Chose him for counsel. Rust has a way with words. Will nods to himself, to no one, as he finishes clearing off his glasses enough that he can put them back on and actually see the apartment. Without the fuzzy approximations of objects nearby, he can now tell that the papers scattered around are case notes, victim photos and hand-drawn police sketches and maps and hand-written sprawling ideas.

"No." Will pushes away from the door finally, dropping his head forward so he can hook the towel behind his neck, against the base of his skull. He rubs roughly at his hair, drying it just enough that when he stands back up, it doesn't immediately keep dripping down his forehead. What isn't weighted down with rain now tufts up, curly and wild. Will doesn't bother patting any of it back down yet.

"The bed." He's about to come over, to cross the half-imaginary threshold of kitchen to living room, before remembering his soaked shoes. Rust is barefoot, which is the only reason Will's brain makes any connection. "I mean, uh." He bends down at the waist and knees, crouches to untie the shoes just enough to mash his way out of them, kicking them off right against Rust's counter at the perimeter of the carpet.

"I've got mine here too. In the living room." Wet socks stick oddly to the carpet and to his feet, but Will's already started over for that chair. He lowers himself into it, almost gingerly at first. But Rust's casual air is a welcome breath of relief, helps expand the walls of the room so they don't feel like they could crush him with someone else's awareness and desires and wants.

Will breathes into the space and doesn't feel like proximity is fixing a steel band around his ribs.