They take the stairs, on his insistence. The lift buttons are square and bright and indisputably inviting, but he turns his back on them without a thought.
Albert's groan of protest, which is barely that at all, confirms it. A silent ride up in the lift would be counterproductive. To stay in motion is the surest cure right now.
It would help, he reckons, if he'd know what needs curing. Not for himself, of course. For himself, for now, he's done all he needed to and all he could. Faced the storm, passed through, and found himself whole at the other side. Conscience clear, grief tucked away for when he can work through it properly. Rituals work both ways, and this one wasn't just for Leland's sake.
Albert, though – Albert's a different matter.
Oh, he can read the symptoms well enough. Albert needs focus, needs to feel in control, and, judging by the way his shoes are dragging on the stairs behind him, is losing that battle fast. For all the façades, he's never found Albert a tough book to read. Right now, though, there are masks on top of masks, and none of them tells the whole story.
He waits at the landing, counts Albert's footsteps by the squelch of wet wool. His own suit's a mess, pant legs soaked through and dripping on the carpet. Not that the carpet will be worse for it, per se. There's something about stairwells, especially in public places like these, that he's always found to be revealing. This one's abysmal in the extreme, too-dim lights failing to mask squalid paintwork. Black veins of a luxury haven, and he stops himself before that thought starts to involve Benjamin Horne. He's still a Federal officer, after all, and pledged to act like one – even in the privacy of his own thoughts.
Eight more steps till Albert catches up, but by that time he's made up his mind.
Fourth floor – his room, Albert's is one higher up – and he holds the door open without a word. Albert doesn't question, just shoulders past him and into the corridor. He looks winded, enough for doubt over that offered cigarette to rear its head again. Albert either smokes too much or doesn't smoke enough, depending on how you look at it. At least if it helped, he'd be able to see it as something more than slow suicide – a remedy, however flawed. It doesn't help, though. Not for more than a minute. A minute that passed a long time ago, judging by the set of those shoulders.
For a second it's all he can do not to either kiss the man or tackle him, do whatever he needs to draw him out right here. But the moment passes, and instead he finds himself trailing after Albert to his own room.
Patting his pockets for the key, he retrieves it from between a soaked handkerchief and ditto wallet. Opens the door and steps inside, and it's only when they're in, when he's closed the latch and is peeling off the remnants of his coat, that he sees Albert stop and blink. That, and he's taken that stance again, the stance that means I shouldn't be here or at least I'm not sure I want to, arms crossed in front of his chest like caging something in. Or keeping him out. Or, most likely, both.
He gives it a moment while he hangs his vest to dry, along with his tie and ruined socks. He had a fresh pair in the car trunk, like he always does, but given the condition of his shoes, it seemed a waste to use it.
The floorboards are polished wood, warm under his feet. He revels in the sensation for a few seconds longer, finds Albert still hovering at the door when he kneels to crank up the heating.
"How's your ribs?" Albert grunts, pointedly enough that he knows he must have winced in the process. The answer's well enough to handle, but of course, that's not the kind of answer Albert wants to hear.
"Wet," he says, which seems like a good compromise. Unbuttons his shirt to reveal a sopping bandage, which makes Albert's frown deepen. No surprise there. "Not much use in a change of clothes until I get rid of this."
Albert nods. "I'll have a look; poke at that bullet hole while I'm at it." Drifts another few feet towards him and away from the door, and now there's only one more step to take, one more step to close the distance.
Cold cheek finds a soaked shoulder and burrows into it regardless. He shivers, but Albert's hands are blessedly dry, warm anchoring weights on either side of his waist.
Four heartbeats before Albert shifts and untangles – spurred to movement, again, unable to linger. Cooper uses the lull to get rid of his shirt altogether, lean into the bathroom and turn on the heating there.
"I warmly recommend the shower, Albert." Keeping his tone neutral, just to be on the safe side. "I don't know if it's providence or simply good plumbing, but I seem to have been blessed with a singularly fine one." And of course Albert would raise his eyebrows at that, dutiful glare of disbelief.
"Well, unless you own a spare suit collection, I don't think there's a point in my showering here at all." Dryly, but a hint of rebellion in the voice. Rebellion, he's sure, Albert wants him to hear, because it's too near the surface, almost hiding in plain sight. A sight that, admittedly, he doesn't meet often. Still, he'd have to be blind not to know what it means.
"We'll make do," he says, simply, and palms Albert's shirt, cautious. Sharp exhalation of breath that he pretends, conscientiously, not to hear. But no protest follows, and after a moment Albert's hands have joined his on the buttons. The way his own chest unclenches feels curiously like relief.
"Coop?" Shouldering out of the fabric, Albert balls his hands around it, white knuckles turning whiter. Makes a move as if to chuck it to the floor, just lets it drop instead. "What you did in there… What you said–"
"– was as much for myself as it was for Leland," he says, quietly. A muscle jumps at Albert's throat, and he finds himself reaching to smooth it down with his thumb. "That's what you mean, isn't it? That, given what crimes he's guilty of, we don't owe him anything?"
Albert swallows, hard, against his hand. "I don't know. Yeah. Maybe." Exasperated sigh. "How you fight your demons is none of my business, Coop. As long as you're not fighting Palmer's as well."
The answer is hardly that simple, but he nods. "Well, I owe you a thank you either way." Which must have been a strange thing to say, because the noise Albert makes is half tears, half laughter, a choked hiccup that gets stuck on the way out.
He's about to ask what's so funny, what it is that he missed, except Albert's mouth on his has just made that quite impossible.
The kiss is slow, cautious, palms trailing across his back and cupping his shoulder blades. He finds Albert's hip and pulls himself in by it, tips of his fingers tingling, like burned. He wasn't really that cold, was he? Or perhaps he was, and he's just stopped feeling it. Either way, the warmth is real, which is all that matters in this place, at this time. Groin grazes groin and then there's more warmth, slow waves lapping up his spine until he's humming with it, and someone – he isn't sure who – moans a hot little moan between the space of two breaths.
Albert isn't meeting his eyes, but his hands are moving, slipping across his belt to tug at the buckle. Shivers briefly, convulsively, head dropping onto Cooper's shoulder. From there, it's just a twist and turn to spoon him up, soft noise of surprise, and then Albert is propped against the wall and Cooper has his arms wrapped around him from behind.
"What do you want, Albert?" he murmurs. Works a hand between his stomach and the small of Albert's back, palm down, and rubs slowly.
Albert's huff of protest comes out more like a groan. "Right now? Just forgetting sounds goddamn perfect."
He nods, lets out his own breath against the nape of Albert's neck. "Like this?" Pulling down still-damp pants, just enough for him to slip a hand between fabric and skin. Strokes gently, warm firmness between his fingers, is met by a shudder and a low sigh.
"God. Yes. Like –" And he's wondered, a dozen times over, why it is that Albert calls for divinity when he doesn't even believe in it.
"You're sure the bed wouldn't be more comfortable?" Not really a question he expects an answer to, and he's surprised when Albert's head snaps up.
"Comfortable?" Silence that he realizes, too late, is one of rage. "You want to get comfortable? Coop, you just had a murdering rapist croak in your arms, and you want – " Voice giving out before the acid can turn to poison, but the harm's already done. And of course, he should have known.
He keeps absolutely still, waits for Albert's breathing to settle. "I believe in seizing the moment, Albert." Cautious murmur. "Right now, the one in my arms is you."
Albert gulps and shrugs and hugs the wall closer. "Yeah, well, you know I'm not much of a believer."
"You still say 'god' when you come." Risky, but it draws a snort that's not unlike Albert's trademark one.
"Bad habits die hard, huh?" Short burst of laughter before he clenches, palms against the wall. "Coop – just – " Voice ragged, and Cooper frees his hands without a word, anchors them on Albert's shoulders.
"Sorry." Albert winces, but doesn't shrug him off. "Crook stomach. Thought I could – fuck. I don't know –" Shaky breath, shoulders straightening fractionally. "When I close my eyes, all I can see is this Palmer guy, howling–"
"I know," he says, simply. "I see the same."
If Albert's surprised by that, he doesn't show it. "How do you do it, Cooper?" he mutters. "Those girls, Palmer… How can you –"
"Make love when young women get raped? Sleep when good people are killed in their homes?" He tilts his head. "Albert, you know the answer to that as well as I do." Steps in, tugs at Albert to face him, and this time, when those eyes refuse to meet his, he can't let it pass.
"Look at me. Albert, look at me." Albert's chin comes up, jerkily, and he cups it in both his hands. "I don't need to tell you this, because God help me, you already know." And there's no protest when he leans in closer, no protest when he starts to thread Albert's fingers through his. "For every act in life, there's a way to do it right and a way to twist it into something evil. That evil exists doesn't mean the world is wrong. Us doing it right – is what gives all of this meaning, makes it worth fighting for. You do know that, don't you? If we give up living –"
"I know." Albert's pupils are pools of black in a huge iris, dark and sincere. "Coop – damn. I know, I –" Hands parting at the waist, and this time it's Albert who reaches, makes him shiver first.
There is a rhythm to this – cheek against shoulder, skin against palms, and if any of these hands are his, he couldn't even tell which one. Albert's throat against his forehead, Albert's hips making urgent little thrusts against his grip, and he can't for the world of him understand how, five minutes ago, he could still have been cold when right now, he feels like the world is burning.
He comes, harshly, like a punch in the gut. Doesn't even know if Albert came before or after, until he hears him pant God as if he means it, finds himself wrapped in a tight embrace.
There are lights then, and a shower and blankets. Little things, big things, and though everything's still as wrong as before, in this corner of the universe, he can almost forget it.
There's something to be said for staying in motion. But sometimes, just sometimes, it helps to let the light come to you.