Day 61: Greenhouse

[dualistic]

While Harvey never really enjoyed having to babysit one of the newer patients, he had to admit that Barnaby had been pretty easy to deal with. He'd been composed, quiet, and focused, which was a lot better than some of the other patients who only gave confused looks or had over-the-top reactions to everything they heard.

The point was, that conversation had almost been enjoyable, which was strange for Harvey to admit. He didn't know how Barnaby was going to manage in this place in the long run, but he wouldn't be surprised if he found his feet eventually and then did decently well for himself. It wasn't Harvey's job to care either way, but the close quarters they were kept in meant he'd probably end up finding out anyway.

Unfortunately, a positive note could only last for so long. As usual, it was a nurse who ruined it by insisting that he should go to the greenhouse for the last shift of the day. "Mr. Eckhart, it's not cold in there, so it shouldn't be any strain on you. It might be nice to help something grow, don't you think?"

He didn't dignify any of that with a response and instead resigned himself to his fate. He was one of the first people to make it into the muggy greenhouse, and he realized that he wasn't a fan of being cold or being hot. He fanned the air in front of his face for a few seconds and then went to find somewhere to sit down.

All the plants were lined up in pots; it almost felt like they were staring at him, waiting for him to do something about it. Well, that wasn't gonna happen.

[For Peter Parker.]

Comments

[tasteoftruth]

"Oh, it's not mine. I'm just borrowing it." Badd shifted slightly to the side to give the newcomer some space. At least he hadn't started with a host of inane questions, point in his favor, but he seemed less polite and more...distraught.

The man was holding a paper and giving it the same look Badd used to give his gas bill in January. Badd didn't peek, didn't need to. He'd been there last week.

"Let me guess." He pointed to the paper. "You got a letter from a friend."

[threepwood]

Guybrush didn't even crack a smile at the stranger's comment, his brow knitting together as he stared down the letter again as though his gaze would compel it to give him some answers. It did not.

"If only," he grumbled. "It's from my wife. Even getting a letter from my shady, court-appointed attorney telling me the insanity plea he put in for me was approved would have been preferable to this." His grip on the paper tightened, crumpling it; he had second thoughts about that instantly, setting the letter on his thigh and smoothing the crinkles out of it.

[tasteoftruth]

"Interesting. I got a letter from my wife last week." Badd sat back with one arm over the bench, watching the younger man almost lazily. "Only the funny part is I don't actually remember getting married."

Apathy was the safest place to hide when it came to that letter. Not only had it accused him of being a violent psychotic and his partner of being a killer and kidnapper, but it had contained that rather disgusting photograph to 'prove' that he'd actually gone up to the altar with the woman who'd ruined his life. And they'd made it so he was smiling.

If nothing else Badd wasn't sure why the institute thought he'd believe a fifty year old man could score a twenty year old wife with the body of a model. Not on a policeman's salary he wouldn't.

[threepwood]

"Well, I do remember getting married," Guybrush cut back, the letter clearly having riled him up. "But when she was here, she didn't because she was from the past, or I'm from the future, or something that makes no logical sense in any terms except those of dramatic storytelling."

He slumped forward, elbows on his knees. "And now she's gone and I'm still here wondering if this actually is from her."

[tasteoftruth]

Badd would buy that. He spent half the nights of the week hanging around with a man who didn't remember that he'd been dead for seven years.

"I wouldn't bet on it. They'd censor anything that came in here and we already know they're not scared to write fake letters to make us think we're crazy." Badd shrugged. He almost felt like patting the man on the back, but logic would be more of a comfort. "And if she's all right she won't be writing to you. It'd be too dangerous."