(no subject)
Charlie Crews had come to an uneasy truce with the Island.
He still couldn't say he liked the Island on principle (that brief jaunt home hadn't been exactly pleasant -- home may have been home, but that didn't mean the case he and Reese had ended up tackling had been a great experience), but he could deal with it. As long as he was still one, he could work through (or at least around) the issues he had regarding the similarities between the proclivities of the Island and a prison. Plus, he figured, there was fresh fruit. Lots of it.
Walking along the beach, he cut an odd sort of figure. In a summery flower-print dress shirt that the clothes box had provided (white with light pink and orange patterns, sleeves rolled up to his elbows), black slacks (rolled up almost to his knees), and bare feet, it couldn't be said that he looked at all somber. So maybe the outfit was a little ... odd for him, he didn't particularly seem to mind it (although he might have a thing or two to say to anyone who would bother to point this out).
Relishing the feeling of the sand under his feet, he stopped by a small outcrop of rocks, looking down first at the rocks (which were conveniently flat) and then out at the horizon, an endless stretch of water met somewhere in the interminable distance by the now-golden sky. He seemed to consider the view, much as a prospective house owner might regard the neighbors, hands held easily at his sides, squinting just slightly as if this gave him a better view on things.
After a few moments, he picked out a rock to sit own, lowering himself down to sit on it Indian-style, shifting until he found a comfortable position and then settling into stillness. When exactly he allowed his eyes to close was unclear, but he probably wouldn't be acknowledging any passerby unless they approached him first.
Meditation can be a little anti-social like that.
He still couldn't say he liked the Island on principle (that brief jaunt home hadn't been exactly pleasant -- home may have been home, but that didn't mean the case he and Reese had ended up tackling had been a great experience), but he could deal with it. As long as he was still one, he could work through (or at least around) the issues he had regarding the similarities between the proclivities of the Island and a prison. Plus, he figured, there was fresh fruit. Lots of it.
Walking along the beach, he cut an odd sort of figure. In a summery flower-print dress shirt that the clothes box had provided (white with light pink and orange patterns, sleeves rolled up to his elbows), black slacks (rolled up almost to his knees), and bare feet, it couldn't be said that he looked at all somber. So maybe the outfit was a little ... odd for him, he didn't particularly seem to mind it (although he might have a thing or two to say to anyone who would bother to point this out).
Relishing the feeling of the sand under his feet, he stopped by a small outcrop of rocks, looking down first at the rocks (which were conveniently flat) and then out at the horizon, an endless stretch of water met somewhere in the interminable distance by the now-golden sky. He seemed to consider the view, much as a prospective house owner might regard the neighbors, hands held easily at his sides, squinting just slightly as if this gave him a better view on things.
After a few moments, he picked out a rock to sit own, lowering himself down to sit on it Indian-style, shifting until he found a comfortable position and then settling into stillness. When exactly he allowed his eyes to close was unclear, but he probably wouldn't be acknowledging any passerby unless they approached him first.
Meditation can be a little anti-social like that.