Work Text:
I.
It's been over ten years, but he still almost turns when he hears the name Albert. Hearing one’s old name never gets any easier, but thankfully none of his coworkers in the cramped medical examiner’s office have that particular name. Or Cooper, or Harry, or any other name that brings up past memories.
Why he ever agreed to this at all is beyond him. He remembered Gordon saying ‘it’ll be good to get out of dodge while everything blows over,’ already planning on dispersing what poor saps got stuck being known as his Blue Rose go-tos. Boston wasn't his first choice, but the city needed a new ME and he was told he didn't have to be nice to them; he heard Chet had been moved down south as a sheriff, Sam a scientist somewhere out west – lucky bastards.
Today, there was an Albert on his slab. He made a mental note to pass this one off to Jordan whenever she got her sorry ass into work.
II.
His cynicism was healthy, and for once in his life, his coworkers didn't seem to mind. Working in a morgue will do that to you, after all. Everyone has some kind of dark humor, a sarcastic joke thrown at the lead detective, a prodding afterthought to an important discovery.
He's no longer the biggest asshole anyone’s ever met. Now, he's an asshole in a group of lovable assholes, prepared to snark with others and each other just as equally. It's the first time he's felt as if he has a family since losing his.
III.
Gordon had forbade it, but he still got calls every now and then.
He ran into a bedraggled Harry by chance at airport security back in ‘95, and they embraced, belts curled together on the x-ray conveyor belt. He slipped his office number into Harry’s back pocket before anyone could notice.
Harry’s voice was always a welcome reminder that good things were still out there. They chatted late at night (time zones were a bitch) about everything and nothing at the same time – heavy caseloads, romantic follies, lunch specials.
It was still strange to hear the warm voice say his new name, and for neither of them to say Cooper’s.
IV.
Woody was a pain in the ass in every sense of the word – too involved, too emotional, too insistent. The fact that he and Jordan teamed up made him want to pull his hair out most days, or what was left of it anyway.
He was always reminded of Dale when Woody came strolling in, a smile plastered on his midwestern face – well, if Dale was a bit more clueless and a lot more cocksure. He was reckless when it came to saving others and solving cases, always putting himself in harm's way.
In dreams, he sees a man in the crypt, face oscillating between Woody, Dale, and BOB. He wakes up in a cold sweat.
V.
Agent Rosenfield? I’m sorry, you've got the wrong number. Albert, this is Gordon Cole.
He always dreaded this day to come, the call saying to shuck off the relative safety of Garret Macy and come back into the fold, that there's news about Cooper. Returning to Twin Peaks means facing his demons while facing literal demons too. He drafts his resignation letter and scraps it before he can think better of it.
Instead, he calls Jordan, he calls his ex-wife, he calls the young woman he's pretended to be a father to all these years. He calls Harry to ask if the rumors are true. He redrafts the letter on his old typewriter and leaves it on his desk. He gives no forwarding address.