Title: The Secret Tapes of Dale Cooper
Author/pseudonym: Dorothy Marley
Fandom: Twin Peaks
Paring: Dale Cooper/Albert Rosenfield
E-mail: Feedback (including constructive criticism) always welcome at
Series/Sequel: Companion piece to "The Private Letters of
DISCLAIMER: Dale Cooper and Albert Rosenfield belong to David Lynch
and Mark Frost. In particular, this story draws on some of the
character background described in the book _The Autobiography of F.
B. I. Special Agent Dale Cooper: My Life, My Tapes_, by Scott Frost.
The characters and situations are being used without permission, and
no infringement on the rights of their owners is intended.
RATED PG-13 for m/m sexual situations.
SUMMARY: Cooper didn't address *all* his tapes to Diane...
"The Secret Tapes of Dale Cooper"
by Dorothy Marley
September 9, 1978, 4 p.m.
Have finally wrapped up the last reports on the Hobson case. After
three months of tedious details, I am finally prepared for my first
trial appearance. In the past, Windom has always taken the stand,
his greater experience making him a more compelling witness for the
prosecution. Now I find the burden resting on my own shoulders, and
I am determined that Windom's absence will not affect the outcome of
justice. Myself and Agent Rosenfield are scheduled to appear for a
pre-trial prep session tomorrow at ten a.m. I have never done this
before, but Albert has testified in many previous trials, and at the
prosecutor's request he has grudgingly agreed to go over the
evidence with me this evening.
September 10, 8 a.m.
At this precise moment, I'm not sure that I truly know who I, Dale
Cooper, am. There are ways in which we are trained to think of
ourselves, mores and norms of society that define our sense of
identity. Some of these identities are conscious choices, as my
decision to become an agent of the FBI. Others are accidents of
birth and genetics, like the color of my hair and my skin. But
others are less easily defined, matters of personality and emotion,
things such as a personal preference for a color, a painting, the
form of a woman, and the choice of what we find sexually appealing.
Looking back on the events of last night and early this morning, I
can still find nothing whatsoever that could have prepared me for
this moment. I have discovered something in myself which I have
apparently heretofore denied, a denial which I am embarrassed to
admit, and which I regret. I will now try to verbalize my version of
those events, hoping that I will achieve some further understanding.
The evening began as I expected. Albert and I met at seven sharp in
my office with the case notes and reports. With Albert's aid, I soon
felt confident in my grasp of the details, and well before nine p.m.
we were finished. Albert had intended to take a taxi home, but he
accepted my offer of a lift and directed me to a small neighborhood
not far from my own. As we drove, I learned that he owns a car, and
does know how to drive, but hates the act of driving and avoids it
whenever possible. I also learned that neither of us had had the
opportunity to eat dinner yet, and I suggested a take-out place not
far from his house. He seemed oddly reluctant, but agreed to the
plan and we procured two quarts of cashew chicken before proceeding.
Inside Albert's house, I was immediately attracted to his forensic
journals, which contained copies of his notes as well as personal
observations and even scraps of evidence which would have been
discarded after trial. Am still not sure if it's entirely legal, but
the work itself is invaluable. I perused several of the volumes over
dinner, and before long Albert seemed to warm to my interest. He
showed me the journals from a number of his more interesting cases,
including one which pertained directly to the evidence he had
uncovered in our current investigation. Albert, as I had already
known, can be passionate about his work. I was not prepared,
however, to discover that that passion was contagious.
I can in no way blame Albert for my subsequent actions. The ways of
seduction are many and varied, but discussing minute details of
photographs of a grisly murder scene cannot, I feel certain, in any
way be construed as a sexual overture. On the other hand, grabbing a
man by the ears and kissing him passionately is in general one of
the more respected and time-honored preludes to sexual intercourse.
Our first mutual orgasm took place on the floor in front of the
bookshelves, the logistics of reaching the nearby couch having
proven far too complicated. After a long shower, we retired to the
bedroom, and I admitted my inexperience in the realm of male-male
intercourse. Albert was a gentle and considerate teacher, and
displayed depths of tenderness and compassion that I am ashamed to
admit I thought him incapable of. I was somewhat overcome, and soon
after achieving my second, and far more satisfying, orgasm of the
night I fell asleep in his arms.
Albert woke me in time for me to dress and return home to prepare
for work. We exchanged few words, but I believe that this can be
attributed to the fact that I had not yet had a cup of coffee and he
had not yet had a cigarette. We parted with a kiss, and agreed that
we should meet again tonight to 'discuss things.'
Met Albert at eight. Have yet to have discussion, but the evening
has nonetheless been entirely satisfactory.
Continued in "The Private Letters of Albert Rosenfield"
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