littlepriest: (✩ three)
Detective Rustin Cohle ([personal profile] littlepriest) wrote in [community profile] herbgarden2016-12-08 11:12 pm
Entry tags:

Open Post: Detective Rustin Cohle

"Wᴇʟʟ, ɪғ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴏɴ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ʜᴀs ɢᴏᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ᴜᴘ ғᴀɪʀʏ ᴛᴀʟᴇs, ᴛʜᴇɴ ɪᴛ’s ɴᴏᴛ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ғᴏʀ ᴀɴʏʙᴏᴅʏ."

Leave a prompt (text message, image, scene starter, anything) in a comment below
Feel free to elaborate or plot via PM

AU is ✓
Multiple threads is ✓
Tags and prose are ✓
Strangers are ✓
Permissions for your consideration
wontgraham: (pic#11015102)

[personal profile] wontgraham 2017-03-01 12:19 am (UTC)(link)
"Probably should." Looks like they're on the same page about the amount of time that's about to get wasted, typing up something that's only going to appear in most digital files as a lot of fucking blacked-out boxes.

Will's never dealt with anyone going undercover to this extent. Outside of Cohle's own state? It's practically unheard of, usually would suggest a lot of shuffling panic as a cover gathered enough waves to carry the officer's lies too far - the fact that Hill hasn't called their office already, looking for her detective, is bizarre enough. It sends up red flags, enough to distract Will out of the protocol he's probably going to be meant to follow for this.

And Cohle himself. He's clearly high, been high for a while, eyes red-rimmed and attention crackling and then fizzling out. How long has he been awake? Will remembers a few particularly shitty nights of his own, knows that brand of wide-eyed focus, but he's never done drugs. This is another level, and it's distracting being in the room with it.

"Amelia Hill speaking." That snaps Will out of it. The voice is deeper than he was expecting. "You actually got him locked up right now?"

"He told me what was going on as soon as he wasn't around his cohort we brought him in with. He's fine, not even processed yet." Will hears concern in her voice and, reasonably, assumes it's for Cohle.

Her voice when she continues is chilly enough that he's not really sure anymore, though. "This is gonna be a pain in the ass for everybody, but for the most part it's just gonna be forgetting you saw anything. I'll fax your senior officer over Cohle's files so you can confirm ID on him." Her voice is clipped, someone used to people underneath her fucking up but no more patient for it. "I'm gonna need their name, and yours, Officer...?"

"Detective Will Graham." Will's starting to reanimate, no longer needing to watch his back or his gun, now that it's all but confirmed that this is indeed Rustin Cohle, (very deeply) undercover narcotics officer. He glances back up at Cohle, holds up his free forefinger in a just a sec gesture, and then edges out of the room while relaying all the incredibly exciting information of his boss's name and fax machine number.


The door cracks back open, Will's phone back in his pocket and the sergeant too busy on the phone with Hill to be giving out many further orders.

He's got a little plastic cup from the cooler in one hand, filled high enough that he's got to be careful not to spill it when he holds it out. "I'm pretty sure that it's fine for you to come out of the cell now, but I'm equally sure that Landon will have an aneurysm if he sees you sitting in the break room before I've had a chance to tell him what happened." He says, by way of avoiding commenting on the fact that he's just gone and brought Cohle water.

Will's mouth has been dry in mirrored sympathy for the whole ten minutes he was gone - Cohle looks dry, from his lips to his hands, and the image had been burnt into Will's head as clearly as the dusty leather jacket.
Edited 2017-03-01 23:13 (UTC)
wontgraham: (pic#11015114)

[personal profile] wontgraham 2017-03-02 12:58 am (UTC)(link)
"Not with you wearing an Iron Crusaders jacket still, we definitely can't." Cohle might otherwise not throw off anyone who doesn't know better - everyone in the department isn't dumb, but it's not like everyone memorized the faces of the people that got hurried past them into cells at the front of the building already - but he's not exactly dressed the part of an average citizen.

Not like he couldn't just take it off, of course, and stop having a gang logo stitched aggressively into the back of his clothes, but.

Speaking of motorcycle gang affiliations, though.

The room's had enough time to fully collect what it contains, and Will can smell Cohle on the air - the bite of anxiety, the twist of fear, the way gun powder seems scraped along the walls by now. And he's just a guy with an average sense of smell, standing barely within arm's reach of him. Tension coils off this guy in nearly-visible waves, Will's sense of him rattling down to his bones.

The echo of Hill's annoyance rings in Will's ears when Cohle quietly thanks him. Will's shoulders round in, shrugging, hands smoothing out his pants and then spreading into his pockets. "Consider it an apology for cuffing you earlier." Although in his defense, you'd pulled a gun on him first, Cohle.

Will sinks into his heels, then paces, slowly listening for any footsteps beyond the windowless door. When he turns back, guilty suspicions prickling at the nape of his neck, Will can't help but comment on the obvious. "You're high." He crosses his arms against his chest, uncomfortable but still forging ahead. "Do you-- need anything for that? I mean." He forces himself to stand still, eyes tracking up to the ceiling. "We have EMTs that work with us a lot. It's been a while I went to a conference on street drugs, but I was pretty sure hospitals carry antagonists for meth." Assuming that's what's got this guy all jumpy. It's definitely what they found on him, at least.

And if 'antagonist for meth' is really just code for 'you look like you could use a Valium while we wait on when to ship you back to Texas and your angry senior officer handler', well.
wontgraham: (pic#10121227)

[personal profile] wontgraham 2017-03-03 02:46 am (UTC)(link)
Will's always been exceedingly self-conscious. Does it always mean he self-corrects to make himself appear smaller and meeker? No, not always, not since he first was living on his own in a career that gave him some sense of purpose. But it does mean he's aware of what his reactions give to others - he usually feels a pull to bow to them, instinctively seems apologetic when he can't, and that's what gives him his bite when refusing social norms.

It's why he's got a reputation of being quiet but largely unfriendly, among his fellow officers.

So when Cohle chuckles dryly and correctly catches onto Will's discomfort, Will doesn't keep curling into himself. He takes note, takes stock, reads no real threat from Cohle. Will's face pinches, forehead wrinkling and mouth parting to show teeth as he scoffs in turn. "Guess I misrepresented myself. I'd say the same still applies to you, though, since I'm getting a good look at it right now."

Because if you're gonna call Will's bluff on playing it cool, he's going to point out the obvious too. Cohle reeks of adrenaline, fight or flight bouncing off the walls - he might be keeping it together, but his blown pupils and his hairline matted down to his forehead broadcasts the anxiety he doesn't otherwise voice. It would be more polite to ignore it, but they just sped past 'polite'.

But there's no real venom behind it, and Will looks at Cohle's parting remark with confusion instead of more irritation. His voice is level and reasonable when he speaks again, hands still in his pockets, still stationed nearer the door than Cohle. "What real problem? Getting in trouble with your handler?"
Edited 2017-03-03 02:47 (UTC)
wontgraham: (pic#11015102)

[personal profile] wontgraham 2017-05-10 06:14 pm (UTC)(link)
Will's eyes close, eyebrows pulling up. His hands are on his hips, now that he's confident the man in this room isn't going to try to jump him the second he sees a weak spot in his arresting officer.

"There's that one-liner affliction again." Will says, slow not because he's savoring it, but because it's difficult to decide on exactly how annoyed he feels. "You must be hilarious at gang meetups."

But how annoyed does he need to be? He's backing up, step by easy step, sidling towards the door. "I think it's against policy to let you smoke in your holding cell. But I'll make sure they don't 'lose' your cigarettes before we've got you back out of here." And he slips out the door, with just the barest nod to indicate he isn't storming off, just off to do another errand.

And if he brings a sandwich from the break room fridge back with him, when he comes to give Rustin Cohle the estimate on his handler finishing talking to Will's captain, well. Cohle doesn't comment on it.


Will wants to feel smug that he was right. Instead, his stomach just feels cold the entire drive to the airport.

It's not a long flight. It's just quicker than a car, and easier to bill the state police department for it, citing work expenses.

He drags himself out into a different scent of humidity - New Orleans to Lubbock Preston Smith International Airport. Will hasn't been to Texas in about six years, hasn't lived there for even longer.

The hospital smells like high-grade germicide and fake lemons. It still has the age-decay scent of a regular hospital, but there's a bitter ring in the air. There's too much forced cheerful lighting for there to be a lot of shadows, but the few that gather under front desks and in elevator corners seem to vibrate with screams.

He's left outside room 511. He's told there's no roommate in there yet, that he'll be alone to talk to his 'friend'. Will thanks Nurse McDonald, waves him off and stands outside the doorless doorway.

And then he steps in. "I told myself I wouldn't say this." The view of the bed is clear from the doorway, even just two steps inside. It's weird seeing anyone with IVs hooked up to their hand. The skin around Cohle's eyes is so dark that Will isn't sure it's black eyes or lack-of-sleep bruising.

"But I definitely told you so."
Edited 2017-05-11 22:37 (UTC)