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Fire.
It doesn’t just walk, it runs. The sensation of burning energy sizzling up his arm hairs, traveling to his spine and then down down down. In the fire’s wake he feels anger. Fully directionless anger. Blind anger. He feels like an atom bomb wrapped tight to explode.
A hand grips his own. He can’t even recoil when the fire runs back up his body again and channels into that hand. Now there are two bodies feeling rage and fire and fight.
Their bodies clashed together, rolling against the desk. Till the fire passes through them both. A bolt of electricity skips out of their bodies, then visibly runs up the wire of the ceiling lamp and out the door.
The fire and rage is gone. It was never real. Or his. Or theirs. It was projected onto them by… something else.
Cooper knows this because there isn’t an ounce of anger left in his body in this moment. Not towards the killer, not towards Jacques or Leo or even Windom. He feels cleansed. At peace. Like he’s experienced a supernaturally facilitated version of the meditative practice called Progressive Muscle Relaxation.
This is when Cooper realizes that he is laying fully on the conference table, underneath Sheriff Harry S. Truman. Harry’s face does not mirror Cooper’s bliss at all. He looks horrified. Red as a beet. Their faces are inches apart.
And… Dale can feel something press hard against his groin.
Oh.
Dale makes a millisecond of eye contact with Harry and the Sheriff springs back from him like he touched a socket.
“Harry, I don’t want you to panic but I believe we just shared a paranormal experience,” Cooper offers in a calm tone.
Truman is speechless and turns away from Dale but nods his head slowly in dumbfounded agreement.
Cooper wonders what more he could say to reassure his friend, but before he can say anything there is a racket coming from down the hall. Deputy Andy lets out a piercing scream. There is no time to talk. It’s always onto the next emergency.
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Diane: It’s 2:15 am and I’m in my luxurious bed at the Great Northern and I’m struggling to fall asleep. I feel tired and wired. Earlier tonight I briefly experienced a moment of otherworldly possession. Seemingly inexplicable but it appears to have been felt by the entire station. A brief sensation of fire and irrationality.
While there was no outward violence everyone reports having a momentary sensation of fire and of uncontrollable emotion. Lack of rationality spreading like a virus has historical precedent but not a lot of hard science to back it up. Still, I’m inclined to believe this was a real phenomenon.
The only sign of physical fire is scorch marks around the ceiling lamps. The electrician is “looking into it” for whatever that’s worth.
I’m not expecting clear answers, but it was so uncanny. I can’t help but think it is tied to the Palmer case.
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Dale clicks off the recorder. He’s going to try to sleep again. He’s attempting an end-run at Zen meditation, which is usually helpful in times like these. But the image of Harry’s face inches from his own consumes his mind's-eye. Harry’s closeness. Discomfort. Desire.
Zen instructs you to be in the present moment, observing thoughts and sensations without becoming attached to them. Dale can’t let the image or the feeling that’s come with it go.
It would be a lie to deny the attraction he’s felt towards Harry since the day they met. It would be extremely unprofessional and unethical if he DID anything about it.
Harry is kind, brave, patient, open-minded in a way Albert assumes is impossible for a small town man. Albert is usually right. Truman is an exceptional man.
But for all those qualities it seems safest to assume a guy like Harry wouldn’t be comfortable acknowledging attraction with a man. So many reasons to put these feelings aside.
Time to break out the Progressive Muscle Relaxation technique and get some shut-eye. When the mind feels out of control, attempting a more body-centered meditation can often be his way to a clearer mind.
Dale lies in bed, feeling his body supported by the pillow-top mattress. The points of contact between the bed and his shoulders, his behind, his ankles, cradled by the feathers.
He starts from the bottom, tightening his foot muscles and then relaxing. Then his calves. His mind starts to settle and he keeps going. His quads. His hip flexors.
Which is when he remembers the night’s earlier experience of muscles in tension and some of their more complicated results.
Right.
Dale should have realized that this particular form of wired/tired would be best addressed the old-fashioned way. Meditation is an ancient tradition but he’s confident masturbation is older.
Getting out of bed to walk to his bathroom where surely there would be some Great Northern branded lotion feels counter to his mission of sleep, so he decides to make do without.
Dale closes his eyes and unties his pajama pants to give himself more room to work with. His hand smoothes across the tightness of his stomach muscles while his cock hardens in response to the freedom he’s allowing his mind to have and roam. With his hand his mind wanders. He’s back at Haverford, after the bonfire party, in the woods and his not-yet-girlfriend is giving him head. What she lacks in experience she makes up for in enthusiasm as he feels her wet mouth around as much of him as she can handle.
The woods. Always the woods and sex and nature…
Dale moves his hand up and down his cock. He’s fully hard but he feels like he’s stalling. He stops trying to fight off the image in his mind. He’s in the woods with Harry. He’s sitting against a felled pine and Harry is between his knees, looking up at him with his soulful brown eyes and swallowing him down in a long, slow motion.
There is friction from his hand when he fingers his balls. He imagines it is the prickle of Harry’s stubble. Dale imagines he can bury his fingers in Harry’s curly hair while he bobs his head against him. Harry’s lips would be wet from his efforts and maybe Dale’s precome because fuck if this vision of Harry freed from any burden or boundary isn’t the hottest thing Dale can imagine.
He knows Harry can look at him with desire because he caught a glimpse of it the night he wore his tuxedo to infiltrate One-Eyed Jacks. Cooper replays that moment in his mind. The flutter of Harry’s eyelashes as his eyes scan Cooper’s body up and down with approval.
What if Harry was watching him now?
Dale reflexively spreads his legs at the thought of Harry seeing him like this. He silently mouths the words, “Watch me Harry. I want you so bad.”
His mouth opens in an O of pleasure as he imagines Harry standing over him. Harry in his uniform, zipper undone, cock exposed, heavy, red at the tip. Fantasy Harry, gentle but firm, cards strong fingers through Fantasy Dale’s hair. Dale takes Harry’s cock down his throat, breathing through his nose till it’s buried against Harry’s pubic hair. His cock deep inside.
Harry’s cock would feel warm and smooth and hard down his throat. His smell engulfs Dale. Woodsmoke. Ivory soap. He hears Harry, staid, grounded Harry, say, “Fuck Dale, you’re so good to me…”
And real Dale comes hard, hips thrusting in the air, shoots hot across his chest and splashes his chin. Tastes himself. Imagines it’s Harry’s come. A quiet moan escapes.
His mind clears. Most of his come landed on his pajama shirt. He’ll need to rinse his shirt in the sink before sending down laundry in a plastic bag in the morning but thankfully the bedding was spared. That would have been rude.
A wave of cooling air washes across his body. He settles back down in the bed. He dreams of fishing. He hasn’t done that since the Boy Scouts.
______________________________________ Meanwhile ____________________________________________________
Bend. Twist. Snip.
Making fishing lures was something Harry learned from his father, who learned from his father before him. And so on he assumes. They’d make spinners, flies, any kind of lure you can think of. And they made them out of wood and wire. None of that plastic junk.
He enjoys it. They really do work better than the ones for sale at the store. Though Harry’s not usually in the habit of making them on his bedside table at two in the morning on a weeknight.
Harry can’t sleep. Even with the horrors and stresses of the Palmer case he’s usually been able to rest once his heavy head hits the pillow. Sure, he’s had more than his share of disturbing nightmares that caused him to wake up feeling like he’s been hit by a truck, but he still got some shut-eye.
This is different.
It’s not horror. His mind just won’t stop turning over the whole “shared paranormal experience” as Coop had put it.
This case has brought out the strangest parts of Twin Peaks history, myth and legends too. Not what he learned in school or the police academy. Maybe closer to stories Hawk would share.
He can accept the truth of Cooper’s visions. Coop’s earnestness, smarts and … something else about him…. make what would sound like crazy talk from a lesser man utterly believable from Coop. He has faith in Coop.
It’s one thing to have Cooper tell you he saw a giant in a vision. It’s another to feel fire running through your veins, to start thinking like nothing more than a wild animal and come to having pinned your friend to the conference table where they usually stack the donuts and forensic reports.
A man might feel a way about that. Especially realizing the tussle on that table had left him hard. Against his friend. A man.
This case is getting to him. Everything has gone wrong and messy. He can hardly see straight tonight. He feels like he’s being smothered by a wave of smoke.
Josie is in Seattle. Or so he was told.
His mind wanders back to Sid of all people, Judge Sternwood’s beautiful law clerk, stunning like a cover girl but in dungarees. The look she gave Dale when he introduced them when she arrived during that storm…
Hot shower. Why didn’t he think of that?
He should just taken a hot shower before bed instead of thinking he could busy his hands enough to empty his head.
He turns on the water as hot as he can stand and gets in. Starts to lather up. Reach for the Pert+ because why not wash your hair at 2 in the morning if you’re in the shower anyway.
The feeling of his fingers against his scalp makes him shiver. This would be so much better if he wasn’t alone.
Well that says it all. He just needs to jerk off, then he’ll be able to pass out. Why didn’t he do that two hours ago? Better late than never.
He washes the minty shampoo off his hand and soaps up his cock with the Ivory. His cock is already at half mast. The law clerk. Soft dark hair. Full lips around his cock. She’d know what she was doing. She grips his ass to pull him deeper. Harry feels the smooth tile of the shower stall against his back.
He sags against it. It feels cool on the base of his spine. She’s looking up at him with wet lashes, glistening eyes.
He knows why he’s seeing her image and not Josie’s right now. Because this isn’t real or possible. Because she hasn’t hurt him.
But the distance between his fantasy and reality isn’t helping because he keeps drifting back to Cooper and the feel of his body beneath him.
He and Dale are the same height. Same build. He knows why he knows this. He’s spent a lot of time looking at Dale. Dale spends a lot of time looking at him too. Dale looks at him like there is something extraordinary about just being a small town sheriff who does his job and loves his town.
Dale always finds a reason to touch his arm, his shoulder. Smile at him when he needs it. Dale looks like Cary Grant in that tuxedo.
Fuck.
Paranormal possession may be why he and Cooper were rolling on the table but paranormal whatsits did not give him an erection.
Cooper has told him every day he should “Every day, once a day, give yourself a present. Don't plan it. Don't wait for it. Just let it happen.” Tonight, Harry will gift himself this fantasy. Just so he can get some sleep.
He’s never been with a guy. He hasn’t thought too hard about it before. He’s seen enough porn in his line of work to get the gist.
With his eyes closed they’re over by the falls. It’s warm. Humid. They’re naked and Harry has Dale pinned beneath him on the soft grass of the slope. Their hard cocks grind against each other and their bodies fit. Harry’s hand in the shower becomes Harry and Dale’s hands together in the fantasy. Jerking their cocks together.
What would Dale’s cock feel like against his own? Harry can’t imagine what Dale would sound like so he just hears the water. He can imagine the feel of Dale’s freshly shaved square jaw against his own. He imagines running his free hand down the side of Dale’s body feeling the strong muscles beneath the soft skin. Grabbing Coop’s cute behind.
What would it feel like to grind against it? But in this vision they are face to face. Coop’s dark eyes full of lust like he’s sure his own are now.
What would it take to get that look from Coop for real? Coop looks at him with warmth and affection all the time. And sometimes with awe. That used to make him uncomfortable but he’s grown into it, as he has so many things.
What was Cooper’s face like when they tussled against the desk today? Did a single, perfect slick hair fall out of place? Did he flush red? What would make Coop go really wild? Biting him on the neck as they jerk together?
Would he want Harry to fuck him? Or would he want the other way? It all blurs in Harry’s mind. Just so long as they are close. Fantasy Dale is deep throating him now. Little tears in the corner of his eyes, lips tight around him. And yes, that look of awe on his face.
Harry would tell him how good he's doing. He knows Dale would want to hear that.
He comes, splattering his chest and hand. He tastes himself— he never does that– but he wants to remember the taste of come. He feels like Dale’s presence is with him. Heat washes over him. Not just from the spray. A full body sensation of warmth. Not fire, just warmth. Like Dale’s eyes. The sun. Coffee. Goodness.
Drying off he knows he’ll be able to sleep. As he gets into bed he sees the box of fishing lures on the nightstand and wonders if Dale would like to go fishing some time. Nothing inappropriate about that.