Behind All Things Are Reasons
"What do you mean, he ran away?"
Albert never gets a decent answer.
And indeed, as long as he lives, the echo of his words will step between him and every local he encounters. A new layer of distance and regret. He already registers it as a part of the whole – it will hang in the Twin Peaks air to pester him, caustic and everlasting, like the smell of the trees and the refreshing fragrance of the Middle Ages reborn.
God, he hates this place. He is not even sure he hates it enough.
He is not one to indulge in supernatural chit-chat of any sort. That was Cooper's territory – the Cooper he used to know, at least, and maybe the one who elected to vanish into thin hair right under their noses. Yet, with all the madness he has had to witness firsthand, even Albert Rosenfield would be willing to admit it is cursed.
Grisly murder cases aside, there is no way in the world to avoid the vibes. When the moonlight shines stronger than the street lamps, and a hint of smoke and oil accompanies the northern winds, his bones quiver with repulsion.
There is more up in the air than they realize. Hadn't there been forces he refuses to even think about, things wouldn't have gone so inconceivably wrong, a twist in his stomach confirms.
He always knew, somehow. Not even Coop could have been fooled so bad.
That's good and all, Albert's mind roars, shaking itself off that line of thought. He still isn't going to get over such asinine mistakes anytime soon. He is furious, that's what it is, and it shows.
It is rage to give a meaning to the waking nights of work, when he cannot afford to give out under the growing awareness of what actually happened. It imbues his voice whenever he must talk about the news, just to get another breakdown in return – a mirrored image of himself, not so long ago and so often to this day. It is there and there it remains, in every pause his temper takes from flaring up to the damn heavens.
Rage is his remedy to the deep burn that accompanies each new detail he unearths. He ravels in that lack of a convincing response – of responsibility, he obsessively repeats. It helps somehow.
Truth be told, he has lashed out at more things and people since the first phone call than in the rest of his entire life. It is paradoxically soothing, in the ocean of helplessness all around, to lay the blame on the blasted town and everything in it. Most call him unfair – but to the few who stay close, well, it is an act of sharing.
No matter how enraged, he wouldn't dare forget it. It's been plain on his face to see since the first time – when the department was left to drown into silence, and Diane drifted by his side with a look of empathy he didn't even imagine was possible.
Albert could never speak of guilt and consequences without being reminded that, no matter how he puts it, the heaviest chunk of both belongs to him.
Sarcastic, fine, it suits him. Hypocritical, never.
He should have been there. He tells Harry over and over – even now, with his pained eyes, in front of a late-night meal they share in near complete silence. He told him first thing in the haze his arrival; he was compelled to yell it, time and time again, after learning of the disappearance and the door and the bug and Windom Earle. Nothing was able take away his voice, if not the mirror.
That was the one way he could deal with it, like it or not. He screamed and screamed until neither had anything left to say, and both settled on keeping close to each other. Their sorrow speaks for itself.
Maybe, his regret whispers to him sometimes, he could have made it. Right in the face of carelessness and incompetence, of that dreamlike tomfoolery which always held Cooper to its breast, suffocating and constant. He is immune to that – maybe, just maybe, he would have done better.
In some especially stressful hours, he is brazen enough to voice the possibility that never was. He makes sure first that the overworked sheriff, disillusioned and torn by too many things at once, is strong enough to listen – though he doesn't voice that.
But Harry is no less raw and frustrating than the nature he was born from. He always has the same soft light in his gaze, regardless of the way Albert judges it. No one could do a thing about it, he says, with devastating simplicity – had it been otherwise, things would have gone differently.
Most of the time, and more and more with the passing days, not even Albert knows how to respond to that.
He gives up on talking back when he can't. He agrees to share a quiet moment with a soul as broken as his own. They end up collecting coffee from the worn hands of a worn Norma, another ring in this chain of human beings and their misplaced existences.
It is incredible, for all the bitterness in their lives, how they drag one another into eating and staying awake – when both wonder, too often and not nearly enough, why and where their lives keep going.
They have someone to hold on to, at the very least. They make it count.
In this picture of fragile, makeshift peace, outsiders don't really fit. Hell, that'd be just what they needed – to add more variables in a game that makes no sense already.
Nevertheless, the silence of the woods cannot last long. It lies way beyond his will. It is a call, almost, to raise his gaze from the dollop of creamed corn in Harry's plate. A presence. The kind whose breath Albert has felt too frequently to be comfortable with it, and even more so since his arrival.
A force out of this world turns his head with cold fingers. Tendrils and bones of air, in a soft, icy color. Whether he likes it or not, its movements tell him, this is part of him.
And then there is the woman.
He notices her hands first – or rather what they hold, firm and paler than snow. All in all, the chunk of wood she cradles has a clearer cut than he expected from someone who looks this level of bonkers. Which she most likely is, he decides. What brainwave is it to waltz around town with a log?
She frowns. Somehow, her gaze becomes even more scorching from behind her lenses. Is this loon reading his thoughts? What else does Rural Asylum, Population Unclear require of him?
He has no idea. And yet, as she parts her lips to speak, he is gifted with the certainty that he has heard of this person – no doubt, in more intimate ways than village gossip. He has seenthis woman before.
Considering the uncanny qualities this hellhole seems to have, that probably means something.
"I have a message," she announces, her eyes dancing between the two of them like flames. Eerie and spirited as it is, her voice retains an energy Albert was not prepared for.
He is taken aback by the decision those few syllables hold. It reminds him of distinct, weird things – of the obstinacy rookies have when they just won't understand, of the truth, or the currents of icy mountain streams. It is a sound of sheer power.
He'll be damned if he knows why, but it irritates him a lot.
In a matter of seconds, Albert collects his finest selection of bothersome jives. If there is anything he needs to discourage here and now, it is exactly what she is there to bring – more omens, guessing games, forecasts on how much they have yet to suffer.
The road ahead is going to be so long. He really doesn't need to be reminded.
He is ready to let the lot of his frustration out, his mouth half-open, when she freezes his every movement with the nastiest frown he has seen in a while. He loosens like a bowstring, and the sharpness of all the possible answers he could give dies on his tongue.
She makes her sour tone count for both. All right, this victory is hers.
"It cannot wait."
It is Harry to reply in his stead, every bit as complacent and irreparably tired as ever. If nothing else, that gives him some space to recover.
"I see, Margaret," he sighs, in a poor yet heartfelt attempt at courtesy. "Thank you for your concern. But we had a long, stressful day, so if you could please-"
"-make it quick and scoot off right now, ma'am, that would be appreciated."
He sustains her gaze this time around. He is not going to fail again. Even though the look Harry sends his way could kill him, Albert has seen far worse than that. He doesn't flinch.
At least for a few seconds, he can fight her freely. Nothing stands in his way but a good sheriff, too good indeed, but too mortified and worn out to react. A dear, broken country boy.
The more he stays here, the more Albert sympathizes with him. It's hard not to share the sentiment.
The lunatic – is it Margaret, then? – has no niceness to waste, it seems. Without so much as a trace of reaction to his rudeness, she turns her head, observing the other tables with suspicion. Her hand bends in a slow gesture, repeatedly – it is her intention to shoo away Norma, and that she gets.
This woman sure knows what she wants.
When she finally turns to him again, her eyes narrow down to glimmering slits – two biting blades, and still no match for the sharpness of her tongue.
"You don't have very good manners," she notes, in a weird compromise between bitterness and nonchalance.
"That's the best you're gonna get for tonight, ma'am. I apologize dearly."
As if you did, he adds in silence.
Her face is reproachful and disappointed, yet full of stubbornness. He may not stand a chance against her, after all.
How is she familiar again?
"Margaret, I really don't think this is the right time."
Harry intervenes once more. He can still speak softly, but not for long.
"Albert has had enough crap to put up with today. To be frank, we both have. And I am perfectly aware that you mean well, and how much you helped Cooper-"
He swallows. Albert almost lowers his gaze for the first time.
" – Cooper and us. But we are tired, this gentleman here is tired, and he tends to-"
"To what, dare I ask?"
"To lose your temper fast, agent Rosenfield," he bursts out. "As we all do lately."
In another time and place, the temptation to start a fight would burn to the last of Albert's veins. Just the awareness of how much peace he has lost to this town is enough to set his mind aflame with anger.
And yet, as much as he'd like to, he must accept that he cannot. A weird sense of anticipation flows between the small triangle they create. A mystery needs to be disclosed.
If he wants to escape, he must try. He'll step down to the kind of interactions that average joes favor.
"Well, thanks for introducing me to a perfect stranger, sheriff Truman."
"She isn't-"
"I know."
Albert takes a deep breath first, studying her face from below. For some reason, his instincts kick in independently.
The harsh layers of her discourtesy, he sees, conceal lots of other realities. Other facts she is aware of, and has been, since the dawn of her life. She is a world of symbols and allusions – which all add up, inevitably, in the end.
He gets mad at himself. How on Earth does he know these things?
"Here is the pure, simple truth, ma'am," he starts off, clinging to the one thin sliver of patience he has left. "You have no business with me, because if you did, then I'd remember. I tend to be precise with whatever is really my concern. So, if you please, I'll sit back and try to enjoy at least one meal without yet another side of visionary mumbo-jumbo. This goddamn rathole you call town is enough of a freak show as it is."
"Albert," growls Harry. "Don't-"
"No offense," he adds with bad grace.
His tone can't help suggesting the opposite. Just as it should.
Even so, it looks like she is well-prepared.
"The log never delivers in the wrong direction," she asserts, her gaze more and more intent. "The log showed me roses, pure as snow. I merely followed the scent. You must be the open ear, and if you are, you have no choice but to listen."
Albert's eyes widen in shock. No one tells him what he is or he isn't – let alone anyone that spouts tasteless wordplay on his name.
But something of this woman flees his grasp, incessantly. It is maddening.
He has no time to figure it out.
The hand lands on his shoulder before he can speak his mind on the whole matter. It shuts him up immediately. It is through her fingers – he is sure – that the images start flowing.
"Open your ears and listen, then. The owls go all the way, both ways. But so can you. They brought the cries of the dear one to my log. He is dear to many."
He is… isn't he?
Isn't that true?
He is. You, of all people… you have known for so long.
"In the circle of the woods, there is an opening yet."
Margaret traces the fabric of Albert's jacket with careful nails. The pattern she leaves on the fabric is round and repetitive. It speaks to his thoughts.
"You can light the way. You are the one who was not fooled by the shards."
So, this is the mirror, Harry says. A detail of no importance. Almost. You quiver to think he shed his blood on there, so uselessly, and yet –
A neat circle. Rays emanating from a precise spot, in sharp, well-defined angles. A few inches above the edge, the crack.
And the impact – the impact was –
Oh, no. No no no no.
"Harry, this isn't serious."
This changes it all.
"Goddammit, it is bloody serious! How in the hell didn't you show me sooner? What were you thinking?"
"I- stop right there, Albert. You weren't even here. I haven't got a clue what you are talking about."
"Oh no," you spout, heaving like a wounded animal. "Oh no, you don't."
"He is bound to you just like you are his opposite. Listen," Margaret pleads. "Listen to the whispers. You have them in your memory. The two worlds in one, when they collided. The meeting."
"I am desolate," a memory tells you, in his gentle voice. "To be rude was the last of my intentions. Let me make it up to you in some way."
"Never mind."
You grunt, but you mean it. No other person in the world has been able to put out your annoyance this damn fast.
"The chance will come. For now, at least, a new introduction is in order," he says, and you hear it as if it were his smile talking. "Your colleague, hopefully future friend, Agent Dale Cooper. Charmed."
You have no choice but to look into his eyes, and watch the unfolding of all you stand for. Regular weaves of logic and charm and rules. The physics of mankind – your whole motivation, in one being.
You don't know him well. You are still wary. Who knows which shadows could haunt him from inside – you can nearly see them, the forces that clash inside him and between you two, and a glacier against flame – is it true?
Are you starting to see things?
You could, but not now. There is no point in feeling split in half. You see what you see.
An ideal incarnate.
"Likewise."
"You nursed his wounds. You tended to the cuts. And below, where no one can see, his blood tarnished his fate. You saw it, didn't you? But you," she confides him, "rekindled his faith."
"What's with the unease, Coop? It's barely an injury, no more than a couple stitches. And you've got the best, which is me. Am I not good enough for our Super Special Agent?"
He laughs too nervously for you to be reassured. You may even be more worried than he is. That's the grand result it got you, being sentimental and all.
You are always terrified to see him hurt.
And it may be the moment, but there is an edge of reality to that idea. The shadow in his glance – or rather the strong illusion your raving mind creates – hasn't been this strong in a while.
"I can't say, Albert. You wouldn't understand. Nor would I, to be completely frank. But you are the person you are, and I am sure of what that is, deep down."
You see part of the tension melt away, moment after moment. His eternal benevolence replaces it.
"You are different," he promises, with a genuine smile of his this time. "I trust you."
You are more confused than a minute before. But you heard that right.
For some reason, you are positive it means the world to you both.
"You opened the road ahead first. It won't be short, nor easy. It will plant shards of marble in your soles. So many tears, all deceit. But he and his souls – they are one and the same, and yet two. He cries for those who feel his essence. He cries for you."
This is a place you've never been, or so you believe. It feels like eternity all the same.
The background is red velvet, concealer of so much. Against it are twin images of him. They point at each other, smiling a smile all teeth and greed.
Who is he?
You are still wondering, when one of them vanishes. The image is swept away by a line of blood on his forehead. The other one, the one who is left, is him – you are sure, there he is, manifesting himself as you always knew him.
He reaches for you with his eyes. The sounds, tied and slowed down, roll from his tongue with fatigue. They are like everything else is – warped and unfamiliar.
But the word he repeats, like a prayer, is one you could never forget.
Albert.
You hearken to the sound. It is yours. You hear him speak, and years of goodness and blind faith pour out of his soul.
What else? What more is there to say?
I am not lying. Albert. I am not lying.
You cannot understand. Not immediately. The question stays anyway.
Is he telling the truth, or isn't he?
"You see, it is happening from the inside. In a long vision. He will caress the curtain before you meet again. You may, or may not – it is up to the road you choose from here."
"Harry," you whisper, in the silent midnight that only the middle of nowhere can offer. A motel and a wooden table, road maps, notes of years and years and years. He is older, even more tired. So are you.
"I am ready to bet my last cigarette that we got him at last."
You have never been in this moment. You will be, maybe – on the path to tomorrow.
Even so, you do not need to guess who you are chasing after.
"It depends. But giving in to despair does not fit you, mender of dead bodies. A garland of signals will show you the way to the beginning. Still, no matter what they say, do not forget – it is always enough, when you want it to. Always enough."
The evil that men do.
What weapon do we have?
The spring that never dries. The movement we build so many defenses for. The source of every action, the feeling and origin of it all.
It is your meaning.
And it is enough.
The curtain between the halves of Albert's mind tumbles to the ground. He is there, again. And the most surprising thing, he faintly realizes in the aftermath of the vision – was it a vision? did he just have a vision? – is that the pile of absurdities she has spoken, phrase after phrase, somehow makes perfect sense.
He isn't quite sure why, but he will learn. That certainty, too, is unexpected.
Margaret does not wait for anything. She know it is her cue to leave the scene. She nods to both, leaning towards Harry for one moment, and doesn't hesitate to turn around.
Her walk is aloof, yet soothingly even. Albert listens to her pace for a while. Whatever the reason, nothing in the world has ever cleared his mind so fast.
He lets her fade away, to focus on the disheveled face just in front of him. Doubts and hopes and ancestral fears pass between them. There is much Harry would like to know – oh, this poor man, Albert thinks with a scoff. Always late, always behind. He feels so sorry for him, and for them both.
He is compelled to help him, as long as he can be of service. With a long, telling gaze, Albert grasps his hand with a force he had not found in himself in a long while.
"Harry," he says, trying to contain the swelling flow of emotions he has just been burdened with. "We need to talk."
And at the border of his consciousness, if he pays mind to it, he can see the afterimage of a future dream. A desert, the rocky peaks, the yellowish dust on the sides of a highway lane.
He cannot foretell where they will be going. If nothing else, now he has something in his grasp. Better than nil.
As long as they live, there must be a way yet.
After author reveal, here it is! My secret first endeavor in the Twin Peaks fandom as a writer, surprise gift for laughingpineapple at Yuletide 2015, AO3. While writing this was an incredibly trying experience, because of both the secrecy and my still scarce familiarity with these characters, I cannot say how much I enjoyed it. It also got an amount of appreciation that makes me tear up even today. What more could I ask for?
This fic feels kinda goofy to me, but I am overall pleased with what I accomplished anyway. Here's to hoping other readers will enjoy it. Cheers!