Even on the island, with its (mostly) quiet lifestyle, Olivia couldn't sleep. A few months hasn't undone years of sleeping patterns, and it was during the twilight hours when most people were in bed that she enjoyed the compound most
( ... )
"Just a bit," Olivia admitted, taking in the sudden change in mood with little surprise. He would explain what his problem was if he felt like it, and she could wait.
She'd never appreciated just how much energy it took Peter and Astrid to look after Walter.
"Hm? Oh, yes. Yes, quite a bit. As much as I appreciate the accommodations, the dormitory can be a bit unnerving at times," Walter admitted, "I suppose it's the lack of windows."
Bad memories. The asylum had windows, of course, but they had been small, situated high near the ceiling, and of course, barred.
"The other morning, I woke... unsure if I'd been taken out of St. Claire's at all. The feeling has lingered."
Rory was a light sleeper. He could mumble and grumble with the best of them when morning came around, if he felt especially tired or had nothing to do with his morning, but really very little could wake him up. Like a shout drifting through his open window from the night.
Amy, without the same propensity, rolled over, but Rory, curiosity piqued, a faint sense of anxiety twisting in his stomach, slipped out of bed and threw on some clothes.
It didn't take him all that long to find Walter, between the shouts and the softer noises. Someone wandering around in the dead silence of night actually makes a lot of noise, comparatively. "Hey, Walter, hey," Rory said as he approached, rubbing sleep out of his eyes still. "What are you doing out so late?"
If there was one thing Rory had learned about working with pensioners, it was that their grumpiness usually had nothing to do with him personally. Sometimes there were things he could do to fix it. Other times, they just needed to grump to make up for something else. He didn’t believe Walter for a second, that the man was out there because he wanted to be, but he knew better than to fight it directly.
“Alright,” he said. “I’m just going to wait here, then. We can walk back to the Compound together when you’re done. I could use a cup of tea, couldn’t you?”
Had the noise not drawn her first, the sight of him would have. Natalia spends a fair few evenings herself out of doors, wandering in the night and wondering, in spite of all indications to the affirmative, if this place is truly her life now.
She recognizes the man outside the Compound, of course, she's learned all their names, and knows enough of him to say with certainty that he should not be out alone. "Hello," Natalia calls to him softly, putting some noise into what would otherwise be silent steps across the sand so as not to startle him.
"Hello," he parroted back to her, the greeting embedded within a longer string of murmured formulas and nonsense. To say he had answered her would have been an overstatement. He'd answered a voice, no more, and hardly spared the woman herself a glance.
He'd ruined a great many things in his life and the lives of countless others. For a while, he'd been on the right track to, if not making up for his transgressions, at least restoring a little balance. That was all on hold now, halted indefinitely, a fact in which he was having a difficult time coming to terms.
Choosing silence this time, Natalia comes quite close, surveying him for injury. He seems whole, though tonight she can only extend that towards the physical, and she touches light fingers to his elbow.
"I was thinking of making tea. Would you like some?"
Valkyrie wasn't sure why she had decided to go wandering about that night, maybe because she could and didn't have to sneak out her window this time or maybe she just needed some fresh air. She wasn't sure why it was so important to have a reason, but she didn't want it to be an aimless wandering.
Of course, some people apparently had far, far more odd reasons to go wandering about at night. Some people apparently just wanted to scream at the sky about... something. Valkyrie figured that a lot of people here had reasons to be angry and shout at things. In your boxers and a bedsheet. Not... really what she was hoping to see on her walk.
"Shouting at anything in particular?" she asked, voice carrying across the short distance outside the Compound. "Do you need some help? We Irish are pretty good at shouting."
He paused, sparing the young girl a look and a half-mad smile. Walter had never mistaken youth for ignorance, and he felt no more need to shield her from his madness than anyone else.
"I have a habit of talking to myself. I find a good shout helps me to clear my head. Some days it needs more clearing than others."
"Must have been pretty full this time," she said, not at all put off by the mad grin that he gave her. He reminded her of Kenspeckle a bit, which made her slightly sad before she brushed the thought aside, not wanting to dwell on thoughts like that at the moment.
"Although I don't know if you're really properly dressed for a good shout."
Looking down at himself, he had a bit of a chuckle. There wasn't an ounce of modesty in him, but luckily for the girl, he just happened to be mostly covered.
It's well past midnight by the time Charles glances at his watch and realizes he ought to be returning to the Boarding House. While this would hardly mark the first time he'd fallen asleep over a book, the bed that awaits him is far more appealing than one of the rec room's chairs, and so he packs up his research for the day, careful to tuck his more fortuitous finds from the bookshelf into his bag before heading outside. Any thoughts of returning home, however, are quickly forgotten in the face of the man muttering to himself not far from the Compound's entrance; Charles recognizes him, of course, in the way he recognizes many of the faces here, those who work in the lab, particularly. It's a sad sight, to see someone with such genius so broken, and Charles' heart goes out to the man, even without benefit of his telepathy.
"Dr. Bishop, hello," he says, voice pitched to be calming as he makes his approach.
"Hello, Kevin," Walter said with a kind of distracted cheerfulness. Kevin was a nice boy... Or was it Christopher? Or did it really matter, in the long run.
One of the few high points of being utterly mad was that no one seemed to get their feelings hurt if you couldn't remember their name.
"Funny thing, you know, I can't for the life of me remember why I came out here."
Charles manages a small, if slightly worn smile. Were they at home, he might be able to better help the man, return to him some kind of clarity, but that is simply not in the cards for reasons that may forever escape him.
"I find," says Charles, stepping closer, "that when I can't remember where I'm going, it helps to go back to where I came from." He turns, slightly, his eyes staying on Dr. Bishop, though his body is angled towards the Compound. "Would you care to join me for a spot of tea, Doctor? Perhaps it will jog your memory."
"Sound advice, though, we are all sadly unable to return to where we've come from. I suppose that is part of the problem," Walter admitted with a kind smile, his focus finally sharpening on the young man.
A doctor, and a quite brilliant one, if Walter remembered correctly.
"Tea. Yes, that sounds nice," he agreed, taking a step toward the compound, "There were chocolate chip cookies in the kitchen, the other day. I would very much like one of those."
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"Oh, Agent Dunham," he said with an amiable smile, as if he hadn't been found in his underwear, ranting at the stars. "Trouble sleeping?"
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She'd never appreciated just how much energy it took Peter and Astrid to look after Walter.
"And you?"
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Bad memories. The asylum had windows, of course, but they had been small, situated high near the ceiling, and of course, barred.
"The other morning, I woke... unsure if I'd been taken out of St. Claire's at all. The feeling has lingered."
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Amy, without the same propensity, rolled over, but Rory, curiosity piqued, a faint sense of anxiety twisting in his stomach, slipped out of bed and threw on some clothes.
It didn't take him all that long to find Walter, between the shouts and the softer noises. Someone wandering around in the dead silence of night actually makes a lot of noise, comparatively. "Hey, Walter, hey," Rory said as he approached, rubbing sleep out of his eyes still. "What are you doing out so late?"
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"I only need a moment to think. There's something about this time of night that brings clarity. Do not disturb me!"
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“Alright,” he said. “I’m just going to wait here, then. We can walk back to the Compound together when you’re done. I could use a cup of tea, couldn’t you?”
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... Though, he had to admit, tea sounded lovely, just then.
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She recognizes the man outside the Compound, of course, she's learned all their names, and knows enough of him to say with certainty that he should not be out alone. "Hello," Natalia calls to him softly, putting some noise into what would otherwise be silent steps across the sand so as not to startle him.
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He'd ruined a great many things in his life and the lives of countless others. For a while, he'd been on the right track to, if not making up for his transgressions, at least restoring a little balance. That was all on hold now, halted indefinitely, a fact in which he was having a difficult time coming to terms.
And Peter... there was always Peter.
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"I was thinking of making tea. Would you like some?"
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"Peppermint?" he inquired hopefully.
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Of course, some people apparently had far, far more odd reasons to go wandering about at night. Some people apparently just wanted to scream at the sky about... something. Valkyrie figured that a lot of people here had reasons to be angry and shout at things. In your boxers and a bedsheet. Not... really what she was hoping to see on her walk.
"Shouting at anything in particular?" she asked, voice carrying across the short distance outside the Compound. "Do you need some help? We Irish are pretty good at shouting."
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"I have a habit of talking to myself. I find a good shout helps me to clear my head. Some days it needs more clearing than others."
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"Although I don't know if you're really properly dressed for a good shout."
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"What do you suppose would be more appropriate?"
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"Dr. Bishop, hello," he says, voice pitched to be calming as he makes his approach.
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One of the few high points of being utterly mad was that no one seemed to get their feelings hurt if you couldn't remember their name.
"Funny thing, you know, I can't for the life of me remember why I came out here."
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"I find," says Charles, stepping closer, "that when I can't remember where I'm going, it helps to go back to where I came from." He turns, slightly, his eyes staying on Dr. Bishop, though his body is angled towards the Compound. "Would you care to join me for a spot of tea, Doctor? Perhaps it will jog your memory."
Reply
A doctor, and a quite brilliant one, if Walter remembered correctly.
"Tea. Yes, that sounds nice," he agreed, taking a step toward the compound, "There were chocolate chip cookies in the kitchen, the other day. I would very much like one of those."
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