Days 17-21

[aluminumandash]

WHO: Rust "true detective" Cohle & Lalo "false detective officer" Salamanca
WHAT: Catch-all for two natural disasters during a natural disaster
WHEN: Day 17 - Morning 21
WHERE: Way too close to VII.J.8
WARNINGS: Hostage-taking! Ill-advised drinking (and probably drug/addiction mentions)! ELEPHANT DEATH
NOTES: I'll update the warnings if they die...

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Day 17

[aluminumandash]

As they negotiate the foothills Rust pays even less heed to de Guzman than he did the day before. It's a strange contrast: his absorption in their surroundings, down to chipped rocks and shifted stones, automatic adjustments as the sun climbs higher in the sky; and his obliviousness to the man trailing after him, to hunger pangs, to the sweat trickling down his face except when it splatters on rock, drips in his eyes.

Word of a threatening storm intensifies his focus—he descends into silence, working faster and tackling sheer rock slopes where before he might have paused. Never sloppy, but driven past the point of caution.

“Hurry it up!” he calls—harsh, impatient, but nothing pointed in it—when de Guzman once again falls behind. “Can't track in the fucking rain.”

[salamanca]

“Can't track in the fucking rain.”

Can't do shit in the fucking rain. Lalo again casts his gaze briefly skyward. It looks the same as ever. Bright blue, almost impossibly blue. No clouds, not even the ones that signal the coming of the afternoon showers he's become accustomed to. Nothing out of the ordinary. And yet, multiple people talking about a storm on the network is enough to get his attention; signal him to be on alert. Martin in particular is typically a useful canary for things like this.

Lalo's gaze quickly flickers away from the sky, back to Rust. Lalo is paying way more attention to Rust than Rust is to him; it's clear that Rust's obsessiveness over Shaw is mounting, reaching a fever pitch. Lalo sees it in the other man every time Rust nimbly but hurriedly hops down rocky mountainsides without even a brief pause.

Rust's tracking skills are very useful, but in this state, Rust is a liability. To himself, and more importantly, to Lalo. Should Lalo just run off and ditch him, let him get himself killed?

Nah, but then he'd lose his tracker! Can't have that. And woof, those arms...😍

Lalo draws his gun, slowly and quietly, inching closer to Rust, while making sure to still let the other man get somewhat ahead of him, shouting, "Sorry! I'm trying to go faster! It's just getting hot, you know?" He counts on Rust's contempt and disregard, for Rust to keep going and pay not much heed to poor, clumsy, struggling, hapless Ben.

Lalo waits until they're in relatively flat ground; attempting this on unstable terrain is too risky. Once they are in — relatively, considering the circumstances — safe terrain, Lalo slides up behind Rust with a quickness so animated he would almost seem, for a moment, more boogeyman than human to any bystanders watching, if there were any.

A hand is clapped over Rust's mouth without warning. A gun is pressed into his back simultaneously with Lalo's other hand. "Don't scream, amigo," Lalo's voice, low and warning, hisses into one of Rust's ears.

Yeah, odds are good nobody will hear it if he does, but why not make sure he knows better, just in case?

[aluminumandash]

He's brushing back a tuft of sharp, dry grass with delicacy that verges on tenderness. Beneath it: a dusty hinge of bone, teeth nestled in it. No question of its being human, not even at a glance. When the gun jabs into Rust's back his immediate reaction is impatience with the shifting shadows, annoyance with another demand on his attention. Like he might swat de Guzman out of the way.

The next instant he's aware of the other man's mouth up against his ear, hand across his mouth. The balance of his weight, leaning right to compensate for the wounded leg. Rust breathes in slow through his nose and begins to slowly raise his arms—is still breathing in when he twists at the waist, uses the momentum as he brings his left knee up for a sharp sideways kick aimed at the other man's weak leg.

A gunshot'd make a hell of a lot more noise than a scream.

[salamanca]

The arms are raising. Good, good. Lalo is pleased, believing this might be easier than he anticipated. Perhaps the detective is not as far gone as he'd thought.

Then it happens. The kick connects unequivocally. Pain shoots through his leg, all the way up. Sharp. Almost impossibly acute. There's a grunt from somewhere way deep in the back of his throat, a low guttural Spanish cuss word that probably needs no translation help from the walkies (but gets one anyway). There's the distinct feeling of Lalo's grip on Rust's mouth starting to loosen, then quickly re-tightening. And then...

Nothing. As much as Lalo's face is contorted in pain behind Rust, what he just did seems to have done very little in terms of actually changing his circumstances.

"No," Lalo says softly but firmly, in the same tone of voice that a parent would use on a naughty, incorrigible child. Rust might need to get some shit out of his system though, Lalo realizes, as much as he slightly dreads the possibility. Ugh. People are so ungrateful these days. Doesn't this guy know how much Lalo is risking for his crazy ass?

As gently as he can, considering the inherent violence of the motion, Lalo's good leg motions to sweep under Rust's ankles and, hopefully, force him to topple back into Lalo's arms to find his footing. He doesn't want to hurt Rust... and he can think of better ways to effectively break someone's spirit.

It was nice being friends while it lasted. Oh, well!

[aluminumandash]

The kick connects and already Rust's biting at the hand clapped to his face, nipping at whatever soft flesh he can get his teeth into. Bite out a chunk if he can. He kicks again—repeats the motion, ready to do it another five times, kick the fucker's knee out. The gun hasn't gone off, that's good, and Rust's arms are still free.

His right hand's closed on the knife at his belt when de Guzman's good leg comes up under him, catches his ankle. He'd hurl himself backwards—let de Guzman take the full weight of him all a sudden—but there's the matter of the gun between them. The full-on fucking chaos that would result.

Instead he drags his left heel as he half-falls, half-slumps into de Guzman's one-armed embrace. While de Guzman's occupied with his left side, Rust flicks open the knife, swings his arm down and behind in an extension of the same motion, trying to jam the blade into the other man's right side. Hoping for the abdominal area, but he'll take whatever blood he can draw.

[salamanca]

Rust's teeth sink into the soft, warm flesh of Lalo's palm and Lalo cries out softly. Rust tastes iron, probably. Blood.

There's grunting, and a tight grimace as Lalo contorts his face, trying desperately to hold onto Cohle while he fights like a wild man. Lalo feels himself get flushed, beads of sweat forming.

He doesn't even get the satisfaction of watching Rust fall back, helplessly, into his arms. "Son of a bitch!" he swears when he feels the knife graze his size, slide through his shirt.

This is too much. This needs to end now. While Lalo struggles to hold on, the hand holding the gun comes up to pistol whip Rust hard, knocking him over the head. Good thing there's more than one way to use these things.

[aluminumandash]

He comes to with a sharp half-breath he then releases in a measured exhale. Doesn't open his eyes. His head aches dully; he can feel his pulse at his temples. Wrists pinched, arms wrenched, mouth stuffed with some kind of cloth. No walkie. Belt and pack gone.

Barefoot. Clothed. Alright.

He listens a while to De Guzman's steps, the scrape of his boots on rocky ground. The cheerful whistling. Not enough grunts or groans for his liking: should've kicked him in the balls. Ten minutes or so of this and Rust cracks an eye open, discovers he's in the shadow of a tent.

He doesn't know what the fuck this is, but he takes his cue from the gag and lets out a long, low moan, eyes fluttering open.

[salamanca]

The moan gets Lalo's attention. His eyes light up.

"Hey, man!" he says brightly. Like absolutely nothing is wrong. Like Rust just stumbled into the kitchen for Saturday morning brunch.

"Check it out!" He shows Rust his hand. There's an outline of teeth marks in his palm, several of them bloody and deep. It's been cleaned to the best of Lalo's ability.

Then he pulls it back and looks at admiringly. "You really did some damage!" He sounds impressed. Then, matter-of-factly: "I'll be lucky if I don't die of sepsis. You know they say a human's mouth is dirtier than a dog's?"

He reaches out to insert a finger between the makeshift gag (a tie) and Rust's skin. "Now! If I take this off, are you gonna try to bite me again?"

A shockingly genuine question.

[aluminumandash]

Dutifully Rust stares at the teeth marks. He's distantly surprised de Guzman hasn't already put his hands on him: this seems like just the excuse. As the other man marvels at his own fucking injury, Rust lets his gaze drift to the other wound, the leg—see if it's any worse, if it's maybe bled through the denim. Then a quick check for the walkie, for weapons, and his eyes are back where de Guzman wants them.

He tips his chin with the touch, responsive. “Not on the hand.” He says it slow, eyes locked on de Guzman's. Walking up to that same edge he'd been at by the fire, his fingertips grazing against de Guzman's arm.

He shifts, dropping his gaze, bucking a little against the cuffs. Making a show of his discomfort for de Guzman to revel in. “What is this.”

[salamanca]

Lalo slides the finger out from between Rust's gag. Leaves it in place. For now. He'll remove it later. Somehow, though, he seems to understand the other man's murmurs from behind it? In his mind, they translate into real words.

There's a dark patch of something on the denim, almost black. The wound has, indeed, fucking bled through. Lalo shuffles around, limp made worse from what Rust did, but aside from the occasional grimace, he doesn't seem to be in any pain.

Lalo watches Rust's eyes on his him and holds back a snort. Lalo's own walkie is clipped around his belt buckle. Rust's walkie and both guns are nowhere to be seen. At least not on Lalo's person.

He meets Rust's gaze, when it returns. Eyes still it up from inside.

"Not on the hand."

A little flip in Lalo's stomach, a faint blush around his ears of all places. He's not stupid enough to think whatever was going on with the detective will last after this. He's basically torched it to the ground. But that's fine. He can live with that as consequence. As long as he has a tracker, and the detective is alive and with him, then he's happy enough.

Doesn't mean he won't be thinking about that remark later. Recalling the hand grazing his arm.

His almost-desperate arousal and embarrassment in response.

For now though, he laughs. "Ayyyy, you're feisty! I like that," he says. And winks. Deliberately exaggerated.

He watches the detective squirm in his cuffs and feels the flips stop and instead something in his gut tightens. Turns mean. Cat-like, he feels the impulse to play with his meal. Watch it squirm.

He doesn't answer right away, instead dropping down next to the tied-up man with a soft groan. His eyes flit from Rust, to the ceiling of the tent, and back to Rust.

A shrug. A neutral expression. Finally, an answer:

"This? This is our shelter. From the storm."

[aluminumandash]

Rust lets his eyes drift to the nylon stretched overhead. Considers those two distinct reactions, placing them side by side. Lovesick; calculating. Pitiless both. He gives the cuffs another rattle, yanking at the links for real this time. They hold fast.

No drops splattered on the tent, no heaviness to the air. Just opportunity, then: an excuse to give up on her.

He claps his gaze on de Guzman, leaves it there. Intractable. Watching those eyes, waiting for them to twitch or stray. More than a minute gone by, he says, “It was you out there, you'd want me looking.”

It's incomprehensible. The tenor, though—flat but not unsympathetic—he puts as much of that as he can into a look.

[salamanca]

"Nah, she ain't out there, man," Lalo says. Quiet and insistent. And he does believe that. "I'm telling you. He got 'er. Just waiting for her to pop back up now."

Lalo recalls the campsite. Vacant. Empty. Had to have been at least a few hours since anybody had been there, probably longer; little less than day, probably. Nothing to really point in one direction she may have gone, if she did leave on her own anyway...or so he thinks, anyway. Perhaps the detective could see something Lalo doesn't, with his excellent tracking abilities. But something in Lalo's gut says that isn't the case. This time.

Of course it's not hard proof she's gone, or proof of anything at all; certainly not proof the detective would accept. But honed instinct for death, coupled with the knowledge that if she is dead, then her body is unlikely to be found (does it take a whole 24 hours for the body to disappear? Less? He does not know.), makes Lalo feel like seeking shelter was the right decision!

Besides, he likes Shaw but she's a big girl. If she's out there, she can fend for herself.

"Okay," Lalo says. "I'm gonna take this off you now. Be good." He slides a finger between Rust's skin and the gag. Lets the gag come off with a fluid yank.

As if Rust is a pet golden retriever getting his muzzle removed.

The entire time, Lalo's gaze doesn't stray from Rust's own.