Diane — though I would quite like to believe in the better nature of nature itself, I must admit that there is very little that truly is what it seems.
No, [ she says, a little defensively, as if she's actually offended by the suggestion of leaving her by herself. She's confusing like that, a contradiction. (Martha wants to be left alone, she wants to be kept safe, she wants to go back to the house from the mountains and wants to run far far away, even though she knows she'll never be free. She needs her space, she needs arms around her, she needs to be smothered, that suffocating press and if only Agent Cooper would put both hands around her throat and squeeze maybe, just maybe, she'll get there and—)
Martha shakes her head abruptly and frowns. More decisively: ] No, I want to go in.
[ Cooper beams. He is used to contradictions, and this particular one, he doesn't mind.
With a spring that hardly belies the long hours they've spent in the car, he gets out, striding up to the door of the diner and holding it open for her. It's a small place, but nice enough, with checkered cloths over the tables and matching salt and pepper shakers at each little station. (Feels warm. Feels like home.) He waits for Martha to pick a place to sit before following her, shrugging off the FBI windbreaker he's been wearing and folding it up as he hails the waitress. ]
[ There's something about his cheerfulness that grates on Martha's nerves sometimes — something about his smile when it's at its broadest that reminds Martha of Lucy, of her sister, and how disingenous the thought of her feels in Martha's mind. She had thought she'd be able to save Martha, too, and they all saw what that had earned her, hadn't it? (Martha hadn't said anything when the car had pulled over, when Ted had put on the blinkers and the SVU had found the curb and that man she'd seen on the lake and come out and run over and wait, no—)
The thought makes her blink, makes her realize that both Cooper and the waitress (Cheryl, her nametag says; HI MY NAME IS CHERYL) are staring at her in expectation and how long had she been there, in the back of that car, how long ago was that, and where were they now.
Martha frowns and realizes her hands are knuckle white around her menu. ]
Are you— are you waiting for me? [ She flounders for a moment, unsure if she should be scared or angry and she looks at Cooper (how long was I gone) before she lifts her shoulders and shoves her shoulders down and buries her face in her menu as if no one is looking at her at all. ]
[ The car had pulled over and Ted had put on the blinkers and at the end of it all it had been Agent Cooper who'd gotten Martha out. (Really one for the damsels in distress, aren't you? Albert had asked. Cooper hadn't graced the statement with an answer.)
He buys her a few more moments, now, to look over the menu as he places his own order. (I'll go first. Get me a grilled cheese — wheat bread will do just fine, and yes, American — and then a slice of your best pie. Cherry? Sounds great. And coffee. Black.)
Most of the time, Cooper wears the same things, and among them: a smile, that cheerfulness that she sometimes finds so unsettling. But sometimes, when they stop for the night, it fades as if worn down by the day, and all that remains is a thin line, framed by the angle of his jaw. It's a reminder, perhaps, that he is human, too. ]
[ Maybe it's terrible and maybe it's selfish, but Martha likes it when they stop for the night and the day's posture gets stripped from Agent Cooper's shoulders, hung up alongside his camel trench and his black blazer like another article of clothing (something he dons instead of is, proof that he is only human). He's a man of ritual and there's an order to things — the way he folds his clothes and brushes his teeth and talks to his recorder and calls it Diane. But at the end of all rituals, before he shuts off the bedside lamp and rolls over onto his side with his back facing the wall, that's when he lets himself smile a little less and that's when Martha thinks — just maybe — it's possible they're not so different after all.
He takes his time as he places his order, which means Martha's more herself when the waitress turns her large cow eyes back towards her, peering at Martha over her glasses, the tip of her pencil tapping her scribbled notepad. ] Fries, [ she says shortly and pushes the menu away. ] Just fries and— [ Martha glances at Cooper. ] —and pie.
[ The waitress asks her which kind and Martha says pecan just to be difficult. She almost forgets to tack on a: ] —thanks.
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no subject
Martha shakes her head abruptly and frowns. More decisively: ] No, I want to go in.
no subject
With a spring that hardly belies the long hours they've spent in the car, he gets out, striding up to the door of the diner and holding it open for her. It's a small place, but nice enough, with checkered cloths over the tables and matching salt and pepper shakers at each little station. (Feels warm. Feels like home.) He waits for Martha to pick a place to sit before following her, shrugging off the FBI windbreaker he's been wearing and folding it up as he hails the waitress. ]
no subject
The thought makes her blink, makes her realize that both Cooper and the waitress (Cheryl, her nametag says; HI MY NAME IS CHERYL) are staring at her in expectation and how long had she been there, in the back of that car, how long ago was that, and where were they now.
Martha frowns and realizes her hands are knuckle white around her menu. ]
Are you— are you waiting for me? [ She flounders for a moment, unsure if she should be scared or angry and she looks at Cooper (how long was I gone) before she lifts her shoulders and shoves her shoulders down and buries her face in her menu as if no one is looking at her at all. ]
no subject
He buys her a few more moments, now, to look over the menu as he places his own order. (I'll go first. Get me a grilled cheese — wheat bread will do just fine, and yes, American — and then a slice of your best pie. Cherry? Sounds great. And coffee. Black.)
Most of the time, Cooper wears the same things, and among them: a smile, that cheerfulness that she sometimes finds so unsettling. But sometimes, when they stop for the night, it fades as if worn down by the day, and all that remains is a thin line, framed by the angle of his jaw. It's a reminder, perhaps, that he is human, too. ]
no subject
He takes his time as he places his order, which means Martha's more herself when the waitress turns her large cow eyes back towards her, peering at Martha over her glasses, the tip of her pencil tapping her scribbled notepad. ] Fries, [ she says shortly and pushes the menu away. ] Just fries and— [ Martha glances at Cooper. ] —and pie.
[ The waitress asks her which kind and Martha says pecan just to be difficult. She almost forgets to tack on a: ] —thanks.