Work Text:
The world is huge, and Cooper intends on showing Albert as much as he can of it. Or at least, Coop is wholly committed to dragging Albert around Philadelphia, giving him a crash course in the city’s arts and culture. For all of his interests in art and history, Albert noted as he chewed on a poppy seed bagel, he usually couldn’t afford to take time off to immerse himself in his new city. The bagel was untoasted, and awfully chewy - the kind that lingered furtively in the break room, untouched and uneaten - and Albert was regretting having skipped his breakfast. Perhaps tomorrow, on his day off, he’d be able to stop by the corner shop and grab some proper bagels.
Grimacing, he put down the bagel and resumed his work on writing the report of a victim of a recent slaying, one whose rope burns and repeatedly stabbed torso indicated a link between this victim and the marks on a few others. The three victims were all found within the same vicinity - on the banks of the Delaware - and the FBI was assisting Philadelphia and Camden police forces. Maybe, with his work, they’d be one step closer to catching what they all knew was clearly a serial killer.
His work dragged on, for a few more hours, and by then Albert was already settled in his working groove. Wholly dedicated to the task at hand, he at first didn’t realize who had walked in.
“Thorough as always , Albert,” A kind voice interrupted him, knocking him from his single-minded focus.
“Hey, Coop,” Albert said drearily. He slowly rose from his chair as Cooper took a swig from his own steaming cup of coffee. Albert’s own cup sat nearby, cold and abandoned. He groaned suddenly, his body creaking from sitting in his chair for the whole day. “Just about done with this report on the Number Three’s autopsy. Besides, what the hell are you doing here so late?”
“I figured I’d wait for you to finish,” Cooper chatted, “We’ve got plans, too. Have you considered what you want to hit up first tomorrow?”
Rubbing his eyes as he shuffled the papers, Albert pondered momentarily. He’d been drawn to the numerous art and culture institutions in Philadelphia, and had done some light readings on Auguste Rodin, who had a museum dedicated to his work in the city.
“I know a place that might be your speed, Albert - how about the M ütter?- they’ve got a great medical menagerie, skeletons and jars and all.”
“You know, Coop, I think I’ve had my fill of cadavers for a hot minute. Why don’t we go to, ah, the Rodin museum?” Albert responded, rubbing his eyes sleepily.
Cooper’s own eyes lit up, and he immediately snapped his fingers, exclaiming, “Albert, you’re absolutely right - the one thing we need is a refreshing break from your case. I’ll see you tomorrow at nine, we’ll grab ourselves some piping hot coffee, and we’ll be off on our day!”
Barely registering Cooper’s words, Albert stretched his back and arms and looked up. Cooper had already left, he realized. Turning around, he noted that the sky was nearing total darkness. Tomorrow, he decided. Tomorrow he’d be free to spend the whole day with Cooper, and not have to worry about everything else, just one day. Just one day.
He was walking. Down a hallway, where the fluorescent lights reflected off the lifeless linoleum floors. Invisible voices just out of eyesight whispered and chattered, the lights emitted a low buzzing noise. The faint scent of cleaning fluid, and cigarette smoke. It must’ve been Quantico, Albert realized, remembering it was just like his days as a young agent, wandering the old halls. He was holding something. Looking down, Albert saw he was carrying a bouquet of daffodils. The soft yellow and cream colored petals fluttered in some intangible draft. He was looking for someone. Picking up his pace, he walked onwards, but realized his vision was starting to blur. A shadowy, black figure lingered at the end of the hallway, quivering slightly in the distorted, flickering light. His vision swam, and the figure’s darkness morphed with the yellow of the daffodils. The buzzing from the lights changed into incessant beeping, drilling into his ears, and his vision went dark.
The beeping continued. Albert suddenly flipped over and grabbed his alarm clock, which was sounding off for his wake up time of 7:30 in the morning. Of course. Throwing his legs over the bedside, Albert groggily got up and stumbled to the bathroom. After getting washed up, he headed back to his room and instinctively grabbed a white button down shirt, before gingerly putting it back on the hanger and grabbing a sage colored shirt instead. Opting for some relaxed blue trousers as well, Albert got dressed and prepared for his outing, carefully inspecting himself in the mirror.
Later that morning, after he was satisfied with his preparations, Albert walked briskly down the street. His neighborhood was bustling with pedestrians, honking automobiles, and the occasional pigeon flapping its wings. Usually the humdrum of the city irritated Albert, but he felt oddly serene: he walked with a purpose, and with an objective in his mind. He clamped the leatherbound journal in his hands, its pages unwritten. He picked it up at the back alley bookstore, a few blocks from his apartment, not from the kind of place where the books were mass produced. Cooper needed more than just his tape recorder to report his thoughts, after all. With all too impeccable timing, Cooper himself appeared around the block’s corner, carrying a brown paper bag and a tray of two coffees.
“Morning, Albert!” He called cheerfully while striding up to meet him.
Albert gave a half-smile, which looked more like a smirk to the unfamiliar. “Thanks for the breakfast, Coop. How much do I owe-”
“-You don’t owe me a thing,” Cooper gently cut him off.
“Alright, then,” Albert responded, shoving one hand in his pocket and taking his coffee with the other. “So this museum’s down six or seven blocks, according to my map. If we take this street,” he pointed behind Cooper’s head, to the southwest, “and cross over at North 22nd and continue, it’ll be to our left.”
“Excellent. Normally I’d meander around hopelessly without a map, but directionally, I’m in good hands today.”
Albert snorted and rolled his eyes, only for moments later to realize he wasn’t wearing his tinted FBI shades. Cooper, knowing Albert well enough to understand, chuckled, and in a short time they were well on their way.
The museum itself could be considered an artistic marvel, for all Albert cared. Flanked by blossoming cherry trees and verdant beeches, the elegant marble building occupied a peaceful space within the city of Philadelphia, a perfect place to clear one’s head.
“Greek Revival architecture,” Albert murmured quietly, with Cooper nodding in approval. Stepping up and over the white marble threshold that gated the museum, Cooper and Albert walked in tandem towards the main door. “See that black-looking door next to it, with the carvings? Guess what it’s called,” Albert questioned cheekily, eyeing Cooper.
Doing his best impression of someone who was thinking awfully hard, Coop shook his head after a few moments. “I’m stumped, Albert.”
“‘The Gates of Hell’, actually. It doesn’t look so damn agonizing, if you squint a little.”
Cooper chuckled genuinely, with Albert noting that the smile reached his deep hazel eyes. What he’d do to see that expression. He felt that warm and fuzzy feeling grow inside of him, but wanted to stamp it down. Damn it , I’m being stupid again , Albert thought as he pushed the doors to the museum open, following Cooper inside.
The tickets had already been paid for, Albert noted with pleasant surprise. Was Cooper really doing all of this for him? He muttered his thanks to Cooper, his face feeling warm. He didn’t have to do this, really.
Almost reading his mind, Cooper gently squeezed his arm and said, “I’m happy to do this for you, Albert. You need this day to unwind, trust me. Look, let’s go this way.” Taking him gently by the arm, Cooper directed Albert down the stately marble hallway.
Everything was either white, black, or a somber dove gray. The floors, ceiling, walls, everything , were almost all constructed of smooth marble or granite. It felt like his dream, but not as artificial, not as foreboding. Instead of shadow figures and ominous voices roaming the halls, graceful figures languidly stretched out, and some other statues jutted out into the empty space. Curious tourists flitted between the statues, whispering to each other.
“Do you know about this one, Albert? It’s called the Burghers of Calais ,” Cooper tapped him and pointed to the group of statues, a circle of emaciated men looking worryingly somber.
“It’s undoubtedly a copy, the real one’s in Calais, France. You don’t know the story behind it?” Albert asked, gesturing towards the hunched, metallic men. “Back during the Hundred Years’ War in Europe, the English army captured Calais and offered them mercy, at a price. These men, local community leaders, decided they would bear the weight of the city’s freedom. They’re going to offer their lives in exchange, they’re going to die.”
Cooper was wordless, his eyes growing dark as he took in the men’s harrowed expressions. “I can’t fathom how they must have felt, knowing it was either them or… everyone else,” he furrowed his brow in contemplation.
“You know what it’s like, to be surrounded by familiar faces and still feel like the world’s loneliest man?” Albert’s own brown eyes met Cooper’s, and for one moment too long, they locked eyes.
“I’m all too familiar with that sensation, you know. But I know I’m far from the only one,” He answered, his voice slightly unsteady.
“That’s the idea,” Albert said, looking back at the statues. “They knew that, logically, but in that moment, emotion takes over. It’s hard to think realistically when you’re walking to your death, for all you know.”
Cooper nodded solemnly. Albert’s hand brushed over his pocket, which held the small leatherbound journal. When would he give it to Cooper? Now it doesn't seem right, but when?
“You know, these aren’t the only statues in the museum, Albert. We can see more,” he said softly, gesturing towards the numerous white figures in their periphery.
Albert obliged, and they continued across the floor, the heels of their shoes softly tapping on the marble. They drifted from statue to statue, with Albert providing historical context and Cooper asking thought provoking questions. Cooper’s eyes were on the sculptures. Albert’s eyes were on Cooper. They laughed (quietly), whispered, and talked about the works of art that lined the halls, and sometimes sat in silent observance. It was good like this , Albert thought, that neither one of them felt pressured to fill the empty air with words. His eyes drifted from Cooper and the cluster of dented looking statues, to the pale white display of two figures wrapped in a passionate embrace.
“Look,” Cooper said, pointing towards the statue in question, “‘ the Kiss .”
The two figures - a man and a woman - sat wrapped in each others’ arms, their rippling marble curves and muscles straining to keep each other close. It was a kiss of tender intimacy, the first of many kisses, with subtle awkwardness and hesitation. Their features were nondescript, blank enough to be anyone.
“Marvellous, isn’t it? Rodin had the eye for emotion in a fleeting moment, from creeping dread to tentative romance. It’s like looking at a still from a movie,” Albert observed, directing Cooper’s eyes along the statue’s contours with a finger.
“Clearly. Look at how the marble’s cut and carved - it looks like skin, soft and supple - imagine the skill it took to achieve this, let alone for one single statue out of many.” He suddenly reached for his jacket pocket, but patted it in confusion. “Damn, where is it?”
“Where’s what?” Albert asked, puzzled.
“My tape recorder - I think I’ve left it at home, I was going to recollect about today, and the pieces that stood out to me,” Cooper frowned, looking terribly lost without his trusty device.
“Funny you mention that,” Albert said almost too confidently, reaching into his pocket. “It’s a good thing I picked this up a while back. Made me think of you, you know.” He passed Cooper the leatherbound journal, his heart slowly moving into his chest.
Cooper looked in awe at the humble diary, gently opening the pliant cover. “Is this… for me?”
“Who else would I give it to?” Albert smirked.
“Daffodils… pressed daffodils on the front page. I’ve loved pressed flowers, but mine never look as nice as these. It’s beautiful.”
“Hey, don’t worry about it,” Albert said warmly, his own smile matching the one that spread across Cooper’s face. “Just make sure you get good use out of it, okay?”
“Of course, Albert.”
They stood in front of the white statue for a brief moment, with Cooper getting another good look at the gift. There were more statues to see, of course, and the day wasn’t even over. They had nearly the whole afternoon left, Albert realized. And for one moment, he didn’t feel like he was out of time.