(no subject)
By this point, Dieter is fully aware of the sorts of pranks that the rec room likes to play. Still, he's crouched down in front of the bookshelf, flipping through records as the jukebox plays a Lilian Harvey song quietly in the background, a soft jab at his prior life. (He doesn't have the patience to look through the actual books - he might have, once upon a time, but after getting title after title referring to World War II as ancient history, he's checked out. Life here is surreal enough as it is. Maybe at a later date, he thinks, but not right now.)
It's a rare sort of moment for him, one in which he allows himself to be the observed rather than the observer. Still, his every move is careful, partially out of habit (being under scrutiny used to be a way of life for him, after all), and partially because he still doesn't trust this place. Despite its idyllic overcoat, it has never struck him as anything but slightly sinister (and, perhaps, cruel, although it's a point he hasn't bothered discussing with anyone).
A few more moments pass before he straightens up, shaking out his arms as he casts his gaze about the room, then electing to take one of the empty seats. He sits down heavily, immediately occupying himself with folding up his sleeves. A menial task, perhaps, but one that makes him more comfortable than looking through music with his back to a constantly occupied room, a fact that is a little too indicative of his general state of mind. (His Walther is tucked into the back of his pants. He doesn't particularly care that this place is supposed to be a blank slate, that he really shouldn't be carrying a loaded gun around. He'd rather be safe than sorry. He remembers more than clearly the fact that one of the people who first met him on the island was an American soldier.)
That task finished, he stops for a moment before allowing his legs to stretch out, feet deliberately in the way of traffic, one of his arms slung over the back of the chair he's sitting in, head tipping back and eyes closing, as if he'd only accidentally fallen asleep in one of the most inconvenient spots in the room.
It's a rare sort of moment for him, one in which he allows himself to be the observed rather than the observer. Still, his every move is careful, partially out of habit (being under scrutiny used to be a way of life for him, after all), and partially because he still doesn't trust this place. Despite its idyllic overcoat, it has never struck him as anything but slightly sinister (and, perhaps, cruel, although it's a point he hasn't bothered discussing with anyone).
A few more moments pass before he straightens up, shaking out his arms as he casts his gaze about the room, then electing to take one of the empty seats. He sits down heavily, immediately occupying himself with folding up his sleeves. A menial task, perhaps, but one that makes him more comfortable than looking through music with his back to a constantly occupied room, a fact that is a little too indicative of his general state of mind. (His Walther is tucked into the back of his pants. He doesn't particularly care that this place is supposed to be a blank slate, that he really shouldn't be carrying a loaded gun around. He'd rather be safe than sorry. He remembers more than clearly the fact that one of the people who first met him on the island was an American soldier.)
That task finished, he stops for a moment before allowing his legs to stretch out, feet deliberately in the way of traffic, one of his arms slung over the back of the chair he's sitting in, head tipping back and eyes closing, as if he'd only accidentally fallen asleep in one of the most inconvenient spots in the room.