amatara

Well, I finally finished that Twin Peaks story I've been chewing on since January! Technically, it was written as a New Year's resolution for Yuletide, fulfilling a prompt by my own Yuletide author from last year, who wrote me a gorgeous Twin Peaks fic. Only later, I found out that said author also made a Cooper/Albert Twin Peaks request for Yuletide, and here's my attempt to fill it!

The request was for a post-series fic, dealing with Cooper's possession by BOB, ideally containing some Dale Cooper/Albert Rosenfield slash. Now, as I hinted at before, I wouldn't have been too comfortable writing slash between them that took place during canon, because I have this slightly compulsive thing with sticking to canon pairings, but post-canon slash, well, that was a whole other thing. Still, with the whole possession storyline, there's obviously some dark stuff here. I chose not to cross into non-con, because that's just not my thing, but one could argue it borders the line at times, due to the nature of the material. Apart from Cooper and Albert, some other characters make an appearance as well: Harry Truman and Gordon Cole, most notably (IT WAS GREAT FUN WRITING IN CAPS LOCK for Gordon *giggles*), and there's a cameo of Audrey in there as well. Oh, plus one other character, whose name I'm not going to mention here except to say that writing a conversation between said character and Albert is probably the hardest thing I ever did in a fanfic. Let's just say, I've never read those two characters interacting before, and I hope I did a good job, but - it wasn't easy, seeing how, um, different they are. Though there are some similarities there as well.

Go, read, enjoy! Comments, as always (and this time perhaps more than ever), are very much appreciated. Any kind, including the critical ones. Seriously. I mean, this is by far the plottiest fic I've ever done, and possibly the darkest, so any kind of feedback is welcome. Oh, and I had to cut the story into two parts, as LJ grumbled about post size. Hope you don't mind.

Title: Wake up and face the music
Summary: Post-series fic, trying to resolve the issue of Cooper's little, um, possession. Albert Rosenfield's POV, pretty angsty all around... And a anything else would be spoilery for the story, really.
Pairing: Albert Rosenfield/Dale Cooper
Other characters: Harry Truman, Gordon Cole, Audrey Horne, and one other, which you'll have to read to find out. *g*
Rating: Not quite a solid R, I guess, but more than a PG-13. There is language, and references to sex, though never explicit.
Disclaimer: As always, David Lynch gets all the honors.

Wake up and face the music

I.

Life was a bitch.

Well, of course it was in the general sense – he’d learned that the hard way, if not from the kids and innocents it delivered onto his slab, then from the throngs of incompetents it tended to throw across his path whenever he had a job to do. But that wasn’t the sense he meant right now.

No. Life was a bitch, and it was personal.

Two things – two goddamn things – made his grisly existence worth clinging to. His work for the Bureau and whatever maniacs they could put behind bars because of it, and the one vice save nicotine he’d let himself indulge in, which was both the worst and best mistake of his career. To get tangled up with one Dale Cooper.

It figured, didn’t it? Make one mistake now, one of the mere two million-odd ones there were to make in this game, and he’d destroy both those things faster than Cooper could say cherry pie.

Spots flickered in his vision and across the dim computer screen, and no amount of blinking could clear them. That figured too, of course. Never mind Bureau discipline, or the iron will he’d worked years to spit and polish; right now his hands on the keyboard were shuddering worse than a ninety-year-old’s with Parkinson, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to stop it.

It’s like a riddle, he tried to distract himself, willing his fingers to obey and his eyes to focus. Like those easy ones Gramps used to play with us; the ones you hated because you always got the answer before anyone else even got the question. What’s scentless, painless, fast to incapacitate – and an antidote gets you bonus points. Come on, Rosenfield, think, before you lose the nerve!

His nerves didn’t betray him, in the end; thank Bureau training for that. Not even his stomach did, though it was a close call, committing the dosages to memory with the gut-wrenching dread of a nightmare turned real. Wiping his traces was pointless; if this didn’t work, or he had it plain wrong, he wouldn’t care who found out anyway. Instead he logged off as he always did – another late day at the office, eh, guys – almost slugged the computer when it kept right on asking, again, just as it always did, ‘Are you sure you want to –’

Jesus fucking Christ. If only he could be.

II.

He should have known something was rotten the day Cooper came back to him. No, sooner: the minute Harry Truman called, smack in the middle of office hours, to tell him Coop had skipped town. He’d taken the call halfway into an autopsy, barely stopping to get rid of mucus-stained gloves to snatch the phone from a hopelessly overdressed, baby-faced – Christ, how young did they make ‘em these days? – secretary.

“Cooper?” Too loud, too high-pitched. The kid at his shoulder stared, and Albert stifled a surge of embarrassment that lasted all of two seconds.

“Not Cooper – Truman. Sorry to burst your bubble, Albert. Though I guess you’ll be seeing Cooper soon enough.”

“Harry?” God damn it – had he actually been reduced to stammering two-syllable sentences through the phone? He glared at the kid who was still waiting, now straightening his tie. “Pack it up, buddy. Don’t you have a beauty sleep to do?” Then, switching to a furious whisper, “I’ll be seeing Cooper how? I thought he was still down there with you, would be for another week at least!”

That’s what he’d gleaned from the first call, the one that had come about three days ago – Truman sounding dog-tired but atypically talkative, spinning some insane tale about beauty pageants and some chick called Annie, and how Windom Earle had apparently kidnapped her, then vanished into thin air somewhere in the woods. That he might have swallowed, barely, but then the sheriff had rambled on about Cooper entering some invisible place in those same woods, only to materialize again the next morning, semi-conscious, alongside a bleeding Annie, and Albert had just given up. Given up on the story, that was – not on its featured player.

The moment he put down the horn, he’d been just about ready to drop everything and storm off to Twin Peaks himself. He’d have done it too, if not for Gordon, who’d vetoed his leaving the lab on a whim, expressing what he called ‘THE UTMOST CONFIDENCE IN TWIN PEAKS’ LAW AND MEDICINE, AND BESIDES, COOP’S BEEN THROUGH ROUGHER PATCHES’. Albert had agreed reluctantly, conceding that Cooper was hardly an infant and Truman hardly incompetent, but the wait between that phone call and this one had still been endless. At least, he’d hoped to get Cooper’s version of the facts this time, but –

“He’s gone. Came up to the station this afternoon, thanked me and everyone else for the company and pleasant cooperation. Then said he’d be headed back to Seattle, as with Earle’s disappearance he no longer had a case to crack. He pulled out of the driveway less than five minutes ago.”

“Cooper’s driving his own ass back to Seattle? Now?” Albert barked, voice rising along with his temper. “I thought he concussed himself into La-La land while banging his head into that mirror? Don’t tell me you just let him take off –”

“And how do you suggest I should have stopped him? Tackled him and locked him in a cell?” The steel in Truman’s voice matched the anger in his own, and Albert backed down – for now. Truman’s voice softened again. “I have no authority over an FBI officer, you know that. And physically, he was fine; a little the worse for wear, but not enough for me to have Hayward pull medical rank on him. I was as surprised as you by him wanting out so suddenly.” The sound of a throat being cleared. “Take Annie – he went to visit her once in the hospital, and came back looking so unnaturally cheerful, it just wasn’t him. Then when I mentioned her later, he jumped as if he’d just seen the devil.” A pause, leaving Albert time to swallow past the mention of Annie and focus on the facts. “Something’s damn wrong here, Albert.” Softly. “I don’t know what happened to them out in those woods, or if they even remember, but – Coop especially, he just seems off. Like something’s cracked in there, or…”

“I see.” Not quite managing to keep the bitterness out of his voice. Restless, he paced over to the autopsy table and peered at the victim’s stone-white face. “And because the combined efforts of you, Coop’s personal nun-in-residence Annie-whatsit –”

“Blackburn. And she’s no longer a nun. She’s –”

“Annie-whatsit”, he repeated stubbornly, knowing he was being childish but not giving a damn, “and the incompetent pinnacle of Twin Peaks medicine, failed miserably in getting through to Cooper, you now expect me to have the miracle cure for what’s ailing him. Or a diagnosis, at least. Happy dreaming, Sheriff.”

This time the silence was longer, as if Truman had realized he was treading a slippery slope here. Albert sighed and leaned his hip on the table. Last time he checked, the statistical correlation between his attitude and Dale Cooper’s mental health had been less than impressive, and he didn’t expect stellar changes there. Yeah, things had been different at various points in the past, but most of it was long enough ago it might have been another life. Which wasn’t to say Albert didn’t remember all of it, with that overly bright, gold-rimmed clarity one had of joys long lost. Hell, they’d been so young back then it was surreal. Especially Cooper, burning with optimism and love for the new in a way that left a smoldering hole where Albert’s defenses used to be – after he was done hating Cooper’s guts, that was. Anyway, where your average sane person would think twice about a fling with a tight-assed bastard who cut people open for a living, for Coop it was just another Great and Wonderful Adventure.

Damn Cooper’s adventures to hell, he thought, jerking upright to start pacing again.

“Well, whatever –” Truman said, cutting short his slide into memory. “But he mentioned you still being stationed in Seattle, so my guess is he’ll turn up soon enough, either at your doorstep or in your office. I just wanted to give you advance warning.”

“Fair enough,” Albert growled, allowing some gratitude to creep into his voice. “Thanks. And Harry –” A pause as he weighed exactly how much to say. “Don’t take this the wrong way: at no point at all did I state I wasn’t intending to do what I can for Coop. I just…” He trailed off, groping for words. “I’m not sure I’m the right man to...”

“I’m sure you’ll do your utmost, Albert.” Truman’s voice was utterly devoid of sarcasm. “As you do with every job you take – which includes playing the smartass and giving good people crap.” Something in the tone that could have been a smile. “But I trust you with Cooper, at least. Hell – he must be immune to it, anyway. Take care, keep in touch. Let me know about Coop.”

The line clicked, then went silent. For once, Albert had missed his window for a snappy retort.

III.

Given the time of Truman’s call, he hadn’t expected to see Cooper that day. The man had always been a conscientious driver, law-abiding to the point of absurdity, and Albert guessed it’d take him eight hours or so to make the same drive he himself managed in six. An empty zebra crossing at the back end of nowhere, and he’d stop for it – because that’s how the system works, Albert, he’d chided once, in perfect earnestness, proclaiming it their duty as U.S. citizens to uphold that system out of principle alone. And seeing as the man had an insatiable love for rundown motels, the shabbier the better – though Coop would refer to them as “having character” instead – it had to be a cold day in hell before he’d pass up the chance to spend the night in one. In any case, the time where Albert would be Cooper’s first stop upon arrival was long gone. Which was why, when the door-bell rang at one-thirty in the night, his first thought wasn’t of Cooper but some other clue or body they’d turned up for him to poke at.

He took his sweet old time shrugging into pants and shirt and walking down six sets of stairs, rolling his eyes as the bell rang a second time. Let the boys stew a little – a few minutes in the cold night air was good for the soul. Swinging open the front door, he was just about to launch a snide comment on the virtues of patience, when he found himself nose to nose with a very haggard, very frozen Special Agent.

“Coop?” He sputtered, fell back on reflex. “Do you have any idea what time –” he began, then thought better of it and jerked Cooper inside with him. Turned him around, none too gently, to get a better look, and registered only then the man was in his goddamn shirtsleeves. Snapped, “What the hell are you doing out at five below zero dressed for a summer picnic?” and released his grip, only to clamp down again as Cooper listed, dangerously, to the side.

“Coat’s – in the car.” Cooper straightened and blinked up at him. “I just – I needed some fresh air.” Albert must have gaped at him as if he were the Queen of Sheba, because he managed a sheepish smile that wasn’t in the least reassuring. Under the harsh entrance light his face was almost transparent, eyes dark-rimmed, whites shot through with red. “I’m sorry to bother you, Albert, but – would you mind lending me a bed for the night? Or a couch – a couch would be perfect. I don’t...” A crack in the façade, something like panic seeping through. “To find a hotel room now, I don’t think I can drive any–”

“Don’t even think about it,” he grunted, taking Cooper by the elbow and starting to walk him to the lift. “You’re not fit to steer a bike, let alone a car right now. And I’d prefer not to have to scrape you off some curb tomorrow morning.” He jabbed at the lift button, furious. “Though how you got it in your head to come all this way instead of –”

“I had to get out of there, Albert.” Hoarsely, in a voice that didn’t sound like Cooper at all. The eyes squeezed shut for a moment, then fluttered and stared right past him into nothingness.

Albert opened his mouth, closed it again. Was saved momentarily by the lift doors opening, pushed Cooper inside and rode up with him in silence. It was only after he’d closed the door of the apartment behind him, then deposited Cooper on the nearest couch, that he let himself react to that. “Coop –“ Forcing himself to sound, if not kind, at least free of sarcasm. “Not that I didn’t think Twin Peaks charm was overrated as they come, but… you were crazy about the place. All of two weeks ago, you were raving about buying property there. Don’t misunderstand me, I’m glad you’ve seen the light, only – what the hell happened?”

Cooper shrugged and bit his lip. Started to answer, only to hug himself shivering, teeth clacking so hard a whole orchestra could have kept tune by it. Albert cursed himself, muttered something semi-coherent and stomped over to the bedroom to get a pair of blankets.

When he came back Cooper was sitting, bent over, head between his hands, and something pulled at Albert’s guts that was sharp and hot and nothing as uncomplicated as sympathy. Swallowing hard, he moved in and tugged a blanket across the sagging shoulders. Waited a moment, then let himself down on the other end of the couch.

“Cooper?” A beat. “Coop?” Reaching out to lay cautious fingertips on his arm. “Come on, Cooper, talk to me. What’s –”

A long sigh, and the hands dropped away. “Sorry.” That wan half-smile again. “Just a bit of a headache.”

Albert scowled. “ ‘A bit of a –’ ”

Smile deepening slightly. “Okay. A hell of a headache.” Sharp intake of breath. “Hit my head the first morning after I…” Long pause. “– woke up. They told me I was kinda woozy for a while – Harry’s words, not mine – but the strange part is, I don’t recall a thing about it. Or about the night before that, when I was supposedly missing.”

Only to pop up again out of thin air, Albert thought grimly, but let that drop for now. Instead, he leaned in to peer at Cooper’s scalp. “Yeah,” he grumbled, “Harry called me about your little night-time escapade, and the stunt with your skull and the mirror. Pretty spectacular – makes for interesting conversation, especially at six in the morning.” He glanced at Cooper for permission, then ran his thumb lightly above the edge of the hairline. Some scrapes and a long cut, superficial except near the middle, where some nitwit had put in two sloppy stitches. “Terrific,” he muttered. “Our good Doctor Hayward even bought himself a knitting set.” Then, snappily, “Did they check for concussion?” Waited for Cooper to answer as he probed the area around the bruise. Some minor swelling, nothing to worry about in itself, but add the disorientation plus amnesia, and –

“I’m not sure – mph.” The head jerked slightly, and Albert eased the pressure. “Doc ran some tests, they said, but I – I can’t remember.” A soft noise of frustration. “It’s all a blank, like –”

Albert breathed out and let go. “Short-term amnesia is common enough with a bump like that. You may have remembered perfectly until you took that fall, then lost the details while you were out. It could still come back to you.” ‘Could’, ‘might’… not exact science, though. Just as likely that hole in your mind stays right where it is.

“Yeah. I suppose so.” Cooper didn’t sound too convinced either. Good, Albert thought – it meant the man hadn’t totally lost it after all.

Then, out of the blue, “I left… because of Annie.” Breathless, that errant tone of despair creeping back in.

The name settled against Albert’s breastbone like a rock, a dull ache that didn’t lift no matter how he willed it to. It wasn’t that he didn’t grant Cooper what happiness he found. God help him, seeing him fall for Caroline had been one tough package of heaven and hell, but never more of the latter than the former. If anything, watching Cooper act so giddy, so obviously smitten, had almost been contagious, even if it was just living off the morsels of a pie he knew wasn’t meant for him – not this time. No, the thing with Annie was he hadn’t even been around to see it. It had all happened outside of Albert Rosenfield’s cramped little sphere of knowledge, out in goddamn Twin Peaks of all places, and not even a side comment on the phone to let him share in it. Of course Cooper didn’t owe him anything of the sort, but still, damn his selfish ass, he’d wanted that morsel, for old time’s sake if nothing else. Not that he’d ever let Cooper know.

He dragged himself out of his brooding with an effort. “ ‘Because of Annie’?” he repeated, managing a skeptical look. “But she’s fine, isn’t she, your fair-haired ladyfriend? Bit banged up, but nothing permanent – except a teenage crush to match the worst of yours, which is probably a good thing. So you’ll have to explain –”

“She sent me away, Albert,” Cooper cut him off, anguish cracking though into his voice. Pupils dilated, eyes wild, and for the first time Albert considered a sedative. “Well – not simply sent me away, but…” He shuddered again, hugged the blanket closer around himself. “I told you I don’t remember anything from that night, and apparently, neither does Annie, except… When I went to see her in hospital – she screamed at me like I was some kind of devil.” Tone flat, all expression gone from the face. “Shouted all sorts of accusations – I was a monster, I wasn’t real, I’d let them hurt her, she never wanted to lay eyes on me again and I – I couldn’t refute anything, because I didn’t even know what she was talking about.” A long, shuddering gasp. “I was in there for all of five minutes before the nurses threw me out.”

Albert cleared his throat. “Well, post-traumatic shock can be a strange thing. And she was injured… it’s not uncommon for a first reaction to be one of panic, even anger, even if there’s no truth to –”

“No.” The head shook jerkily. “If there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that she was… genuinely terrified. Of me.” Deep breath, in and out. “I can only conclude that I somehow, knowingly or unknowingly, did something unspeakable during those missing hours. Something that frightened her beyond belief, even if neither of us can remember it. Knowing that – I couldn’t stay there, Albert. If I’m wrong, I’m sure she will find me, but if not… I owe it to her to leave her in peace.”

For once, Albert didn’t have a slick reply ready. Hesitant, he slid a hand up Cooper’s back, a gesture that was instinct more than anything else.

“You know, Albert, I can’t blame her.” He blinked. Just for a moment the voice had seemed deeper, darker somehow, with a hint of something feral – but no, the damn mood was just getting to him. Was it? “At times, I’m afraid of myself too,” Cooper breathed in his ear, still in that same tone, and Albert flinched involuntarily.

The dark eyes blinked once, focused on him. Flickered briefly with fire or despair or something else altogether, then the next thing he knew there were two hands pressed to either side of his face, and a pair of full lips hovered inches from his. For one heart-stopping second, his world narrowed to a pinprick, blood rushing in his ears so loud it drowned out all the rest. Just Cooper’s pitch-black pupils, breath shuddering through those parted lips, and his own hand, digging into the small of Cooper’s back –

And then he pulled free, and somehow he could breathe again.

Cooper blinked once more, and his eyes when he opened them were wide and bright and rolling, slowly, into the back of his head.

God damn it – “Don’t you dare,” he growled, surprised his own voice was still in working order. That same rush of fear stirred up, but he stifled it by shoving Cooper back onto the couch, pausing to smooth down a lock of hair. Reached for a pulse, furtively, to find it rapid – no surprise there, as his own heart was still pounding like a jackhammer – but steady. “That’s it,” he muttered. “Land of the living’s right here.”

“Albert, I – I need…” Hoarse, like he’d been shouting.

“What you need –” he cut in, forcing a neutral tone, “Is two aspirins and a decent night’s sleep.” Long silence. “We can talk tomorrow, if you want. Or not, if you don’t. I’m easy.”

“Oh, no, you’re not,” Cooper whispered, latching onto the escape to mundane conversation. “You’re – a very difficult person, Albert, and too intelligent not to know it.”

“Well, we can talk about that, too,” he grimaced, the ache below his ribs easing a little. “After I take you to a decent hospital and we get your marbles checked. I’d hate it to be an uneven match.”

He shook out the other blanket and focused on making Cooper comfortable, then moved to the bathroom to find those aspirins and a sleeping pill.

Snapping open the closet, he could almost forget those eyes; could almost ignore the tingle of hands clamped around his face.

IV.

“ALL RIGHT, ALBERT, LET’S REITERATE. YOU SAY YOU WANT ME TO KEEP COOPER FROM THE FIELD BECAUSE, DESPITE A CLEAN BILL OF HEALTH, YOU’RE CONVINCED HE’S HAD A BUMP TOO MANY ON THE HEAD?”

Albert fought the temptation to scream in return, instead settled on pinching the bridge of his nose. Fat chance Gordon wouldn’t even notice the increase in volume, and even if through some miracle he did, he’d probably think Albert was just being considerate. Which wasn’t exactly the desired impression, now was it?

Oh, he loved Gordon Cole, no argument there. Sharp as they came – at least when you caught him at the right time – and an astounding judge of character. Most likely no one but Gordon would have stuck it in his head to hire him, even with the cum laude degree and witticism to match. But to have a discreet conversation with the man was a plain illusion – one he’d given up along with any hope to have his eardrums last to old age.

Of course, the fact that the topic of conversation was seated right on the other side of an inch-thick wall made it all but impossible to be frank. He hardly wanted to send Coop the message his partner thought him fit for the madhouse – which Gordon was doing a terrific job of making this sound like.

“Gordon, please,” he repeated, for what seemed like the gazillionth time. Jerked his head to the side in a mute signal of Cooper-alert. Gordon’s eyebrows rose up to his hairline, then, also for the gazillionth time, the mouth opened into a neat little ‘o’. “Right,” he mouthed, still well over normal speaking volume. “Message RECEIVED, ALBERT!”

He gritted his teeth, kicked himself for not having had that cigarette first. “Gordon, for Christ’s sake, I’m not saying Cooper needs to be carted off by the men in the white coats. To all outward appearances he’s doing just dandy. CT-scan was absolutely spotless, and no physical complaints at all apart from those first few days. It’s just –” grinding his fist into his hip in frustration. “There’s nothing I can put my finger on, no one event I can describe to you, but – he’s not himself. Mood swings, disorientation, even brief violent spells... the kind of symptoms that, if I hadn’t seen those scan results with my own eyes, I’d call personality changes brought on by a second degree concussion.” Except, in Cooper’s case, there was no obvious damage at all, which was what worried him the most. Invisible damage generally meant untreatable damage. “That’s really all I can give you,” he sighed. “Your call, Gordon. But I still say give him three weeks of forced leave. Then we see.”

Gordon frowned, and Albert pressed down the impulse to fidget.

Of course, what he could hardly tell his superior was when those mood swings and violent spells tended to manifest. He could hardly say that, three days after the man turned up on his doorstep, had checked into a hotel all comfy and neat and was waiting to fly back to Philadelphia with him, he’d startled awake in the dead of night to find Cooper right outside his bedroom, lean silhouette poised against the doorframe. When he asked, dumbfounded, how the hell he’d gotten in, Cooper had smiled a sly little smile at him and whispered, “But – you gave me the key, Albert.” Which he was sure he hadn’t done – absolutely sure, because he’d considered just that, but decided against it.

Then Cooper, still smiling, had peeled off his suit, and Albert wasn’t sure of a goddamn thing anymore.

He couldn’t remember what he’d said when Cooper slipped into the bed with him – only that it must have been addled to the point of incoherence. What he did remember were the hands, chilled from the night air, trailing fire and ice across his collarbones, his sides, his hips. How he’d reached to pull Cooper against him, making him shudder and gasp and shudder again as his own hands moved like muscle memory, the sensation as familiar as if he’d done it only yesterday.

And before he knew or could even react, Cooper was out of his arms and straddling him.

“You want this – don’t you, Albert?” A dangerous whisper, dangerous like the glint of fire that had come back into his eyes between one heartbeat and the next. Voice throaty, ravishing, and so unlike Cooper it made the hairs stand up on the back of Albert’s neck. Sharp nails raked across the skin at his throat, and now it was his turn to gasp. Because this wasn’t his Cooper, no; this Cooper was beautiful and terrible and, quite possibly, the most frightening thing he’d seen in his life. As if sensing his distress, the other man leaned in, fire switching to triumph switching to something like cruel understanding. “Oh, yes…” A knowing chuckle. “How you want this.” Tensed and lunged at him like a cat, mouth crushing against his in a way that was needy and impulsive and in some way more Cooper than the man who’d just been pinning him down, even though there was still a hint of something different, something feral, as well.

Then that dropped away too, and suddenly Cooper was blinking down at him, that same pair of hands now cupping his face like he didn’t quite know what he was supposed to do with it. The next thing he was aware of was a warm weight in his arms, taking slow, shivery breaths against his chest. Hesitant, he had raised his head, and the lips that met him halfway were moist and yielding and tasted, faintly, of black coffee tinged with aspirin.

They’d made love then, a fragile, cautious kind of love that, thinking back about it now, reminded him ever so much of that lousy joke about porcupines – circling each other until one of them gave. The next morning, he’d handed Cooper his key. Even though he knew – knew – someday soon he’d regret it.

Part of him already did, giving Gordon that practiced scowl that said he was too hardened to care, but in fact meant he was caring too much. A look which Gordon, of course, could see right through. Bless the man for being silent about one thing, at least.

Gordon peered back at him, then sighed and, with uncharacteristic nonchalance, leaned back against his desk.

“ALBERT, I’LL GIVE IT TO YOU STRAIGHT. COOPER CLEARLY INDICATED EAGERNESS TO RETURN TO THE JOB. WE BOTH AGREE THAT NOTHING TANGIBLE IS WRONG WITH HIM, SO I CANNOT – AND WILL NOT – KEEP HIM FROM DOING SO. HOWEVER –”

Albert bit back a curse, took a step forward. “Gordon, you’re making a –”

“PLEASE LET ME FINISH, ALBERT.” A piercing look, and he hovered in place. “WHILE I CANNOT KEEP COOPER FROM THE FIELD, I UNDERSTAND YOUR CONCERNS. AND I AGREE IT’S A SENSIBLE PRECAUTION NOT TO SEND HIM OUT ON HIS OWN JUST YET. SO… WHAT DO YOU SAY, ALBERT? WOULD YOU CARE TO CHAPERONE?”

The other shoe dropped with all the subtlety of a bowling ball.

“Gordon –” Scowling openly now. “Let’s not mince words here – I’m an ass at field assignments. I hate them, I do not behave during them, I do not tolerate idiocy, which is ever-present outside of this building – sometimes even in here. I get your point, but I don’t think partnering me up with Cooper for any length of time would be beneficial to the man’s health –”

“BUT WOULD TELL YOU INSTANTLY HOW WELL HE HOLDS UP UNDER PRESSURE. CORRECT?”

Oh, great. Using my own game against me now. Albert rubbed at his forehead, grumbled, “Correct.” Because he knew when he’d been beaten.

“THEN WE HAVE A DEAL. NOW, GO ON AND TELL COOP HE’S GOT HIMSELF A PARTNER.”

Albert grimaced, glancing at the nearest wall, on the other side of which Cooper was either sitting peeved as hell, or laughing his ass off.

“Yeah, well… A little fairy just told me – he’ll already know.”

V.

Without the music, it would have been bearable.

Not easy, mind you. Bearable. Three cases in, and Albert had already seen every single reason why he’d opted out of field work from the start – except for those few times when Cooper or Gordon Cole asked – paraded right in front of his nose. It was one thing to be confronted with evil when it was delivered to you on the autopsy table, wrapped into a snug package that only lacked strings and a bow. Seeing it firsthand, though, made him want to put his knuckles through a solid brick wall. Or someone’s face, for that matter, vow of pacifism be damned.

He nudged his foot between a mound of rubbish and what looked alarmingly like a tattered polka-dot skirt, took half a step forward, and cursed under his breath.

There was a night club just next door, the kind with a very specific clientele, advertising its goods through shaded purple neon signs and some ageless, shapeless, upbeat-y kind of jazz blaring from decrepit speakers. Even here in the basement, the smoky beat filtering in through the side wall was loud enough to make normal conversation difficult. And whoever owned this place was pretty much nuts about the music. At least, that’s what he gathered from a crooked wooden dance floor in the center, lit by sickly yellow spotlights, and the guy’s poster collection, made up of Dirty Dancing and what looked like some Latin American versions of same, plus a tattered Fred and Ginger picture that seemed to have gotten a place of honor.

And then there were the girls.

They sure as hell didn’t go with a bow and a flourish, Albert thought, disgust sharp in his mouth. Four of them, tied up in chairs on the dance floor like so many broken dolls, dressed in flimsy showgirl dresses and decomposed well beyond recognition. All deceased two to eight weeks ago, he ventured a guess. Wrists and ankles snapped, with the kind of sickening precision only a maniac could turn out.

Fred and Ginger would be rolling in their graves.

The music had switched to a fast, lilting tune, drumbeat lodging in his belly and quivering there like a live thing. He knelt at the leftmost woman’s body, careful not to disturb anything they’d need as evidence later. Phalanx bones of toes and fingers were broken as well, and he was betting the poor souls had been alive when it happened. Which, combined with the grime and crumbling walls and that goddamn freaking music, was enough to make his skin crawl and his palms turn sweaty. Unlike many assumed, Albert Rosenfield had a very vivid imagination.

A sound from the other room, and they all jumped. Even though they knew the killer wasn’t coming back – they’d just picked him, unsuspecting, right from his doorstep – nerves were still strung pretty high. Cooper, of course, looked as calm as if he was out for a summer stroll, hand poised at his weapon as he moved towards the door and turned the lock. Albert shot him a terse look and followed right on his heels, hearing the two other cops fall in behind.

He didn’t even notice her until he heard her breathing. A tattered bundle of a person over in the far corner, gagged and bound to a chair like the rest of them. Twenty years old, maybe, looking scared as hell in some kind of black evening dress that barely covered anything, let alone the girl’s dignity.

Moving aside, Albert shut down his reaction and waited for Cooper to step in. By unspoken agreement, it was him who handled that part, the part that involved offering shoulders to victims before taking them to safety. Cooper was a natural; gifted with the kind of face and manner people trusted on sight. An effect which, color him stunned, Albert Rosenfield consistently failed to induce.

This time, though, the expected movement at his shoulder didn’t come. Glancing to his side, he was taken aback by the sight of Cooper blinking at the ceiling like a man in a trance, hips rocking as he swayed – swayed! – slowly in time with the music.

“Coop?” He goggled for a moment, tried to catch Cooper’s eye but came up empty. Saw the two other men – regular police force, neither supposed to take the lead – standing to the side, obviously waiting for some kind of cue. Stifling a curse, he moved to cross the distance himself.

“It’s all right,” he rasped awkwardly, kneeling next to her. “I’m Albert Rosenfield, FBI. You’re safe now.” He reached as carefully as he could to remove the gag and blindfold, which of course wasn’t nearly careful enough. The girl panicked, breath hitching in wild gasps before he managed to free her eyes and she stopped struggling at the sight of him. “You’re safe,” he repeated, seeing her register the suit and tie, as well as the presence of three armed men in the background, and put two and two together. His hands weren’t quite steady as she let him untie her mouth and hands. No broken bones, he saw with some relief. Just one long, ugly cut running along the length of her thigh, another across her right cheekbone.

And still Cooper hadn’t snapped out of his creepy little spell. For a moment, Albert would even have sworn he was smiling, a thin loopy smile that looked nothing like him, but it was gone before he could be sure.

It was only after he’d got the girl out of the house and into the waiting ambulance, after descending that stairway of hell a second time, evidence case a soothing weight in his hand, that he realized Cooper still stood rooted on the spot. Albert almost threw down the case, squared off against him.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Concern sharpened his voice into a growl, and he tuned it down with an effort. Cooper had always had this – this habit of spacing out at impossible moments, as if listening to voices unheard by anyone else. Frankly, it gave Albert the willies, but most often whatever freakish vibes the man picked up did turn out something tangible. In the end, he’d learned to accept it as one of those bits of Cooper he’d never understand. Most of the time. Sometimes, though, the weirdness was just too much.

Cooper wasn’t moving a muscle. Or rather, he was, that loopy grin back on his face as his foot tapped, almost thoughtlessly, in time with the beat. But he didn’t acknowledge Albert’s presence, and he didn’t take his eyes from the poster-paved wall. Albert gave up and took him by the shoulders, gave a hard shake. “Coop? Come on, you’re starting to freak me out here.”

A long second as Cooper’s eyes darkened, then focused on his. “Albert?” Gaze flicking from him to the now-empty chair in the corner and back again. “What did… Is the girl all right?”

“Yeah,” Albert muttered, pulling back slightly. “Wouldn’t call it ‘all right’, but compared to the other four, I’d say she was doing just dandy. I vote we sort out the rest of this mess, then get the hell out of here. Once you’re done studying the wall, that is.” He bit his lip, frustrated by the lack of a reply. “Who – what for Christ’s sake were you looking at? Or listening to?”

“Listening?” The brow puckered for a moment, then that smile came creeping back again. “Why – the music, of course, Albert. Don’t you hear it? Isn’t it just – the most wonderful thing?”

Stifling what he knew was slow horror clouding his face, Albert stepped back against the wall. Watched as Cooper moved right with him, face lit with a brilliant expression as he reached for Albert’s waist and tugged him closer, oblivious to the gun strapped around his hip

“So tense, Albert.” A throaty whisper; hands that spidered, possessive, across his thigh. “What do you say – we go dancing tonight?

VI.

It felt good to be driving. Apart, maybe, from a nice and quiet restaurant, it was in the car more than anywhere that he could relax. It helped to be at the wheel himself, rather than being driven. That way he could roll down the window, light a smoke without anyone bitching, let in the cold air and focus on nothing except the landscape streaming by alongside. If he managed to focus at all, that was.

Yeah – think again, Rosenfield.

His fingers shook a little as he flicked away his cigarette, lit up another.

It was him chasing phantoms; it had to be. Too much time with Cooper would do it to anyone: an overdose of babbling on about magic, premonitions, the supernatural, you name it. It was Cooper’s weird quirks catching up with him, Cooper’s tales and theories seeping under his skin. Cooper’s dreams, waking him up at night to find the man, sweaty and shaking like a stroke victim, huddled on top of the bedspread. It would get to any sane person, in the end.

Except, of course, it wasn’t that at all.

He wasn’t even sure now when it had started to dawn on him. That one insane night, maybe, when in the end they had gone dancing, on Cooper’s insistence, calling at some artsy Latin place downtown where Albert retreated to the bar and knocked down double scotches, watching Cooper take to the dance floor as if they hadn’t just walked out of a freaking killer’s den. That, more than anything, had given him the shakes. Sure, Cooper was always quick to leap back to his feet, would think nothing of having pie and coffee ten minutes after walking away from a crime scene, which was usually when Albert broke out the antacids – but that was a façade, same as they all had. That night, though, the façade had been uncannily real. And there’d been other times, too: Coop cracking jokes that, for Albert, would have been standard survival procedure, but coming from the other man’s mouth just sounded plain wrong. Sometimes, he didn’t think he was talking to Cooper at all. Or working with Cooper. Or – sharing a bed with Cooper.

And still it didn’t hit him. Hadn’t hit him even while all of his senses were screaming at him to get up and face the goddamn music. Hadn’t hit until that one, sun-drenched, obscenely perfect spring morning, when he’d woken up with a bundle of Cooper warm in his arms and had, stupid as hell, trailed a hand through his hair.

And found it pure white.

Oh, not all of it, no; that would have been too telling, wouldn’t it? Just a strand, a single one, tucked away at the back of that frazzled mop of black, a lock he was sure he’d never seen before in his life, and he didn’t even realize why that would bother him so much, why his breath stuck in his throat like that, until it hit him all at once, every word Cooper had said, and Palmer, and Truman, clicking into place like a giant jigsaw puzzle of hell.

“Grey-haired man…” “Always music in the air –“

“– screamed I’d let them hurt her –”

“… when he was inside, I didn’t know. When he was gone, I couldn’t remember…”

“If BOB got away, where is he now?”

This was insane, he’d repeated, over and over, squeezing down the lid on a flash of pure terror that would have woken Cooper up for sure. God damn it, losing it over a pathetic lock of graying hair! Except it all fit, suddenly, those abrupt shifts and weird moods, the amnesia, damsel Annie’s loss of appetite for all things Cooper, and the hit-and-run from Twin Peaks to end up at Albert’s doorstep. It was insane – but it fit anyway.

He’d called Harry Truman straight from the lab. Said he needed a favor, no questions asked, and the good-hearted oaf hadn’t even tried for a why.

Maybe he was crazy. But he had to find out.

He rolled up the window and stepped down on the gas.

Part 2 of the story can be found here.