A/N: A while back, someone on twinpeakssecrets over at Tumblr wished for more crackfics in this fandom. And then I remembered I had this one stashed away in my fic folder. Originally I planned to write a whole series of fic trope parodies, but my enthusiasm died halfway through, and so I decided to only finish this one for everyone's joy and despair ;).
Out to Lunch
"…So before he dozed off, Coop said the Giant offered him three wishes as a – compensation, of sorts."
"'Compensation?'" Albert muttered. "For what, a lousy stay in the Black Lodge?"
Truman shrugged, hunched over the wheel. "I'm as puzzled as you are."
Albert missed his chance to point out what a rare occurrence that was. After running on little more than catnaps for twenty-six hours, the quip seemed too trite to waste his wit on. Besides, the local flatfoots had - wonders of wonders - proved useful in tracking BOB along the backroads of this podunk. Grand theft auto and decking a local badge weren't exactly reasons to make whoopee, but it was a hell of a lot less depressing than what Cooper could have woken up to.
"Any mention of what he wished for? Or is it the kind that won't come true if you say it aloud?"
"For Annie," Harry recounted, "to get well soon. For Andy, to know for certain if he's fathered a child. And..." His eyes stayed firmly on the road as he said the last sentence. "For the two of us, to get along."
Albert made a half-hearted attempt to mask his sardonic smile as a yawn. Well, they hadn't had a hearty squabble in all the time they spent at Cooper's bedside. But he'd sooner chalk it up to weariness than the works of any magic bullet. For the first time in almost three days, they'd felt confident enough (Albert not so much in the staff's abilities as in Cooper's) to leave him in the lull of pill-induced sleep and find something to eat outside Hayseed Hospital. Albert didn't think more fondly of the Double R than of any other pit stop, but at least they didn't confuse lukewarm rubber balls with potatoes in there.
The jangle of the diner's doorbell alerted at least one of the lunch guests to their arrival.
"Hello there, Andy!"
"Sheriff Truman, Agent Rosenfield." The gangly deputy hailed them with a jerky raise of his arm. Following suit, Albert acknowledged – Brennan, was it? – with a nod, his shoulders sagging with an inwards sigh. Maybe he should've opted for a bland tuna sandwich at the Great Northern Ramshackle after all.
They took seats at the counter next to Deputy Fencepost, Albert farthest to the left; not his half-wit acquaintance, not his amiable chit-chat to make. Poring through the menu, he listened idly to the police men's conversation
"You, uh, mind me asking what you ordered? Looks like it was quite the tuck-in." Truman's hands, visible at the corner of Albert's eyes, drew a vague outwards curve in the air. A glance sideways confirmed that Brennan's belly bulged against the khaki shirt.
"Not at all, sheriff. I haven't eaten yet. But I'm about to have mango pie."
"Mango pie? That's a new one." "Yeah, that's all I've been able to get down the past week. The week before that I was crazy for pickles, but that didn't work out. Made me sick to my stomach. And I can't have coffee anymore."
"Naah, no coffee?" Truman's voice grew concerned.
Oh, the monumental loss to a Twin Peaks-denizen's diet, Albert thought and flipped the menu over. Would he clog up his arteries with stodgy fries, or the slightly less grease-drenched eggs? Fencepost's voice rambled on at the fringe of his attention.
"So mango pie it is. Everything else just comes right back up, morning and evening..."
It had been on the tip of Albert's tongue to suggest wearing looser pants, when the mention of 'morning and evening' made something click into place. He put the menu aside and reached down to rummage around in his medical bag.
"Deputy, would you consider taking this simple, medical test?" He fished out a small paper package and held it out to Brennan, cautious to cover the label from curious onlookers with his thumb. "I suggest performing it in the restroom. Instructions come with the package."
The deputy's eyes widened as he read the label. "But… Agent Rosenfield-"
"Restroom. Now."
Fencepost fumbled to his feet and wandered off towards the restrooms. Even his shoulders emanated confusion.
Albert sensed Harry's gaze on him. "What? Every forensic expert carries one of those on their person."
"What do you think he's got?"
"The flu. No. If the oaf is literate enough to read the instructions right, we'll soon find out."
They had to wait long. The sheriff dug in on his potato hash. The lunch guests shuffled back to their respective salt mines. Albert went outside for a smoke. When he returned, Truman and Norma Jennings were talking in quiet voices about their respective convalescents ("Annie smiled a little this morning,""You don't say…").
Albert sat down and browsed through a copy of yesterday's paper with the enthusiasm of a grazing cow. Twenty-four minutes; Brennan must've botched the task after all. He should've known better than to hand it to a man who was all thumbs.
Norma was refilling the cutlery holders for the next feeding, when Brennan at last staggered out from the restroom. He thumped down on his stool by the counter, eyes full of dumbfounded joy and wonder.
"Well?" Albert asked. Harry tilted his cup at Andy in silent question.
"Fellas, I'm going to be a father. I'm pregnant."
Harry drew a sharp breath, choked on his coffee and doubled over in hacking coughs. Albert absentmindedly reached out to pound his back. He didn't need another stiff right now.
But maybe a stiff drink.
"Congratulations, Andy." Norma Jennings' smile was all calm kind interest. "Who's the mother?"