and ties. "This all for you?"
Marty's eyes jump up, his brow furrowed. "All of this is for us," he stresses, waving one hand around to encompass the bike, the paper bags, and the plastic bag. "For you and me. Speakin' of which..." He clicks out of the tab he's in and onto another, motioning Rust closer with a crook of his fingers. "...Whaddya think of this?"
A picture of a young man with a hairstyle reminiscent of Rust's early days as a detective sits on the screen, the tall hair curling slightly at the top. Rust blinks, the smell of ash heavy on his tongue as he thinks of birds swirling in the air and the impatient tone of Marty saying: My luck, I pick today to get to know you.
"It's a'right," Rust says with a shrug. One hand rises to absentmindedly run his fingers through the ponytail by his neck. The hair feels dry, coarse, between his fingers.
"You were mighty handsome back then," Marty says with a laugh, clicking out of the tab and back onto the one with the mutilated skunk. "Not that any of the boys at the department would have said so. Man, they hated your guts... heh."
Rust pauses from where he'd been about to turn away, his eyes on where Marty's still chuckling to himself. "You want me to cut my hair?"
"Sure." Marty leans back in the single dining chair they own, his head swiveling around to consider Rust. "I mean, if that sits well with you, of course. Man, you could have had every pretty girl in town back then."
No, Rust thinks, somewhat in a panic. No, I could not have. "You gonna lose that beer belly if I do?" He points a finger at where Marty's belly protrudes beneath the plastic folding table.
"So what if I do?" Marty lifts his chin an inch higher, a challenge flashing in his eyes. "I'mma fit right back into those jeans. The blue ones, the ones in—"
"—which you shot Ledoux." Rust nods. "Yeah, I remember."
Marty looks at him oddly. "Now, how'd you know I was gonna say that?"
Rust shrugs, already moving away. "You looked good in them."
In the end, Marty cuts Rust's hair. "I've got this," he reassures Rust, one hand on the other man's shoulder. He stands behind Rust, who sits in the dining chair before the bathroom mirror. "I cut my girls' hair a couple times. Maggie didn't much like it, but Audrey got gum in it once, and—" He shrugs, a fond smile lifting the corners of his mouth. "Well, y'know how it is with kids."
Rust, who'd been putting this off for as long as he could — a whopping three weeks — sees the way Marty's eyes shine brightly, their color softened into a sky blue. He considers the way Marty's stopped drinking as much beer on the regular, started cooking for the two of them, and took up cycling rigorously. The pants he wears look looser already, the breadth of his shoulders visibly broader. "A'right." Rust straightens up, his hands braced on his knees. "I'm ready."
Marty is surprisingly gentle, and it shouldn't be a wonder at all — he'd cut his girls' hair — yet Rust's startled all the same when kind fingers thread their way through his hair, a warm palm applying a gentle pressure at the back of his head.
Strands of hair fall around his neck, their long lengths brushing his bare shoulders as Marty takes them in between his fingers and snips, snips, snips.
"There," Marty says when they're finally done, stepping around the chair to admire his handiwork. "As good as before, if I don't mind sayin' so myself."
The man in the mirror is clean-shaved, the shadows of his cheekbones no longer as sunken, and, in the blue depths of his eyes, there's a gentle appreciation; an almost kind of peace. His hair isn't the neatest, nor the most accurate to how it'd looked like back then, but there's care in the way it sits, the arrangement orderly and deliberate.
"Whaddya think?" Marty prompts, one hand coming down to sit on the back of the chair.
There's a sudden, ridiculous, overwhelming urge to cry, and so Rust keeps his mouth clamped shut, his stare cold and unblinking. "Looks a'right," he says, when it's safe to.
"Looks more than a'right," Marty refutes. Their eyes meet in the mirror; the ocean finding the sky.
Rust doesn't look away.
Not till Marty throws him a wink.