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Special Agent Dale Cooper had his rituals, and a change in route usually meant desperation. He carried a creative momentum in his investigations that made him feel, at times, like an artist. Maybe, in another life, he would have channeled that sensibility into creation rather than context - but that, in the end, was what his job was all about. It was an internal debate he often had while looking at a painting, watching a movie, or reading a book. Sometimes the real meaning was far duller than what you took from it. Each interpretation could breathe life into something, and there was rarely a right or wrong way to feel about art.
Unfortunately, in his daily work, the distinction did exist. Things had right or wrong interpretations when solving a crime in a distant city like Twin Peaks, and it was all too easy to jump to the wrong conclusion. The smell of coffee, the trees, and the humidity cleared his head of the troubles he’d left behind once he reached the entrance of the city, almost like a calling.
There were mornings when Cooper woke before sunrise, the sound of wind through the evergreens brushing against his window. He liked that hour, when the world still felt like a secret, and the first cup of coffee carried the promise of order. He wrote notes in his small black book, sometimes about the case, sometimes about the way light filtered through mist, sometimes about people around him. Everything had meaning if you looked close enough, and he took that seriously.
Audrey was different. Despite her sharp mind, her thoughts were easily clouded, perhaps the trees and the humidity had the opposite effect on her. Her emotions came like clouds themselves, one at a time, and that was why, for weeks since Agent Dale Cooper had come to town, he was the only thing she could think about. She moved through her mornings as if they were something to escape, the house felt too big, the hallways too silent. She’d linger by her mirror before school, tracing the curve of her lips with a shade of red that didn’t feel quite right for attending biology first thing in the morning, but made her feel seen. She liked the idea of being part of something mysterious, like the things Agent Cooper seemed to know. Sometimes she’d catch glimpses of him at the diner, surrounded by his calm certainty, his half-smile breaking over a slice of cherry pie and she didn’t understand how someone could be both distant and kind at once, he seemed to belong to the world in a way no one else around her did.
And somewhere in his precise mind, between evidence and instinct, Dale Cooper noticed her too.
That morning the dream had followed him into the waking world. Cooper woke before dawn, as usual, but the sharp clarity he trusted was gone, replaced by a haze he couldn’t name. He wrote everything down, as he always did: details, symbols, the feeling that lingered. Still, none of it made sense, as usual. For the first time in months, the ritual of coffee and dictation didn’t clear his mind.
He carried this feeling through this day, but by nightfall, the unease hadn’t left him. The Great Northern felt heavier than usual, its wooden halls murmuring with the sound of distant doors, the furniture clicking, almost like trying to tell him what they'd seen. He ordered wine instead of coffee, the first glass out of restlessness, the second out of need.
He took a seat near the lounge window, where firelight met the shadows. He meant to think, to make sense of the dream, but the warmth in his chest made everything blur at the edges.
She had the kind of timing that felt accidental but never was. Her steps were light, her presence unmistakable.
“Agent Cooper,” she said, voice somewhere between teasing and concern. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without coffee in your hand.”
He looked up, the faintest smile touching his lips. “A man must sometimes vary his habits,” he said. “Even if only to confirm why he keeps them.”
Audrey tilted her head, amused. “You make it sound like an experiment.”
“In a way, it is,” he replied, setting the glass down carefully. “Though I can’t say it’s producing the desired results.”
She smiled at that, taking the empty chair beside him without waiting for permission. “Maybe you’re not supposed to test yourself all the time.” He noticed she had her own mug in hands, she placed it beside the half empty wine bottle at the table, the fading steam revealed the temperature of the liquid inside, Tea? he thought.
He studied her for a moment, the confidence she wore, the restlessness in her eyes. “And what brings you down here at this hour?” he asked, his tone turning light. “I was beginning to think the Great Northern belonged entirely to the night staff and me” he joked.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said simply. “Too quiet upstairs. You ever get that feeling, like the silence is watching you?”
Cooper’s expression softened, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Yes,” he said. “More often than I’d like to admit.”
The fire popped softly, and the room seemed to contract around their shared stillness. For a moment, neither of them spoke and they were simply two people too awake for the hour. The minutes passed in a silence that wasn’t uncomfortable, just uncertain. The wine kept softening the edges of his thoughts, and he found himself tracing the rim of the glass with his thumb, distracted by the way the light caught on the surface.
Audrey was the one who broke the quiet. “You look like you’re somewhere else.” she said.
He exhaled, almost a laugh. “I suppose I am.”
“Bad day at the Bureau?”
“No,” he said, then hesitated. “Just…a strange night.”
Her eyes lit up - curiosity, always. “Strange how?”
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “A dream. One that doesn’t want to let go.” he was resisting the temptation to look up at her.
Audrey leaned forward, elbows on her knees, chin resting in her hand. “Tell me.”
“It’s not the kind of thing I’d usually share.” He loved talking about his dreams actually, Audrey didn't know that yet.
“I won’t tell anyone,” she said, smiling. “Scout’s honor.”
He hesitated again, long enough that the fire cracked twice before he spoke. “I was walking through a forest. Everything was quiet, but not peaceful. The trees were white - not with snow, but with light. And ahead of me, there was a house made of glass. I could see inside, but every time I tried to reach it, the path changed.”
She tilted her head. “What was inside?”
“A woman,” he said. The word came out softly, like he wasn’t sure it was allowed. “She was sitting at a table, looking out the window. She never moved, but somehow I knew she could see me. Every time I took a step closer, she smiled.” His eyes fell to his glass again with a pause “And the house drifted farther away.”
Audrey didn’t speak right away. Her voice, when it came, was quiet. “Do you think she wanted you to find her?”
Cooper’s gaze was still on his glass. “Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe I wanted her to stay where she was. Sometimes the wanting is safer than the having.” He brought the wine to his mouth, instinctively breaking his resistance against his own consent and looked up at her.
She looked at him for a long time, her expression soft “That sounds lonely.”
He nodded, half a smile returning. “It is.”
The room had gone still again, save for the low hum of the fire and the faint sound of the river through the windows. Audrey leaned back in her chair, studying him; the way his eyes moved, distant but alert, as though he were still walking through that dream.
At first she reached for her own beverage, but her fingers brushed the neck of the bottle instead. “You want more?” she asked, though her tone carried something gentle, a kind of permission.
He hesitated before nodding. “Just a little.” He was making a mess of himself, but he stopped caring about that more than three glasses ago.
She poured carefully, watching the wine thread into his glass. The movement was ordinary, but his attention caught on her hand: steady and deliberate. Then she set the bottle down, her fingertips grazed his skin just above his right unbuttoned sleeve.
It wasn’t intentional. Or maybe it was.
The touch was feather-light, but it set something moving beneath his calm…a tremor in his breath. He didn’t pull away, neither did she.
Audrey’s gaze lifted, meeting his. There was no teasing in her expression now, only a quiet awareness that made the air between them heavier, she could feel the result of the empty bottle beside him on the surface of his skin, that being really really warm.
He cleared his throat, trying to ground himself. “It’s late,” he said, softly.
“I know.”
“You should get some rest.”
“So should you.”
The moment that stretched was fragile, but unbroken. He wanted to tell her that she should go and that this wasn’t right, but his voice refused to obey, and his body kept betraying him.
Instead, he just said her name. “Audrey.”
It wasn’t a warning. It wasn’t even a plea. Just a name. But in his mind it wasn’t just a name, he wasn't quite sure if it wasn't a plea, but it was definitely a warning.
Her lips curved into a small, knowing smile. She stood, slow and graceful, took her mug and for an instant her free hand brushed and squeezed his shoulder, the briefest, quietest - and very intentional - touch, before she turned toward the door. “Night” She said, almost in a whisper.
He watched her go, her reflection colored by the yellow light of the fire and fading in the window’s glass like the woman in his dream. When the door finally closed behind her, the room felt larger, emptier, and somehow harder to breathe in.