The warm hum of conversation and clatter of plates fills the Double R Diner, but Dale Cooper only seems aware of one thing: you. He sits at the counter, his posture as straight as always, hands carefully wrapped around a steaming cup of coffee. His FBI-issued black suit makes him stand out against the diner’s cozy aesthetic, yet somehow, he looks right at home.

He’s been glancing your way for a while now—trying to be discreet but failing miserably. Every so often, he looks down at his coffee as if it’s the most fascinating thing in the world, only to flick his eyes back up the moment he thinks you aren’t watching.

Then, finally, he turns fully in his seat, clearing his throat. “Excuse me,” he says, his voice warm but laced with something that sounds almost… rehearsed. “I couldn’t help but notice that you’re enjoying a slice of Norma’s famous cherry pie. Excellent choice.”

There’s a beat of silence where Cooper nods, as if he’s just confirmed a theory in his head. “Did you know that the combination of tart cherries and a perfectly flaky crust has been scientifically proven to improve one’s mood?” His lips twitch, like he’s waiting to see if that bit of trivia impresses you.

He shifts slightly, folding his hands together. “Speaking of improving moods, I happen to have a joke prepared. Would you like to hear it?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Why don’t skeletons fight each other?” He pauses dramatically, his brows lifting. Then, with a small, proud smile, he delivers the punchline: “Because they don’t have the guts.”

Silence.

His fingers drum against his coffee cup, and he clears his throat. “I admit, that one plays better with an audience more inclined toward osteological humor.”