Coincidence

by DBKate
Pairing: Cooper/Rosenfield
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Big ones for Season One Finale and Season 2/Ep. One.
Disclaimer: These boyz belong to David Lynch & Mark Frost and I promise to put them back all nice and neat when Ise done with 'em. :-)

Summary: A post-episode speculation taking place within my "Wonderful" universe.

Note: This fic is a gift for Dorothy Marley to hopefully cheer her up after her loss. :-(

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COINCIDENCE
by DBKate, 1999

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Dale Cooper was alive.

For the moment anyway. Albert Rosenfield made a quick note in his mental diary to put off strangling him for at least another twenty-four hours.

He hoped he could hold out that long.

The plane trip from San Francisco had been a very specific kind of hell; one that should be reserved for criminals of the worst sort, the ones who had lost the part of their souls that housed any final remains of human empathy.

The car ride up from Seattle had been ten times worse.

Rosenfield listened to the gravel spitting against the sides of the car and winced at its speckled noise. Every squeak of the brakes, every turn of the wheel spoke to him in tongues and those murmuring voices repeated a chorus that at once terrified and sickened him.

//he's dead he's dead he's dead he's dead//

The inbreds at the local butcher shop, that pathetic excuse for a hospital hadn't been much help either. Oh, yes, Special Agent Dale Cooper. Shot in the chest, taken into the ER at seven a.m., moved to ICU at nine and no longer in residence by ten-thirty. Hmmm, that's odd, they chorused. Now where do you suppose he could have gone? Why he couldn't have just walked away now, do ya think Agent Rosenfield? Doesn't seem possible -- doesn't seem right, now does it? Powerful odd that is -- powerful odd.

Storming down to the morgue, he'd been forced to check every drawer himself.

Spent nearly an hour unzipping body bags containing withered husks of old women, one infant, and the bloated corpse of some huge drug addict, the smell of sweat and gunsmoke still clinging to his corpse.

On and on it went. The cold slam of one drawer shut, the slide of another one opening. The zip of the next body bag open, the zip of the last one shut.

As all the while the voices kept murmuring.

//he's dead he's dead he's dead he's dead//

It wasn't until Dr. Hayseed came down and told him that Cooper had checked himself out that the voices stopped. The good doctor babbled a slew of meaningless words about bulletproof vests and murdered ticks until Albert thought he was going to either rescind his vow of pacifism or drop dead in the most appropriate of places.

Right onto a cold morgue floor.

Made his way back to the car and phoned the idiot receptionist at the sheriff's station. Fought for control as her squeaking, hesitant voice nearly drove him over the edge.

"Oh it's been such a very busy morning Agent Rosenfield. That's your name right? I have it written right here spelled out just as you told me. R-O-S-E-N-F-I-E-L-D. Rosenfield ... that's it, right? I'm not always good with names, but..."

His hands shook as he hung up once, then dialed again, this time making sure when the idiot picked up the phone she plainly understood that he was in no mood to dispense any form of human generosity or kindness.

A long moment of silence followed until she quietly told him exactly where to find Cooper. He hung up again and told the junior agent driving to take his time getting to the crime scene Cooper had deemed important enough to check himself out of ICU to run off and investigate.

Just to make sure he had enough time to collect what was left of an iron composure that had crumbled in the measly span of less than eight hours in the purest of hells.

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"Harry! It's him! It's him! It's Agent Rosenflower!"

God bless idiots, Rosenfield murmured inwardly, as poor Deputy Droopalong hit the deck board running, timing his steps perfectly, making sure the only loose board in the entire structure flew up and concussed him straight back into the Stone Age. It was soothing to watch him swagger and sway, losing his composure, then regaining it slightly, only to have it fade from his grasp, dizzying him, but never quite giving him the full peace of oblivion.

Yes, it was a very, very comforting sight.

Because Albert Rosenfield knew exactly how he felt.

And yes, it *was* another great day in law enforcement history and he made sure to let them all know he was celebrating it right along with the poor brain-dead deputy who'd finally gotten enough sense to sit down in the grass and wipe his bleeding nose on his already red-spotted sleeve.

Rosenfield stared straight ahead, avoided Cooper's gaze and listened without interest to the discovery of a pair of boots and whole lot of cocaine.

Put his sunglasses back on when he learned that he was just in time for a couple more autopsies and that he was invited to the local pie eating contest come later that month.

Oh, and stew was on the Great Northern menu that evening, and if it was anything like the last batch ... he should be sure not to miss it.

"Stew?" Rosenfield stared straight ahead, peering at a sky that was getting somewhat cloudy above the pines.

"Yes, Albert. Stew," Cooper replied gravely, before getting into the sheriff's truck and slowly disappearing down the narrow gravel road.

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"Take off your shirt."

"Albert, I ..."

"Take it off."

Cooper obeyed stiffly and Rosenfield made no move to assist. He was feeling decidedly insensitive at that moment and examined Cooper coldly, being careful to avoid grazing any skin. No, there would be no touching here; no touching beyond the typical distant, clinical examination he reserved for his usual patients -- the corpses of murder victims.

He was, after all, a doctor for the dead.

The stethoscope felt like a strange snake wrapped around his neck as he made his preliminary examinations of Cooper's injuries. The bandage work was sloppy as hell, no surprise there, but the bleed-through and sheer amount of bruising did surprise him.

"Why the hell did your vest hitch up like that?"

Cooper looked abashed ... embarrassed. "Wood tick."

And there but for the grace of nature went Albert Rosenfield's sanity. He concluded his examination quickly, running on cruise control. The sarcasm came easily enough, especially when Deputy Droopalong came into the sheriff's office turned examining room and tried his hardest to be the Best Little Investigator in The West.

Wasn't that sweet? It was trying to think.

And ah, yes. Where oh where did they keep the poor bastard's water dish? Rosenfield wasn't trying to be cruel, oh no, he was sincerely curious. Because then he and Deputy Idiot could then compare notes as to who had the shorter leash tied around their throats.

Because Dale Cooper certainly kept his tether cropped close and strapped on very tightly indeed.

The deputy left and Rosenfield quickly packed up his equipment. "Oh, and next time you decide to play Superman, Coop, please do me the favor and leave me a note in the ER. You know, just a sentence or two like "Gone Fishing" or "Back in Five Minutes. Either one is acceptable."

That was met with wide eyes. "But . . . I thought that Gordon . . ."

"Told me you were shot and that was all she wrote." Rosenfield picked up his bag and compulsively straightened his cuffs. "If the truth be told Coop, I spent a good portion of this morning searching the local morgue for you."

Cooper's eyes widened, obviously horrified as the full implication of Rosenfield's words dawned on him. Slim fingers reached out for Rosenfield's arm, but he neatly sidestepped their grasp.

"But that's now officially a moot point. If you need me, I'll be spending the rest of the day Hoover'ing your hotel room for evidence." Straightened out his tie and refused to meet Cooper's eyes. "If you like, I'll call the exterminator after I'm done to make sure that any leftover wood tick accomplices won't play anymore wiseass tricks with your body armor."

"Yes. Thank you, Albert." Quietly.

"You're very welcome." Rosenfield strode out, his eyes burning. Put on his sunglasses to hide the inevitable waterworks and pushed his way past a punk in a leather jacket who had the misfortune of standing in his way.

I suggest you move it or lose it, you little punk bastard, he thought furiously.

Because Albert Rosenfield is suddenly very, very sick of dealing with the living.

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The phone call came in at about eight-thirty that evening.

It was Cooper. Sounding breathless. "Sorry to bother you Albert, but I seem to having a slight pain management problem at the moment. Would you mind . . ."

He was already out the door and halfway to the fire stairs before the line clicked off. Jogged up two long flights and found Cooper's door unlocked.

Made another mental note to flay Cooper alive for that idiocy and entered, tossing his medical bag onto the nearest chair. Wondered if he remembered his dosage calculations correctly before opening the bag and yanking out another snake-like set of tubes and syringes.

His bag contained one of typical emergency kits favored by those of his profession -- a small assortment of syringes, hypodermics, common antibiotics, antihistamines, painkillers and a large silver flask full of very good scotch. It figured that Cooper didn't drink, making things a whole lot harder than they could have been.

But, of course, that was Cooper's way, wasn't it?

"Albert?" The voice coming from the bed sounded tired. Pained.

"Give me a minute, Coop." He bit the inside of his cheek with frustration as he decided to go with a lower amount. The corpses he usually dealt with never asked him for painkillers and for the first time he regretted their obstinate stoicism.

"Please, Albert." Pleading tone and the syringe in Rosenfield's hand quivered slightly.

"In a minute," he growled as the medication bubbled within the syringe. He quickly realized that if he, Albert Rosenfield the Pathologist, wasn't careful, he was going to end up killing someone. He began to carefully tap out the deadly bits of trapped air while squirting half of the measured fluid into the air.

Damn it all to hell, he thought, tossing the syringe into a wastebasket and starting over. He wasn't even licensed to practice in this state, goddamn it.

Not on the living anyway.

"Albert. Please put that down and come here. Please."

Rosenfield shut his eyes tightly and grimaced. Oh, the dead never gave him these many problems, that was for sure.

He took a deep breath and turned around. Saw the far too young-looking features half obscured beneath a fallen lock of ebony hair and that ever brittle, ever fragile, part of his heart simply snapped away.

Cooper patted the side of his bed and Rosenfield reluctantly sat. He looked away, forcing himself to focus on the opposite wall, the one graced with what could have been the ugliest rendition of a white tailed deer ever committed to canvas.

"I'm sorry, Albert." The voice was very soft, very sincere and very Cooper. "I had no idea that Gordon would send you out here so uninformed. If I'd known, I would have had Diane contact you immediately."

"Cooper, I only came down here because I thought you were having some sort of 'pain management problem' whatever the hell that is." Thickly, with the words sticking in his throat.

"I am." Warm fingertips traced the outline of his cheek.

Rosenfield swallowed hard. "Really? Well, then why don't you start by telling me where it hurts."

The roving fingertips traced their way down his shirt front and circled the part of his chest where most laymen assumed the heart was located. "Right here."

"Oh, for the love of ..." he began, but was silenced by a warm mouth against his own, soft lips exploring and a tongue stroking hesitantly between. Tasted bitter coffee and sugar and the slightly acidic taste of over-the-counter medication. Felt desire flare instantly, hotly and he leashed it ruthlessly, quelled it and pulled away.

Saw bright eyes, too bright in the room's dim light. "I'm truly sorry, Albert. Forgive me."

"It's all right. There's nothing to forgive." Somehow, Rosenfield discovered he could breathe again. And think. "Except for that damned stew. Thanks to you, I now have a case of heartburn that would cripple a vulture."

Cooper leaned back. Regarded him thoughtfully. "I know a great cure for heartburn, Albert." Leaned in and whispered conspiratorially. "Warm milk. Works like a charm." His expression turned pensive. "Of course, there is a bit of a delay for it on this floor. The waiter, you see ..."

"Has to empty out his droolcup first. Yeah, I saw." Rosenfield reached out; brushed a stray lock of hair from Cooper's eyes. Leaned in, kissed the pale forehead and was rewarded with a smile; a brilliant one, full of all the life and affection that his usual 'patients' never seemed to be willing to bestow upon him.

Cooper smiled. "It's worth the wait. If you have the right company."

Rosenfield allowed himself a small grin. "Oh, yeah? Well then shove over. No, wait. You'll probably rupture something new and interesting." He rose and settled in with a groan on the unoccupied side of the bed and gently, very gently, pulled Cooper close. "If anyone asks, I'm still Hoover'ing." He reached for the remote and flicked on the television. "And if you recommend another damned "special" in this hole, you're going in for attempted murder."

Cooper nestled in and peered at him sleepily. "That would be slightly ironic, wouldn't it?"

Albert flipped past the local channels and settled on the nighttime showing of "Return to Love." "In this damned town," he growled, "... nothing less would suffice."

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fini

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