**A/N: Lovely to be back with this story, folks! From what I've been hearing, in PMs and reviews, you guys missed this too :) To the lovely anonymous reviewer concerned that I've rendered our favourite couple obsolete-what kind of a soap opera would Twin Peaks be without a little break-up now and then? Don't worry-Audrey and Cooper are too perfect together to be apart for long...**

As morning waned and afternoon settled over Twin Peaks, the warmth of the mid-March sun disappeared behind the perennial cloud cover and a light rain started to fall, and Cooper's mind wandered. The rush and bustle of the last weeks had given way to the kind of peaceful quiet that rightly belonged in towns such as this, but it had done little to mollify Cooper's sense of unease. It all seemed a little too easy. The case he'd been sent there to solve had been solved, but more than just wondering what was next he worried about the tidiness of it all—a man had brutally slaughtered his own niece and daughter, under the influence of a violent spiritual entity, but with the bodies in the ground it seemed like no one else was concerned about the implications of what had happened anymore. He had worried about where that spirit had gone, untethered as it was now; if BOB was still out there, somewhere, in some form or another, what did the future would hold for this town he had fallen so desperately in love with?

But even then, his concerns only seemed to take him so far. What days before had seemed to be an insurmountable obstacle—his departure from Twin Peaks—now seemed just another event he was staring down with every ounce of Fidelity, Bravery, an Integrity he had in him. He had already started packing, all at once, for his fishing trip with Major Briggs that evening and for his return flight, Sea-Tac to Philadelphia International, on the following day. He would say goodbye to his soon-to-be former colleagues at the Sheriff's station; he'd already said many fond farewells at Leland's funeral.

But could that really be it? he asked, studiously folding a pair of boxer shorts and placing it on the end of the bed. Is this how you vacate your dream?

A knock at his door broke his concentration. "Bellman?" he called out, hearing the door swish open almost as soon as the words left his lips. He continued to pack, and only when he saw the saddle shoes in his peripheral at the end of his bed did he stop to look up.

Audrey

"Customer relations," she said matter-of-factly. "Has everything been satisfactory during your stay with us, Mr. Cooper?"

He allowed a small smile, even as his heart flip-flopped in his chest. Holding up a hand, oath-like, he replied. "Audrey, I have no complaints."

He didn't know what had possessed him to say that, but as he saw disappointment cloud her eyes, he wished he hadn't. Of course you have complaints, he scolded himself, suddenly remembering all the reasons he had for staying. Complaints, and regrets, and desires deeper than the gorge outside your window…

"When are you leaving?" she asked as every last note of professionalism left her voice and it cracked along the seams between the words, belying the youthful innocence he had so expertly ignored in his base desire to bed her; innocence he—like the mythical Sasquatch, he could see that now—had trampled on with ruthless aplomb.

By way of an answer he didn't really want to give, he dodged the question. "I'm going fishing."

He should have known—he did know—that Audrey was smarter than that. "But you are leaving," she stated.

He nodded and set his lips. "Yes, in effect I am."

Cooper saw her step forward, the hesitant expectation in her girlish gait, flirtation in her hips and the playful smile on her lips. "So this is it? she asked. "You save my life then break my heart?"

He sighed and hesitated; she had his number. "Audrey I've explained to you my personal policy about involving—"

Even before she spoke up he knew what a load of hogwash it was. How serious are you about that policy once you've already ripped it to shreds? he asked himself. Destroyed and annihilated in this very bed?

Audrey was not impressed. "Yeah, I know. I know. I'm a teenager and—"

"And you were involved in a case I was working on."

It pacified her, slightly, but even then he knew he was guilty of spouting half-truths and misinformation. Her age had nothing to do with it; neither did his. She was involved in a case, yes, but it wasn't his, not officially. There was no FBI record of his sojourn to One Eyed Jack's to rescue her; he'd been acting alongside the Bookhouse Boys, a ragtag grassroots operation at best. There was no "case" for her name to be attached to anyway. What did it really matter?

Just tell her, Dale…he thought. Tell her why…

"Someone must have hurt you once really badly," Audrey offered.

Cooper blinked and marvelled at Audrey's intuition. She'd offered him the perfect opportunity to come clean, to be honest, to hopefully reinforce that all of this was not artifice or flighty but designed purposefully to guard her, to keep her safe. He looked at her, regarding her gently. "No," he breathed. "Someone was hurt by me. And I'll never let that happen again."

Audrey seemed to consider the new information. "What happened?" she asked. "Did she die or something?"

Cooper nodded. "As a matter of fact, she did." He paused, rearranging socks and boxers in his suitcase. "You wanna know how?"

Audrey didn't reply; he knew he had her attention.

"She was a material witness to a federal crime," he started. "We were supposed to protect her, twenty-four hours a day, my partner and I. Windom Earle was his name…" he trailed off, growing thoughtful. "He taught me everything I know about being a special agent. And, when the attempt on her life was finally made, I wasn't ready. Because I loved her," he added. "She died in my arms…"

Audrey sighed, full of sadness and grief; her blue eyes watered.

"I was badly injured," he continued. "And my partner lost his mind."

He turned to face her, sizing up her reaction, hoping he had made the right choice in telling her. "You need to hear any more?"

She shook her head, barely, her chestnut tresses bobbing along her jaw as she did.

"Audrey," he said, stepping closer to her. "I like you—and I care about you." Understatement of the century, he reprimanded himself, but continued on. "And I'll always consider you my friend."

It was far from enough, for him, and he knew Audrey wanted more too. He could see it on her face and in the way she drew a breath before speaking, trying to be strong but with fault lines appearing through her middle. "Friendship is the foundation of any lasting relationship," she said.

They were his words, quoted verbatim, and coming from her at this juncture they carried such hope and optimism. Cooper couldn't take that from her—even though he knew there would be no "lasting relationship" to speak of, not really, especially not once he'd jettisoned the vestments of this hamlet in the mountains and stepped onto the jetway in Seattle. But he would let her have the illusion she needed; it was the very least he could do.

"It's nice to be quoted accurately," he told her.

Audrey laughed and took a few steps back from the end of his bed. "Well," she started. "Let me tell you something, Agent Cooper."

Her words stood at a formal distance from their once-upon-a-time closeness, all of a sudden, and Cooper realized he had no other desire than to hear his name on her lips once again; not his title followed by his last name, nothing professional like that. He wanted to hear his name. Dale. Panic surged through him, momentarily, at the thought of never hearing it again.

Audrey continued unabated. "One of these days, before you know it, I'm gonna be grown up and on my own…" she pointed her finger at him. "And you'd better watch out."

"Okay Audrey," he smiled against the painful flutter behind his navel. "It's a deal."

He didn't want her to leave. He watched her aim for the door, saw her stop and heard her utter her glowing adulation once more—"You're perfect," she'd said, and he wanted to shake her for romanticizing him all over again because wasn't that the opposite of what they were trying to do? Break up cleanly?—but he was powerless to stop her. She left his field of vision and Cooper was overwhelmed, unable to accept this was to be their last meeting. Gutted, he leaned over the bed, staring at the pile of neatly organized undergarments in his suitcase. He could remember with fondness their first meeting—over a breakfast table in the Great Northern dining room, itchy palms and grapefruits and bobby socks. What would he remember about their parting? How did this full and abrupt stop provide any kind of meaningful closure after all they'd been through? This isn't what they deserved.

Only when he heard Audrey pull the door shut did he break from his reverie.

He called her name to the closed door as he walked towards it then, pulling on the handle with force he thought weaker construction might not have been able to withstand, only to see her standing on the threshold, hand poised to knock again. Tears stood up against her lashes.

"Oh," she said.

He tilted his head to the side, regarding her. "You're crying."

She swept her fingertips under her eyes, embarrassed. "It's nothing."

"Audrey—" he told her, slightly stunned.

Audrey furrowed her brow. "You know, I just wanted to say that I never wanted a fling. When I first came to you, I wanted—well, I don't know what I wanted, but it was more than that," she said finally, her words a stinging rebuke against him. It was more than unfair—he'd invaded, a foreign and far more sophisticated army against her timid naïveté, fighting on the virgin battleground of her heart. She had never stood a chance, with her youthful idealism sheltered, even as it was, behind a delinquent's visage. He wished he'd never kissed her, and he wished he'd never stopped kissing her. It was an odd sensation.

"I'm sorry Audrey," he said, lowering his voice as he cast his eyes up and down the hallway. "I've been unkind to you, inconsiderate. I should have told you the truth about my hesitation to get involved instead—"

Audrey's face melted into a smile. "It's okay," she said, seeming to forget her earlier frustration as she attempted to pacify him instead of the other way around. "I don't regret you. Do you regret me?"

He shook his head; his voice was stuck in his throat. "Of course not, Audrey. And I wish you all the happiness in the world. You deserve better than me, than this—the danger and the baggage. You deserve to meet a nice boy, get married—" None of it was what he wanted to say to her—Damn it, Audrey, you leave me so tongue-tied I don't know whether I'm coming or going!—because of course he didn't actually want that, but in his desire to comfort it was all he had to work with.

"In this town?" she scoffed, rolling her eyes before grinning at him. "Where boys like Bobby Briggs and Mike Nelson are the picks of the litter?"

It was a thought, and one Cooper didn't like; the idea of those boys holding Audrey's hand, kissing Audrey, making love with Audrey…it gave him serious pause. "Well—"

"No, Agent Cooper, I think if I can't be with you today then I'll wait," she smiled. "For the day when a tall, dark, handsome Boy Scout rolls back into town and sweeps me off my feet again."

That was another thought. He placed one hand in his pocket and leaned against the door frame, considering her for a long moment. Maybe she was right. Maybe this could be a hiatus and not a finale…

Once again glancing down the corridor, both ways, Cooper stepped forward. "C'mere," he said, and she closed the gap between them, folding herself into his embrace. He sighed the sigh of a deeply contented man and focused all his energy on remembering the details—the warmth of her body, the pressure of her arms around his midsection, where precisely his chest her head rested, the scent of her skin—that he hoped would get him through the long and lonely nights until, maybe, they could be together again.

But the moment ended, and far too soon, as Audrey stepped back until they were a good two feet apart. She stuck her hand into the void vacated by her own body and waited until Cooper shook it.

"Safe travels," she whispered.

"Until then."

And away she walked. That's better, Coop, he thought to himself as her figure disappeared around a corner and the bellman he had requested rounded from the opposite direction and made his way down to his room.

Cooper sighed—his voice catching on a sob lodged in his throat, that hiccuped his breath into a soft vocalization he was embarrassed to make—and retreated back across the threshold to finish packing. The uneasiness had disappeared—if things were too tidy, well, that's how they were going to be. He was satisfied, at least for now, with the way the bow was knotted on this particular chapter in his story.