Work Text:
“One thing”, he says, sleep stretching his vowels and slurring the edge of his words, “has revealed itself to me with absolute clarity: the peanut butter is shady.”
“And now, two words of wisdom for you, Coop: shut up.”
“But, Albert...”
“Sleep.”
And let him sleep. In that rickety old broom closet they got instead of a room, the kind of lodging that's wasted without an evil stepmother and a cutesy magical talking animal or two (or maybe he's got that covered, if his colleague counts), Albert would like to get his well-deserved sleep in-between yesterday's investigation and tomorrow's eventual fated foray into a gingerbread house. Just this once, Coop. Just this once.
Albert rolls over, watching the gentle show of the rising and falling of blankets on the nearby bed. The glimmer of moonlight on Dale Cooper's slick black hair is so close that he could touch it if only he stretched his arm. The peanut butter is shady. A caress wouldn't be enough to get the residual nonsense out of that noddle, would it. Several, maybe. Albert would volunteer.
“Go to sleep, you and your fancies”, Albert sighs. There is a tenderness he can only afford to let out in the middle of the night and the hour's far gone. The peanut butter is shady. And it's not just the hour that's gone, he might add. How batshit unhinged do you have to be to rise from your well-deserved sleep to proclaim your mistrust for ground legumes.
Or did he.
In the morning, as often happens, Dale Cooper rises to outshine the sun. Albert's ears are pierced by a little whistled tune; when he finds it in himself to rub the dark bags under his eyes and tentatively peek from under his blankets, he sees his colleague already groomed and dressed, sparkling in the morning light as he fastens his tie.
“What was it, then”, he groans.
“What was what, Albert? It doesn't do well to linger in bed, especially in hotels, and I use the term generously, with a very limited time allotted for breakfast.”
“Was it code?”, he asks, catching the frayed ends of the night's stranded thoughts. Always hard to say, with Coop. But his voice felt so urgent earlier, with that ascetic yearning for the absolute that would draw Albert in over and over again. “What was it a symbol for? These opaque systems of yours, they're the very definition of backward reasoning. So, starting with 'shady', was it the bruise on the victim's ankle, a spread of corruption – and in that case, please do enlighten me on whether smooth or crunchy – or the goddam weather when we'll crack the case.”
“We both like the sound of your voice, Albert, but the what?”
Figures. He doesn't even remember talking, does he.
“The peanut butter.”
“Oh, you mean the snack we had in Seattle? Why are you still hung up on that? Mind you, that burnt taste will haunt my nights.”
“Your capacity for self-analysis continues to amaze me, Coop.”