In a kitchen as bare as Rust's, you're sure to find a can of coffee, at the very least.
It's quick and easy work to fill his Mr. Coffee with water from the tap, pop a filter into the brew basket, and scoop an unmonitored amount of coffee grinds in. It's a good break for the both of them -- Will peeling off his wet clothes, Rust able to recede back into the dark and unlit parts of his skull to reset his thoughts. From across the small breakfast bar extended from his counter, he can watch Will in his dining area.
What a fucking mess. Not Will, mind you, but his situation. Some fucking luck -- as if Rust trusts and believes in anything as primitive as a concept of 'luck' -- that he gets marked with a serial killer.
But Rust can't help but wonder...how much of it is the universe playing match-maker, and how much of it is purely the power of the mind, and he means the marked Soul Mates as an entire concept -- but in this case, especially Will and Hannibal. Some of the most tenacious minds Rust has ever observed, and Rust also can't shake his old, stubborn suspicious nature about the whole thing. Hell, how do they know Hannibal didn't fucking put a tattoo there himself, and this is just one more piece of his game to ensnare Will like a desperately sought pet?
Who knows... Doesn't change the fact that it's one messed up situation that Will does not deserve to be in, and Rust takes some relief in the fact that Will sees it the same way, too.
"It'll be a few minutes," Rust assures quietly, setting two mismatched mugs on the counter, next to the coffee maker. "I can grab you something dry to wear." Seriously, Will looks so uncomfortable that even Rust is beginning to psychosomatically feel a chill spill over his own skin.
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It's quick and easy work to fill his Mr. Coffee with water from the tap, pop a filter into the brew basket, and scoop an unmonitored amount of coffee grinds in. It's a good break for the both of them -- Will peeling off his wet clothes, Rust able to recede back into the dark and unlit parts of his skull to reset his thoughts. From across the small breakfast bar extended from his counter, he can watch Will in his dining area.
What a fucking mess. Not Will, mind you, but his situation. Some fucking luck -- as if Rust trusts and believes in anything as primitive as a concept of 'luck' -- that he gets marked with a serial killer.
But Rust can't help but wonder...how much of it is the universe playing match-maker, and how much of it is purely the power of the mind, and he means the marked Soul Mates as an entire concept -- but in this case, especially Will and Hannibal. Some of the most tenacious minds Rust has ever observed, and Rust also can't shake his old, stubborn suspicious nature about the whole thing. Hell, how do they know Hannibal didn't fucking put a tattoo there himself, and this is just one more piece of his game to ensnare Will like a desperately sought pet?
Who knows... Doesn't change the fact that it's one messed up situation that Will does not deserve to be in, and Rust takes some relief in the fact that Will sees it the same way, too.
"It'll be a few minutes," Rust assures quietly, setting two mismatched mugs on the counter, next to the coffee maker. "I can grab you something dry to wear." Seriously, Will looks so uncomfortable that even Rust is beginning to psychosomatically feel a chill spill over his own skin.