dazlious | When the full moon turns white, that's when I'll come home.

Current Mood: discontent
Current Location: Twin Peaks, Washington
Current Music: "Full Moon", The Black Ghosts

Entry tags:

When the full moon turns white, that's when I'll come home.

WHO: Heather Mason and Dale Cooper
WHERE: Twin Peaks, Washington
WHEN: Tail-end of summer. Peaks/SH AU.
WHAT: There's no feeling like being forced to pack a few harmless, government-approved belongings into boxes and being shipped across the country to live with a stranger directly after a series of events so horrific and earth-shattering that your entire life as you knew it was gone.
There's also no feeling like waiting on your front porch for a teenager you've seen only pictures of but know was involved in something terrible and now is your responsibility, after living alone for years.
RATING: Probably PG, potential mild profanity and references to disturbing events.

The pines passed the windows lazily as the car-- unremarkable black, government-issued and intended to attract as little attention as possible but somehow never succeeding-- wound its way up the twisting mountain road.

There was no conversation-- hadn't been during any of the trip, whether it was the flight to the west coast or the drive up here.

That was fine with Heather. She didn't particularly want to talk to anyone involved in this.

Chin in hand, she was scrunched in the backseat with a cardboard box in her lap and the seats next to her taken up by more of the same. Her whole life-- or the pieces of it that had been deemed hers to keep-- stuffed into a car thousands of miles away from the little Daisy Villa apartment she had lived in with her father for the past three years. To think that it could all fit. It would be sad if she weren't so angry about it, and if there hadn't been so much left behind.

She puffed out a low sigh as a sign on the road approached and passed-- Dead Dog Farm, 1/4 miles.

Dead Dog Farm.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd think I was just dropped into an R.L. Stine book," she muttered under her breath, half expecting the driver to say something about how it would be nicer than it sounded (like everyone else had been saying, in that strained, I'd-rather-not-be-talking-to-you tone that most authority figures had been using with her ever since that night.) He didn't, though. Go figure.

The road below them had turned to dirt and gravel at least three miles ago, and it continued to crunch and rattle under the wheels as it continued up the narrowing path until a building became visible between the trees.

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For having such an intimidating name the place is a scrawny little thing. Unfortunately, that doesn't make it less creepy. If anything the small house sitting in it's clearing looks unnatural. As if the trees and shrubbery hadn't been cleared away, but have rejected growing on the land.

A theory that doesn't quite fit considering the flowers out front. (Coop tries his best to make the outside look inviting, but there's not much that can be done and honestly, he's never had much of a green thumb)

The house is painted white and oddly shaped, as if two or three homes had been squashed together at some point. Or maybe taken apart and used to create a uniquely ugly building.

Inside and sinking into a large armchair Cooper tries to clear his head. He finished going back over Heather Mason's case file for the sixth time about an hour ago. He's nervous, and drinking coffee (which is comforting, but not making him any less jittery).

(He took his medication about eighty minutes ago. Excusing yourself to shoot up a mysterious blue liquid doesn't make for the best of first impressions)

For all of his nervous preparation he has forgotten just what exactly the house looks like from the outside. To Cooper it's just home now.

For all sakes and purposes, there are a lot of similarities between the western and eastern coasts of the United States when you got far up north. Which was a big contributor to the unsettled twinges she was getting deep in her gut-- these tall evergreens and patches of empty field were all too reminiscent of the outskirts of her hometown, the one she'd been forced to revisit less than three months ago.

It was drier, though. So there was that.

Of course, as the car pulled into the little driveway and she got a better view of the scattered trees, telephone poles, and scratchy scrubland, it wasn't much of a comfort. She caught sight of a filthy, mottled statue of what was probably supposed to be a charming human child as they rolled up to the house and she rolled her eyes, groaning.

Well, THIS sure is off to a fantastic start.

The driver opened his door with a clunk and got out, which Heather took as a cue to follow suit.

If this was the place she was going to be living for the foreseeable future, she might as well get the unloading over with.

Coop is of course immensely fond of the little statue. He's not sure how old it is or how long it's been there but for how ruined it looks it's actually in fine condition. He suspects it will be up for quite some time to come.

(Unless Albert and Harry successfully haul it off in the middle of the night)

He hears the car pull up and he stretches. Very distantly he can feel them stirring quietly, coming to attention. He closes his eyes for a moment and reminds himself again that his body is his own. All they can do these days is watch.

He's drawn back to the present when the doorbell sounds.

The first thing Heather sees when the door opens is thin man in a sweater that is far too thick for this time of year. His smile doesn't quite fit on his face.

(Not quite a wild axe murderer, more Norman Bates, really.)

“Hello, Heather.”

Wild axe murderer would be unpleasant, but she could deal with it.

Norman Bates was, if anything, less what she wanted to see open that door. Much less.

Cooper opens the door on a lanky teenage girl with a tense posture, straggly hair and shadows under her eyes that are the same sickly shade of purplish-yellowgray as a gathering thunderstorm. With her jeans and ratty hoodie, she looks terribly out of place standing on the front porch of a house like this.

She doesn't return the greeting right off the bat-- instead she stares balefully up at him for a moment. Because while she knows good and well that it's all more complicated than this, for the time being Cooper is the face of this whole ordeal. And she wants her glare to make what she thinks of it all perfectly clear.

After a few seconds, she says, "Yeah, hey."

The driver of the car sets the last box (there weren't many-- just three, plus one suitcase) down on the step and straightens up, nodding. "Agent Cooper. Miss Mason, do you have anything else in the car?"

"No, that's it."

Cooper is unaffected. His smile closes and he looks slightly less ghoulish. He wasn't expecting a warm welcome. He's met traumatized kids and witnesses before (and has been both).

He thanks and tips the driver, says goodbye.

“I can bring these in.” He knows they found her with a collection of weapons. Guns, knives, even a sword. An agent searched the boxes she packed. A necessary, but still a horrible invasion of privacy on what she has left. It occurs to him she might not want him touching her things at all.

“Would it make you feel more secure if you watched?”

Yeah, they'd all been searched to hell and back. If she'd had a diary, they'd have gone through every page of it with a fine-toothed comb before letting her pack it.

It had been infuriating.

Having to stand there while a bunch of gloved hands picked through her belongings, slipping some of them into little plastic bags that she'd probably never see again. Like the stun-gun her dad had given her.

"No. I got 'em."

To prove her point, she bent down and scooped another box into her arms and-- after teetering dangerously, grabbed the retractable suitcase handle, too. ... And then proceeded to scoot one of the remaining boxes towards the door with her foot.

Possessiveness.

Another classic trait of a kid who just got uprooted and displaced.

He raises his hands to help steady the box but backs off when she has it under control.

“Just tell me if you change your mind.” He holds the door for her as she fumbles with the boxes. He quietly hopes nothing's too fragile in there.

The house doesn't look like it belongs to an axe murderer or Norman Bates. Actually it doesn't look like it belongs inside of the actual house. No mounted animal heads or disturbing witchy carvings (unless you count little touristy nick-knacks) and no animal skulls as paperweights. Quite a few of the furnishings are clearly secondhand but well cared for.

(Cooper is starting to find antique restoration quite relaxing, just about anything you can imagine shows up in these mountain thrift shops)

Heather never had grandparents, but if they had a mountain summer home, it might look like this. Warm colors, old furniture, lacy curtains.

They're in for a long, molasses-paced stroll through the house at the rate Heather's going-- and you can bet her eyes are darting around as she enters the building, taking note of the layout. Of all the windows and doors.

That's something she'd never done before that night.

The state-appointed therapist who'd seen her a few times before they'd decided to ship her west had said that was normal for someone who'd been through what she'd been through (or at least the censored version she'd given to the feds). Existing in 'survival mode' for awhile was normal. She's willing to bet that therapist doesn't know that for themselves, though.

Once inside, she scoots, carries, and drags her various possessions a short distance in before stopping and looking around.

"... So, where do I put this shit."

Her voice is flat.

He gets out of her way, recognizing what she's doing. His heart twists a little, he's seen too many kids check over rooms like weary soldiers.

She can actually see the entire layout from her spot at the door, a few steps in and she's at the center of the house. Living room area on the left, kitchen and side door on the right, three rooms deeper into the house. A back door nearly straight across from the one she just came in.

The center room is mostly empty so it's easier to move around in, rug, a table with some books on it and art on the walls. It's not very interesting. The only eye catching thing there is a small framed portrait of a kitchen scene, morning light streaming in through the window and a happy family eating eggs. The only thing off about it is all the people have deer heads.

"Over here." He points her to the room next to the kitchen (formally his own, he's moved his things into his study). "I'm across from you, bathroom's in the middle."

It was a cramped little place, but well, it wasn't like her apartment had been much better.

She didn't reply-- just started to slog in the direction he'd indicated, towards what would be her new room, shoveling the box on the floor ahead of her while the suitcase rattled and bumped along behind.

He doesn't want her to get the impression that he's watching her, but it's probably best if he stays in sight.

Heather does get the impression that he's watching her, loud and clear. Other things peak through his eyes as she maneuvers her belongings down towards the empty room.

"I can't imagine you had time to stop for lunch. Are you hungry?"

Oh, she could feel it all right.

It made the hairs on her neck stand all on end.

If she hadn't been run through the wringer with all this police business-- treated like a bomb about to go off and interrogated (or oh-- sorry-- ~questioned~) more than once, she might have just turned around right there and tried to assert dominance over the entire dynamic here right off the bat.

It was what she would have done before.

But she'd already been informed that this guy was ex-FBI.

If she got in further trouble for trying to threaten her new caretaker, she knew damn well whose word would win out over hers.

So she put the last box down on the bed and turned around, not wanting to keep her back turned on him any longer than necessary.

"I guess."

She'd been allowed to grab a croissant and some coffee at the airport, but aside from that, she was running on empty. Admitting HOW hungry she was felt a little too much like displaying a weakness, though, so that noncommittal answer was probably the best Coop could hope for.

When she looks back he hasn't budged an inch.

(He's nervous and not being able to feel BOB with the other spirits is unnerving him all the more. He had braced for his presence, not for the eerie silence that comes with his absence.)

(It feels like he's waiting.)

Cooper smiles politely. “I thought you looked hungry. Let's find you something to eat.” He leads her to the little kitchen. Out of every place in the house it looks like it's had the most work. The cabinets and the shelves are new and everything is quite clean.

(Everything in the house is quite clean to be honest, it's just more noticeable here, where things are newer and shiny.)

“Sandwiches okay?”

"Yeah, sandwiches are fine."

The terse answers are something that will likely continue indefinitely, but at least food is something that tends to make a lack of conversation less awkward.

Still, she declines to sit down at first, just looking around the kitchen with those same wary eyes she looked around the house with upon entry.

Dale grounds himself in uncertain situations by talking to people and connecting. Obviously that isn't an option now, he does however have a fallback that has rarely failed him: food.

He takes lettuce, tomato, turkey and ham out of the small refrigerator and retrieves half a loaf of sourdough from a breadbox in the corner.

(The half glimpse of shelved food she saw seems like way too much for one person. Especially someone that wiry. Not a stereotypical bachelor's selection.)

“I'll be going to the store tomorrow, could you think about what you'd like to pick up?” He gets plates and cups out as he speaks. “You don't have to come with me. I can make a list.”

She thought about saying she wasn't picky.

Because she really wasn't.

... But the thought of this guy picking out food without her looking at it was... well, she'd rather see it for herself.

"I'll just come. ... If that's not an issue."

“Not at all.” He smiles. “What would you like to drink? I've got milk and I think there's some orange juice left...”

He starts making his sandwich, lettuce, tomato, cheese, quite a bit of turkey. Everything's already cut, sealed securely in zip-lock bags. (Some days he can't stand the thought of picking up a knife, he's learned to prepare for his worst days on his better ones.)

“I don't have any mayonnaise, sorry. Do you like mayonnaise?”

It's only when Cooper starts focusing on his OWN sandwich instead of looking at her that she moves forward to take the rest of the bread and start slowly assembling her own.

"Orange juice is fine."

The second question, she just answered with a shrug.

This innocuous smalltalk was infuriating. After weeks of people skirting the obvious, standing in this shack in the middle of nowhere and ignoring the elephant in the room felt like adding insult to injury.

She cut the bread a little more viciously than was necessary, stewing in silence.

Cooper nods and gets the juice from the fridge, fills his own glass in the sink and gives her space, sitting at the small table by a kitchen window.

He can feel her frustration spike and he takes a bite of his sandwich. Silence is fine, talking and planning can come later, absolutely. He doesn't want to overwhelm her.

She has about a week before she'll be expected at the high school. Frankly, he's positive that putting her in a foreign environment cramped with people is a horrible idea, but so is totally uprooting a traumatized teenager and sending them across the country; there's not really an alternative.

They can talk about that later.

Heather assembles her own meal, though she finds herself checking to see which bagged ingredients Cooper used-- and whether or not he's started eating-- almost without thinking about it. Anything that he didn't put in his OWN food, she fails to touch.

It's not that she thinks he's actually some nut with a secret torture dungeon under his room, despite his weird smile and creepy house in the middle of nowhere. All things considered, that would be a little too much bad luck to be realistic at this point.

But just in case.

Still declining to sit, she leans against the counter as she takes the first bite of hers.

"... So..." she mumbles, not bothering to swallow everything before speaking. "What now."

(Honestly the basement is pretty bare, just some old pieces of furniture he needs to clean up a little. Also some of those more...weirder pieces of art that he moved from the rest of the house. Oh, and some things he found in the woods...)

(Okay the basement isn't a torture dungeon but it's still *weird* he tries not to spend too much time down there.)

"For today? I don't really have anything planned. I figured you'd want to rest. We could go into town, though, if you'd like."

"No. I mean in general."

Swallowing, she gestures around at the kitchen, and by extension, the house.

"I get that I won't be getting home in time to graduate from my school. So what, do I go to this one? Does this town even have a school? Can I get out of here when I turn eighteen or am I basically being put here because they can't charge me with anything yet and they wanna make sure I'm in grabbing distance for when they can? What?"

He swallows his bite of sandwich and nods.

“Right. School starts next Monday.” He messes with his pinky ring while he talks, twisting it around, sliding it up his finger and back down. “Class starts at eight thirty sharp. It's on the other side of town, I'll drop you off and pick you up at a stop a bit from here.”

“When you turn eighteen you'll have full freedom to go where you like as an adult and legal access to everything your father left. You are a witness in an ongoing investigation, there's no suspicion about the nature of your involvement as far as I know. If there was, you wouldn't be here.”

"I dunno. Seems like a whole lot of trouble to go to if I'm just a 'witness'."

She air-quoted that word with just one hand. Too disdainful to bother with two, apparently.

His explanation was honest enough, but after everything, well, Heather could muster very little but mistrust.

"So they weren't a little curious about the fact that I moved the body and ran away from the scene of the crime? That's not the impression I got back east."

"I can assure you that it's nothing out of the ordinary." Popular depictions of the Bureau in culture rarely deal with the aftermath of a case.

He's still totally relaxed, despite her desire to be taken as a threat. Get used to it, Heather. He's had a lifetime to master the art of infuriatingly calm.

"Considering the nature of your case and others like it, those are hardly indicators of guilt."

Yeah, his constant calm is going to get on Heather's nerves fast.

She let out a tiny huff from her nostrils, putting her barely-eaten sandwich down on the counter behind her before folding her arms.

"If that's the case, why am I being treated like a criminal? I couldn't even pack underwear without some asshole in latex gloves fuckin' holding it up to the light to make sure I wasn't smuggling meth in it or something. If I'm just a witness, why would they need to worry about meth panties?"

HAV U GOT AN ANSWER FOR THAT MR FBI >8I

That calmness flashes off for a moment as his lips go in a tight line, fingers back to messing with his ring.

“I'm sorry. I know telling you it's a standard safety procedure won't change that your privacy has been violated. For what it's worth, I can assure you that it is and you aren't going to prison.”

Aha. She noticed THAT little slip-up.

Snorting, she reached behind her and picked the sandwich back up again.

"Yeah, well. Sending me this far out in the middle of nowhere might as well be prison."

City kid. Right.

He was going to say 'it's not as isolated as it looks' but really that'd be a lie.

"I'm not a prison warden, Heather."

He starts on the other half of his sandwich mechanically, sets it down, swallows.

She bit into the sandwich, muttering something inaudible through it.

It was hard to tell what she said, but it was probably along the lines of 'Yeah right'.

This was going to be a long year.

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When the full moon turns white, that's when I'll come home.

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