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

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

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wontgraham: (pic#10103903)

[personal profile] wontgraham 2017-04-13 02:03 am (UTC)(link)
The frayed ends of Will's breathing start to slow down. As reality beats the edges of his awareness, he hears the muted groan-snap of a plastic porch door opening.

The right edge of his hairline itches with dried sweat. Will digs his forehead against his hunched shoulder, even that movement almost too much for sore and unused muscles. He feels spent from wondering what the latest door opening could mean, but there's a spark in him that hasn't died yet.

Stay alive. At any cost. Learn, wait, win. If he can solve the mystery of Wray's habits, get enough of a profile and timeline established, he can use it to his advantage. He will.

He has to.


It's 5:35 pm. Wray doesn't like cooking, but he's not terrible at working mechanically through tasks. There's still leftover soup on his stove, and after he shuts his front door, he's heading back through his house to go put it away.

He didn't put on shoes to go out on his porch. He's still barefoot, and his matted beard and uneven hair belie a man who knows how to walk quietly in his own house.

Careful, Rust. Better hide or move out of that room before he sees you.
wontgraham: (pic#10103902)

[personal profile] wontgraham 2017-04-15 11:58 am (UTC)(link)
Metallic sounds mean Wray is cooking. Metallic sounds also mean Wray is getting tools. Will's head is tilted back, eyes as attuned as they'll get to the dim light and still barely able to see the closet ceiling. He knows it's cracked plaster, a pale cream. He glanced at it the fifth time the door was opened while he flinched from the light.

Wray doesn't usually come visit him right after eating. But Wray always comes to visit him right after gathering tools.

In the dark, Will's shoulders shiver. His breath is harsh.

He wonders if he should try to kill Wray before he loses any more strength.


The pot fills with soapy, already-filmed water in the sink. Wray moves through his kitchen with wrote memory guiding his feet, stiffly creaking his fridge door open to stack leftovers in it, drying hands off on the towel hanging against his stove.

He makes it back to the kitchen door before animal instinct growls in the back of his mind. Wray freezes on the doorstep, small eyes narrowing. Both feet firmly planted, he leans back in, enough to look across towards the back door, his boots sitting by it, the wide window still left closed, the pantry doors.

A shadow. No movement to catch his reptile brain's attention, but the instinctive knowledge that his pantry didn't have that thickness of form so close to the slatted doors before. A stripe of foreign brown.

Wray takes off into the brief hallway off his kitchen, feet loud on wooden floors.
Edited 2017-04-15 12:00 (UTC)
wontgraham: (pic#10103903)

[personal profile] wontgraham 2017-04-29 02:08 pm (UTC)(link)
Loud footsteps are almost new. Wray's been angry, really angry, a grand total of once since Will started waking up in his closet. He'd stomped across a square area that sounded like it was two rooms away - where the door creak came from earlier, maybe the front door, maybe a side door - for a full minute before barreling towards Will's door.

Will passed out at the first hit. He considers it a mixed encounter - too short to be properly terrifying. Suspense is a large part of Wray's power. But Will doesn't like the taste in his mouth when he wakes up from a concussion, or the way his skull feels too small and his brain too heavy and cumbersome for his neck. In that way, it's better when Wray is calm.

So Will's already fighting instinct to lean deeper into his closet as the footsteps come for him. Does this need to be it? Will isn't sure he's even capable of suffocating someone with his bare hands by now. He'd need a weapon. And how will he get one? Can he manipulate Wray's overconfidence for it?

The light sears away those thoughts. The steam of them dazzles Will's eyes as he's dragged by his straight jacket sleeves out from the bare closet.

Wray never talks much. Doesn't ramble, that is. He'll talk with a purpose, when he's ready, so Will isn't surprised at the lack of empty threats at first.

But then there's something cold under his chin, a sharp pressure that's already too-close-too-much against his throat. Will's become too acquainted with the feeling of his own blood dribbling sticky down his skin to have any doubts about the knife below his jaw.

He wheezes and can't form a question. Will gnaws on his tongue to try to get enough saliva in his mouth to talk, feels the knife tilt in a little deeper when his throat expands.

"Patient Zero." Wray's voice, deep and collected. Will's breathing ratchets up at the name. His hands grip the inner fabric of straight jacket sleeves, knuckles whitening. "We need to go for a walk."

And they're dragging around in a tight circle, Will straightening as much as he can to avoid the knife, overly aware of how they're nearly the same height. He's never been grabbed this way before. If he knocks his head back, can he break Wray's nose? How could he work open the front door without his hands? Will doesn't even know if it's a doorknob or a flat handle, like a shitty screen door.

A sound, nearby to Will's adrenaline-fueled hearing. A door creaking.

Will was already dreading what was coming. This realization sets his heart thudding under his ribcage. His voice rips from his throat. "Who's that?"

"Another patient. We need to greet him."

Will's feet drag across wooden floorboards, ankles slow to remember what walking feels like. "Smile, Patient Zero."
Edited 2017-04-29 15:03 (UTC)
wontgraham: (pic#10809703)

[personal profile] wontgraham 2017-04-29 06:38 pm (UTC)(link)
Will can't help but focus on this other sound, even as it disappears. Wray has never brought someone else in to share in his games. It wasn't suggested by his profile, when Will was still investigating and not kidnapped. Wray has his own ideas, his own whims he's a dedicated slave to, and he works alone.

Which means whoever's here doesn't work with Wray in torturing and killing victims. Innocent bystander? Or concerned law enforcement?

Will's spine twitches straighter when he hears Rust's voice. The silence shatters and then regroups. Wray is a solid monolith behind Will. He knew someone was coming. He knew Rust was coming, which means this isn't another game.

"You're very rude, not knocking. I had to wake up Patient Zero to come out for you."

This also isn't a hostage situation. Will's heart beats a stringy, pulpy mess against his upper ribs. Nothing Rust says is going to impact this sequence of events.

Wray is trying out having an audience for his kill this time.

It's now or it's literally never. Will plants shaky feet on the floor, strengthens through ankles and knees that haven't been allowed to walk in days, and rocks his head backwards.

Pain explodes at the back of his head. There's a crunch like popcorn snapping, presumably Wray's nose. The knife is following Will's throat, fast but interrupted as its owner howls with pain. Will doesn't have the energy to yell out suggestions for Rust, he hopes it's just obvious - get Wray away from his throat, right now, by any means necessary.
wontgraham: (pic#10114454)

[personal profile] wontgraham 2017-04-30 12:51 am (UTC)(link)
Will's ears ring high and sharp, a knife screaming right against his brain. His eyes close in instinctive recoil, his balance upset as Wray drags at him. The blade follows his throat, ricochets almost harmlessly against it when Wray's momentum loses itself and starts falling down and away.

Will is sagging forward towards his knees before he can fully register that he's no longer got a knife under his jaw. Hands catch him, and Will is so used to having hands catch him. It's all he can do to keep his head from lolling around his neck as he falls and is stopped, jerkily lowered to the ground by strong hands.

Strong hands holding a gun. Strong hands holding a gun, gunshot residue taste falling against Will's tongue like ash, and Will realizes it's Rust. Rust, who's angrily breathing into his ear, then the space near his nose, then over his head while Rust looks past him.

"Wray," Will rasps. His throat hurts worse than it did in the dark of the closet. He also cares a lot less about that pain right now. He jerks in Rust's hands, fingers clenching and fighting. "Don't-- Don't let him get up--" Not now, not when they're so fucking close to this.

"I'm fine, don't let him--" Will wheezes into silence, tongue unsure how to even keep trying to form words. But he doesn't want to end up dying, stabbed in the back by his captor because Rust is trying so hard to get the straightjacket off him--

The straight jacket off him--

Will thrashes, then, finally allowed to try to move. His shoulders groan in protest, his back screams, but he wants this jacket off. His breathing's climbing steadily, drying out his mouth even faster, rattling his ribs where they hang precariously off his sternum.
wontgraham: (pic#10121226)

[personal profile] wontgraham 2017-05-01 01:43 am (UTC)(link)
His front is dragged at, the edge of his left arm grabbed aggressively and tugged around. Will's gotten used to being manhandled. He's not used to seeing Rust while it's happening. Not in person.

Will's eyes slide closed as Rust passes him. Images brush against the back of Will's mind, memories from when he'd been drifting in the back of the closet. Rust's hand grabbing Will's chin, jerking it back up when he'd nearly passed out after his first concussion. Rust in his dreams, watching him with no expression and lighting a cigarette, the smoke of it obscuring the black, tar-slick deer behind him in the grass.

He hears handcuffs clinking and latching behind him. He knows what it means. He doesn't move.

Will's eyes don't open again until he hears Rust speaking. His vision is - wrong. It's odd, staticky at the edges, like he's going to lose signal soon. Will thinks of a satellite dish that needs adjusting. His throat hurts. His back hurts. His free hand finishes grappling blindly at the other buckles, lets his right hand free too. Both arms hang, limp and numb and nerves on fire, at his sides.

Backup's coming. He gets to leave. "Is there--" There's no point trying for full sentences. Will coughs, throat too dry for it to sound anything but ragged and sharp. "Water?" There's a plea in there, a thread of desperation that Will's been trying hard to keep at bay. He's losing that battle, feels his mind rattling around in his skull, a wasted husk of what it had been when he showed up to this house seven beatings ago. How long has he been here?
wontgraham: (pic#10809656)

[personal profile] wontgraham 2017-05-03 01:52 am (UTC)(link)
Will's wanted water for so long that it's a sentence he almost can't bear to hear repeated back to him. It's so obvious that it hurts, and he doesn't even have the energy left for rolling his eyes or raising his eyebrows in judgmental reminder. All that's left is a flaking thirst, a tired reminder that rasps against his ribs with the insistence survive.

So is it really so bad to be told he has to do it? Has to get up and walk, to get that water? He's supported himself so far, hasn't he?

The cracked, chipped pieces of Will's attention are scooped up in a shaking hand and poured out into a more concentrated pile. He blinks up at Rust, heavy head unsteady on his neck.

Speaking doesn't happen, just a rough drag of 'I'm--' and then coughing. Will plants one shaky hand on the floor, sees the buckles loosely dangling from the straight jacket sleeve, and has to close his eyes against nauseous fear. His breathing rattles too loud in his ears.
wontgraham: (pic#10103903)

[personal profile] wontgraham 2017-05-24 01:57 am (UTC)(link)
Will's always tried to get towards silence. Solitude. To be somewhere safer than the grabbing impressions of being in public.

In the dark room he's been left in, it's never quiet.

Screaming faces drag past. Guards who look at him and know he's dripping with poison from the inside out.

Will is grabbed by the shoulder. He gets up, turns, and walking onto the threshold is enough to bring him into the dining hall.

He's seated on a stool that's attached to the table itself. The table stretches as far as Will can see in either direction. The food laid out for everyone to eat lays rotting on the table. A maggot crawls across Will's plate. His stomach heaves and he turns to lean over the floor. Black tar drips from his mouth, coats his lips and chin no matter how he tries to keep it off himself.


The straight jacket is so familiar by now. Will knows the way it locks up his ribs with every strap. His breath echoes off empty walls, his pulse beats against concrete.

On the other side of a barred door, a doctor patiently writes down his notes.

Will wakes up again, in a hospital again. He doesn't hesitate for a moment before he reaches for what's holding him at the wrist.

The IV cord is ripped out of its port in the back of his left hand before he realizes what he's looking at.

"Sir? S-- You're awake. Please don't touch that--"

Will flinches from the nurse, so hard he knocks his elbow on the low railing on the other side of the hospital bed. The nurse freezes, hands up at his shoulders, watching Will like he might be dangerous.

Will doesn't blame him.

"Where am I?"

"Tulane Medical Center."

"That's not a psychiatric hospital."

"No." Says the nurse, who's calming down but still hasn't moved. "It isn't."

Will stares at the pale mint sheet over his bed. His hand aches where the port was. His face aches - everywhere. Something in his jaw twinges when he speaks.

"I'm gonna put the IV back in, okay Mr. Graham?"

"No." Will jerks back again. He's got to look like hell, he can feel the bruises coating his face, but the nurse doesn't come closer.

"I'll...get the doctor to come look at you first, then. Maybe you don't need the fluids anymore, if we can get you eating real food."