The Private Letters of Albert Rosenfield

by Dorothy Marley
Pairing: Dale Cooper/Albert Rosenfield
Rating: PG-13
Date: 08/04/99
Companion piece to "The Secret Tapes of Dale Cooper"

DISCLAIMER: Dale Cooper and Albert Rosenfield belong to David Lynch and Mark Frost. In particular, this story draws on some of the character background described in the book _The Autobiography of F. B. I. Special Agent Dale Cooper: My Life, My Tapes_, by Scott Frost. The characters and situations are being used without permission, and no infringement on the rights of their owners is intended.

SUMMARY: Albert writes a letter.

"The Private Letters of Albert Rosenfield"
by Dorothy Marley

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September 14, 1978

Esther,

Okay, I agree. "I got laid" is short on details. What do you want, pictures? More facts, if it'll make you happy:

His name is Dale Cooper, and he's another Special Agent here in Philadelphia. I've worked a few cases with him, including that bitch of a case last February, and he's never acted completely stupid. And no, he's not Jewish, or Catholic, or Protestant, or Episcopalian, or a devil worshipper. I think he's some kind of free thinker.

I'm not sure what else I can tell you about the other night--the "first night," as you put it. Maybe I'm even worse than I think I am about picking up these kinds of clues, but I swear I never saw it coming. Flowers and chocolates, some innuendo . . . a feel-up in the bathroom . . . maybe I would have caught on. But for the life of me, I still don't know where all this came from. One minute he's strictly professional, going over his testimony, talking the case, talking work. Next thing I know he's trying an amateur tonsillectomy and ripping my clothes off. I guess he got tired of waiting for me to notice the signals, decided the caveman approach was the only way to get my attention. Not what I expected from Cooper, but I sure didn't try very hard to get away. I might be anti-social, but I'm not stupid. This isn't the kind of opportunity that happens to me every day, you know.

Please don't give me the self-esteem lecture again. I know what the mirror is for, all right? Let's try not to have that fight all over again. I'm only saying that I'm not exactly used to good-looking guys throwing themselves at me for no apparent reason. I know you're worried that Coop's going to be another Eli (and I'd be lying if I said the thought never crossed my mind.) But while I might not know exactly what's going on here, I can promise you this: whatever Cooper's thinking, he's not like Eli.

I don't know if it's "serious." Cooper keeps wanting to talk about it. I keep changing the subject. Part of me is still wondering what the hell is going on, and part of me is trying to see how much nooky I can get before Cooper wakes up and smells the cigarettes. Maybe it's just some great sex, maybe not. Maybe it's more. Hell if I know.

Another thing is Cooper's partner, Agent Earle. Coop thinks the sun rises in his eyes, but personally I'd use a different term, like "sadistic psychopath." I don't know what Earle will do if he figures out that his partner is screwing some lab fag down in the basement, but I don't think I want to find out. But what the hell do I know? I'm so savvy I never even knew Cooper was a switch-hitter. Cooper trusts Earle, and Cooper has more instinct for reading people than anyone else I've ever known.

God, listen to me, Esther. I've got it bad. Damn me.

We went out again last night--well, more accurately, we went out. Dinner and a movie. Not very imaginative, but the restaurant was good and we ended up skipping the movie, so all in all it was okay. No pictures.

I just wish to hell I knew where all this was going.

You owe me twenty bucks. I told you the Sox would choke.

Your loving grandson,

Albert

THE END

Feedback, including constructive criticism, always welcome at

Dorothy

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