*** Astrid sees the staff psychologist after her fourth case. She spends the interview rubbing her nape, feeling out the tiny prick of a needle-mark. She can hear Olivia’s voice in her inner mind, telling her not to trust Walter’s brand of science. She remembers the moment of startled terror, when his forearm snaked around her throat, body jerked against his torso before the needle slid home.
The staff psychologist isn’t located in the FBI building but situated half an hour away.
The agents may pretend to mind their own business but at heart they’re investigators. No one wants to walk down the long corridor to psych in full view of his or her work colleagues. No agent wants to suffer the flicker of second-guessing - is he or she okay? Can I trust them at my back? Can they handle this? – too human in its uncertainty. Astrid knows how the field agents work. She knows Olivia would be infuriated if her judgement were ever questioned. If Olivia were called to a psych evaluation, she would fear the mark on her permanent file.
Same as Astrid, personally, doesn’t care, happy to use the available resources if it means her *sense of judgement is never compromised, or questioned internally*. It’s an odd realisation to make – to see how differently they approach the same problem- unlike Olivia Astrid’s never cared about fitting in, unlike Olivia, it wasn’t written into her genetic code to blend in.
Chagrined, Astrid thinks none of this is easy. Its hard, blurred, like standing too close to a picture, she can’t see the overall tapestry through the weave. Their little unit of three doesn’t gel – Walter, Olivia, Astrid – are separate threads of opposing colour. She’s surprisingly hurt, considering how little she knew about Walter, and she’s angry, the emotion sharp on her tongue, like Olivia, Astrid’s now doing her best to avoid him. Walter used rohypnol to knock her out (available to him for his depression), and Astrid can’t grabble with the disgust/anger his actions warranted.
She’s aware enough to know this isn’t good for Walter, ignoring him makes her guilty as Olivia, but she wants the anger to burn true, until all the oxygen runs out.
Astrid only knows one other woman who was drugged against her will.
In a nondescript building half an hour away from the FBI office, Astrid doesn’t stretch out upon the couch, although the psychologist has one perpendicular to his desk, the leather buttery soft, inviting. She sits in the chair opposite, making eye contact
“I can’t look after Walter by myself. Olivia has issues with him that run a mile deep.”
“You’re not *supposed* to look after Dr. Bishop by yourself,” he says, while Astrid gives him the stink-eye. “Have you approached Colonel Broyles?”
“This is my first assignment,” Astrid says apropos of nothing, her fingers curl inward, resting against the worn denim of her jeans.
“Trying to make a good impression. There’s no shame in asking for aid. Broyles may even appreciate your candour.”
Astrid frowns, she lets her eyes drift over the diplomas, books, the bland paintings and mahogany desk. Olivia might be willing to clash horns with Broyles but Astrid finds him intimidating, not to mention her superior.
He senses her discomfit. “You could start smaller. Have you spoken to Walter about the incident?”
Which one? Astrid wants to say. It’s been four cases and the number of incidents has begun piling up like a car crash.
“You could address the issue directly, ask for an apology.”
“Walter always apologies.” He assumes responsibility at the drop of a hat. I’m sorry, forgive me, spilling from his mouth, eyes and hands imploring. She doesn’t doubt Walter’s remorse. It’s the realisation it won’t stop him from doing it again that gives her pause.
“He doesn’t think about the consequences.” Astrid says, tiredly.
Unlike herself, Walter’s comfortable standing where he is - frozen in place, so close his nose is pressed against the tapestry - obsessed by the small details, completely disinterested in the larger picture.
“Why should he, when he has you? Your endless patience for him,” he says, smiling gently.
Irked, Astrid can’t tell if he’s mocking her or not.
“It’s like everyone assumes I have experience with mental illness.” She can see the humour in his eyes, the rebuttal even Astrid can see, given her current location in his place of business.
“As if I own some magical rulebook with how to deal with Walter’s psychosis, and I don’t.”
It’s not fair, she bites back, because she’s struggling too, trying to keep up with science, human anatomy, Walter’s anger, the FBI reports, Olivia’s demands, and their moments of thoughtlessness.
“You don’t have experience with mental illness?” He actually does look surprised. “Not a family member or a friend?”
“No.” She thinks about Suzy, digging up bones in Afghanistan, patiently brushing the dirt away from each new tomb of horror, choosing solitude and the dead. “I understand prejudice.”
He blinks at her, mouth parted. He doesn’t take notes while she’s speaking, Astrid has observed, and wonders if he’s recording her instead. “Why does Olivia assume you have experience ‘in this type of thing’?”
“It makes it easier on herself,” Astrid decides slowly. “To believe I can handle Walter better means she doesn’t have to deal with him.” He tilts his head, his fingers beating a tattoo against the mahogany grain, expression unreadable. “What?” Astrid says.
“Why wouldn’t she want to deal with him?”
She returns to Harvard in the late afternoon, the sun streaming through the clouds and scores of students sprawled across the available grass. Inside the lab, Walter and Olivia are sitting together. Astrid almost trips down the stairs.
They don’t look particularly comfortable. Walter’s anxious, while Olivia seems utterly relieved when Astrid enters the room. “Hey,” Olivia calls, a little desperately.
“Hey,” Astrid returns, her eyes darting from one to the other. “Am I interrupting?”
“Walter was telling me about gastronomical worms in South America.” Olivia says in a rush, sounding pained.
“They can grow up to twenty feet long and are coaxed out of their human hosts by starvation. Eventually they’ll depart by climbing the gullet and exiting via the mouth. They’re quite slim, allowing the host to continue breathing while they’re extracted from the body,” Walter perks up brightly. “The two of us were having a conversation!”
“And a charming one at that.” Astrid can feel a smile turn the corners of her mouth. Olivia watches her pensively. “Coffee?”
“Thank you,” Walter accepts readily.
She leaves them alone, walking to the kitchenette, and listens to the cadence of Walter’s voice. Eventually Olivia joins her, washing a mug by the sink. She wonders if the three of them are orbiting one another, moving position, at equal distance and continually apart; if Olivia’s only talking to Walter because Astrid’s still angry.
“It was good to see,” Astrid offers, to break the silence. “It’s the first time I’ve seen you talk to Walter rather than *at* him.”
Olivia’s fingers tighten on the mug, long and delicate. Their interaction thus far has been limited to science and demanding answers. Astrid puts three sugars in Walter’s cup and takes the mug from Agent Dunham’s hand.
“You handle him well.”
Astrid straightens. She’s waiting to see if Olivia will add to the sentence, if there will be a qualifier, an addendum, when none’s forthcoming Astrid states honestly. “It’s a process.”
Olivia meets her eyes.
Junior Agents Tim McEvan and Allister Roberts start the next day. Walter tolerates Tim, hates Allister on sight, and drugs the unsuspecting agent only twice.
Ironically, Dr. Bishop yelps when he finds out about her trip to the psychologist. He susses it out after her follow-up session. “You’re seeing a shrink? Are you *mad*, you can’t trust them! They’re just looking for an excuse to lock people away!”
He instructs her on techniques to mask her emotions - to hide from a psychiatrist’s probing and impervious gaze (she doesn’t correct him, for Walter it’s always been psychiatrists).
He sits by her side anxiously before Astrid finally reaches out, runs her hand down his shivering forearm (he’s tactile, always has been, quick to hug or hip-bump her out of the way in the lab) and says gently. “It’s okay, Walter. You don’t need to worry about me.”
She knows the broad strokes of his history, she knows Walter lost a son; it’s the details she lacks. Walter doesn’t speak of his fallen child. The memory jealousy guarded.
Walter segregates his mind, boxes things away, buries them so deep the memory of it melts away in the darkness. Astrid doesn’t want to live like that. She wants to tell Walter to open up and breathe, to remind him immortality is only achieved through the telling of tales. She wants to say seeing a psychologist is a pressure valve, a relief, to let everything unspool messily, to have someone listening who doesn’t work in the lab. To not care how she sounds or censure her emotions. To Astrid, talking to a psychologist is like jumping from a treetop.
A rush of absolute freedom.
“You can talk to me,” he implores. “I’m a good listener.”
I don’t trust them, he means.
He’s absolutely the worst listener Astrid’s ever encountered.
She feels a smile tug at her mouth. The warmth unfurling in her chest is unexpected after the anger, making her lungs expand, the ache reminiscent of a diver breaking surface after being oxygen deprived. She cups one hand to his cheek, mouth tilting helplessly. “Thank you.”
Ironically, when Olivia finds out (some years later) she displays none of the prejudices common amongst field agents. She doesn’t question Astrid’s sanity, doubt her ability to perform her job, or make a single snide remark. Olivia’s attitude is questing, as if running a searchlight over her own mental landscape. Suzy, Astrid imagines, would have told her to read Roald Dahl instead.
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timeasmymeasure
Re: Now and Then - or how the Woolley Mammoth was Completely Wrong 2/3. Gen. Astrid, Walter
Date: 2011-12-21 10:04 pm (UTC)Astrid sees the staff psychologist after her fourth case. She spends the interview rubbing her nape, feeling out the tiny prick of a needle-mark. She can hear Olivia’s voice in her inner mind, telling her not to trust Walter’s brand of science. She remembers the moment of startled terror, when his forearm snaked around her throat, body jerked against his torso before the needle slid home.
The staff psychologist isn’t located in the FBI building but situated half an hour away.
The agents may pretend to mind their own business but at heart they’re investigators. No one wants to walk down the long corridor to psych in full view of his or her work colleagues. No agent wants to suffer the flicker of second-guessing - is he or she okay? Can I trust them at my back? Can they handle this? – too human in its uncertainty. Astrid knows how the field agents work. She knows Olivia would be infuriated if her judgement were ever questioned. If Olivia were called to a psych evaluation, she would fear the mark on her permanent file.
Same as Astrid, personally, doesn’t care, happy to use the available resources if it means her *sense of judgement is never compromised, or questioned internally*. It’s an odd realisation to make – to see how differently they approach the same problem- unlike Olivia Astrid’s never cared about fitting in, unlike Olivia, it wasn’t written into her genetic code to blend in.
Chagrined, Astrid thinks none of this is easy. Its hard, blurred, like standing too close to a picture, she can’t see the overall tapestry through the weave. Their little unit of three doesn’t gel – Walter, Olivia, Astrid – are separate threads of opposing colour. She’s surprisingly hurt, considering how little she knew about Walter, and she’s angry, the emotion sharp on her tongue, like Olivia, Astrid’s now doing her best to avoid him. Walter used rohypnol to knock her out (available to him for his depression), and Astrid can’t grabble with the disgust/anger his actions warranted.
She’s aware enough to know this isn’t good for Walter, ignoring him makes her guilty as Olivia, but she wants the anger to burn true, until all the oxygen runs out.
Astrid only knows one other woman who was drugged against her will.
In a nondescript building half an hour away from the FBI office, Astrid doesn’t stretch out upon the couch, although the psychologist has one perpendicular to his desk, the leather buttery soft, inviting. She sits in the chair opposite, making eye contact
“I can’t look after Walter by myself. Olivia has issues with him that run a mile deep.”
“You’re not *supposed* to look after Dr. Bishop by yourself,” he says, while Astrid gives him the stink-eye. “Have you approached Colonel Broyles?”
“This is my first assignment,” Astrid says apropos of nothing, her fingers curl inward, resting against the worn denim of her jeans.
“Trying to make a good impression. There’s no shame in asking for aid. Broyles may even appreciate your candour.”
Astrid frowns, she lets her eyes drift over the diplomas, books, the bland paintings and mahogany desk. Olivia might be willing to clash horns with Broyles but Astrid finds him intimidating, not to mention her superior.
He senses her discomfit. “You could start smaller. Have you spoken to Walter about the incident?”
Which one? Astrid wants to say. It’s been four cases and the number of incidents has begun piling up like a car crash.
“You could address the issue directly, ask for an apology.”
“Walter always apologies.” He assumes responsibility at the drop of a hat. I’m sorry, forgive me, spilling from his mouth, eyes and hands imploring. She doesn’t doubt Walter’s remorse. It’s the realisation it won’t stop him from doing it again that gives her pause.
“He doesn’t think about the consequences.” Astrid says, tiredly.
Unlike herself, Walter’s comfortable standing where he is - frozen in place, so close his nose is pressed against the tapestry - obsessed by the small details, completely disinterested in the larger picture.
“Why should he, when he has you? Your endless patience for him,” he says, smiling gently.
Irked, Astrid can’t tell if he’s mocking her or not.
“It’s like everyone assumes I have experience with mental illness.” She can see the humour in his eyes, the rebuttal even Astrid can see, given her current location in his place of business.
“As if I own some magical rulebook with how to deal with Walter’s psychosis, and I don’t.”
It’s not fair, she bites back, because she’s struggling too, trying to keep up with science, human anatomy, Walter’s anger, the FBI reports, Olivia’s demands, and their moments of thoughtlessness.
“You don’t have experience with mental illness?” He actually does look surprised. “Not a family member or a friend?”
“No.” She thinks about Suzy, digging up bones in Afghanistan, patiently brushing the dirt away from each new tomb of horror, choosing solitude and the dead. “I understand prejudice.”
He blinks at her, mouth parted. He doesn’t take notes while she’s speaking, Astrid has observed, and wonders if he’s recording her instead. “Why does Olivia assume you have experience ‘in this type of thing’?”
“It makes it easier on herself,” Astrid decides slowly. “To believe I can handle Walter better means she doesn’t have to deal with him.” He tilts his head, his fingers beating a tattoo against the mahogany grain, expression unreadable. “What?” Astrid says.
“Why wouldn’t she want to deal with him?”
She returns to Harvard in the late afternoon, the sun streaming through the clouds and scores of students sprawled across the available grass. Inside the lab, Walter and Olivia are sitting together. Astrid almost trips down the stairs.
They don’t look particularly comfortable. Walter’s anxious, while Olivia seems utterly relieved when Astrid enters the room. “Hey,” Olivia calls, a little desperately.
“Hey,” Astrid returns, her eyes darting from one to the other. “Am I interrupting?”
“Walter was telling me about gastronomical worms in South America.” Olivia says in a rush, sounding pained.
“They can grow up to twenty feet long and are coaxed out of their human hosts by starvation. Eventually they’ll depart by climbing the gullet and exiting via the mouth. They’re quite slim, allowing the host to continue breathing while they’re extracted from the body,” Walter perks up brightly. “The two of us were having a conversation!”
“And a charming one at that.” Astrid can feel a smile turn the corners of her mouth. Olivia watches her pensively. “Coffee?”
“Thank you,” Walter accepts readily.
She leaves them alone, walking to the kitchenette, and listens to the cadence of Walter’s voice. Eventually Olivia joins her, washing a mug by the sink. She wonders if the three of them are orbiting one another, moving position, at equal distance and continually apart; if Olivia’s only talking to Walter because Astrid’s still angry.
“It was good to see,” Astrid offers, to break the silence. “It’s the first time I’ve seen you talk to Walter rather than *at* him.”
Olivia’s fingers tighten on the mug, long and delicate. Their interaction thus far has been limited to science and demanding answers. Astrid puts three sugars in Walter’s cup and takes the mug from Agent Dunham’s hand.
“You handle him well.”
Astrid straightens. She’s waiting to see if Olivia will add to the sentence, if there will be a qualifier, an addendum, when none’s forthcoming Astrid states honestly. “It’s a process.”
Olivia meets her eyes.
Junior Agents Tim McEvan and Allister Roberts start the next day. Walter tolerates Tim, hates Allister on sight, and drugs the unsuspecting agent only twice.
Ironically, Dr. Bishop yelps when he finds out about her trip to the psychologist. He susses it out after her follow-up session. “You’re seeing a shrink? Are you *mad*, you can’t trust them! They’re just looking for an excuse to lock people away!”
He instructs her on techniques to mask her emotions - to hide from a psychiatrist’s probing and impervious gaze (she doesn’t correct him, for Walter it’s always been psychiatrists).
He sits by her side anxiously before Astrid finally reaches out, runs her hand down his shivering forearm (he’s tactile, always has been, quick to hug or hip-bump her out of the way in the lab) and says gently. “It’s okay, Walter. You don’t need to worry about me.”
She knows the broad strokes of his history, she knows Walter lost a son; it’s the details she lacks. Walter doesn’t speak of his fallen child. The memory jealousy guarded.
Walter segregates his mind, boxes things away, buries them so deep the memory of it melts away in the darkness. Astrid doesn’t want to live like that. She wants to tell Walter to open up and breathe, to remind him immortality is only achieved through the telling of tales. She wants to say seeing a psychologist is a pressure valve, a relief, to let everything unspool messily, to have someone listening who doesn’t work in the lab. To not care how she sounds or censure her emotions. To Astrid, talking to a psychologist is like jumping from a treetop.
A rush of absolute freedom.
“You can talk to me,” he implores. “I’m a good listener.”
I don’t trust them, he means.
He’s absolutely the worst listener Astrid’s ever encountered.
She feels a smile tug at her mouth. The warmth unfurling in her chest is unexpected after the anger, making her lungs expand, the ache reminiscent of a diver breaking surface after being oxygen deprived. She cups one hand to his cheek, mouth tilting helplessly. “Thank you.”
Ironically, when Olivia finds out (some years later) she displays none of the prejudices common amongst field agents. She doesn’t question Astrid’s sanity, doubt her ability to perform her job, or make a single snide remark. Olivia’s attitude is questing, as if running a searchlight over her own mental landscape. Suzy, Astrid imagines, would have told her to read Roald Dahl instead.
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