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Summary
2002: Rust comes back, and Marty starts paying attention.
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Bookmark Notes:
Marty brings his bags from the motel, takes them upstairs into the room where he stayed before. Soon his things are everywhere, only he’s taken over Rust’s toothbrush, so Rust gets himself a new one. They drive to the station both with their own car, then one morning Marty seems to decide it’s easier if Rust rides with him. In the evening they stop at the supermarket and get takeout from the Chinese restaurant down the street. Marty doesn’t let Rust pay. In the car he says it’s because he’s staying with Rust for free. At night he lingers in the doorway in his underwear and comes to bed when Rust makes space for him, climbs onto Rust and kisses him and takes off his boxers and takes care of him very, very slowly. Like it’s a game. But it doesn’t feel like a game.
A month passes. Marty doesn’t go back to his own room to sleep. Sometimes Rust does, if he can’t sleep – he climbs off the bed as quietly as he can for no reason whatsoever because Marty could sleep through earthquake, goes upstairs, into the room where Marty’s stuff is scattered on the floor and Marty’s mattress still has sheets on. He lies down on his back. The pillow smells of Marty. Not the way Marty currently in his bed does. He likes both. Eventually he’s going to break his fucking heart.
He hears the footsteps coming up the stairs but doesn’t really believe it until Marty stops in the doorway. “What the fuck you doing?”
Rust slowly sits up. Seems kind of pointless to say out loud that he was sniffing at Marty’s pillowcase.
“I mean, up here,” Marty says.
“Couldn’t sleep.”
Marty sighs, then takes a deep breath. “Just come back to bed.” And he turns his back to Rust and goes back downstairs.
Rust sits still for a few more seconds and then follows Marty.
(Obviously he’s been thinking too much about Marty.
He sees the man in question the same night he comes back. He was probably going to go inside to the station, to check if his stuff’s still there, that they haven’t cleared out his desk or anything. Instead he’s been smoking in the parking lot. Side window rolled down, the sun coming low from over the rooftops, it’s still too hot. Fabric keeps sticking to skin. Well, better this than Alaska. He takes another cigarette, and that’s when the front door opens and Marty walks down the stairs, alone, doesn’t look around, just heads to his car which coincidentally isn’t far from Rust’s.
Anyone could tell the exact moment when Marty spots him there. The idiot drops his keys, looks at him, looks down at the keys – seems for a second that he’s decided to just leave them – picks them up, and walks the rest of the way to his car with long steps like his own personal parade. Slams the door shut, starts the engine, wipes his face with the back of his hand.
Rust holds the cigarette out of the side window and tries not to think about it. He didn’t come here to talk to Marty. They’re going to meet tomorrow at work. Unless Marty decides to call in sick or something, and maybe then Rust should just quit. He’s been thinking about that too. It’s not like anybody really wants him here, and he doesn’t really want to be here either, so what the fuck’s wrong with him when he keeps coming back for more? Besides all the obvious things. There’re other places where people disappear and get killed. He could go somewhere else. Somewhere far enough that he doesn’t have to think about Marty. Or he could just give up, retire, get a fucking cabin somewhere, start drinking.
All this dancing around Marty, trying not to exist too much so that Marty doesn’t get pissed off and punch him in the face or ask for another partner, it’s exhausting.
It’s five o’clock when Rust takes his stuff and says he’s going home. Too fucking early, he doesn’t know what he’s going to do there, but he supposes nine hours of him is enough for Marty, for now. Marty barely acknowledges his departure. He walks out to the parking lot, doesn’t reach his car before he hears the front door of the building open and close.
He takes the keys, open the side door.
“What the fuck you doing?” Marty asks from behind his back.
“Nothing,” Rust says, not turning to look, then steps into his car, closes the door, rolls down the side window. If Marty wants to fight, he’s going to have to get Rust out of the car first.
Marty stops by the car to glare at him. “Why did you come back?”
“My job.”
“Bullshit,” Marty says, doesn’t look convinced about his own statement.
“Also didn’t have anywhere else to go,” Rust says, and then, for some fucking reason, “and missed you face.”)
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