(via psych-facts)

"I’m fond of birds, all birds… The cuckoo is a vicious one that lays its eggs in other bird’s nests so its kind may survive, yet the two note cuckoo. cuckoo. Is famous and adored.

I wonder about you, sometimes, Mister Budge… Why a man of your temperament is in here? 

 You don’t lack in sophistication. “

"And here we are. Two birds ill-fitted into a nest made by simpler species. Do you? I've too begun to wonder what you do on the other side of these bars, Mister...Brown is it? Your sophistication on the other hand is hidden from the public eye. Probably for the best. "

Their call is a favorite among classical composers. I hoped that you would’ve been familiar, Mister Budge.  

"Hm. I am familiar with its portrayal. The sounds produced by an orchestra are imaginary...Better reflections of what reality ought to be like. Snowflakes are metallic silver bells, but in reality, the sound of snow is as cold and silent as an indifferent lover. A real cuckoo does not have a melodic voice. It is loud and demanding and obscene...But still holder of an unconventional beauty. Are you fond of cuckoos?"

"Of all the things to be denied, that’s a fairly benign one. Not a huge need to count the days. Calendars tend to cause more problems than they solve anyway.”

"Yes, Ms. Lounds. And we wouldn't want to make Dr. Chilton's work harder than it already is. Any field in which ignorance grows is welcomed and cultivated by those who wish to somehow overpower you. I am denied books which I wish to read, music which inspires me and conversations that stimulate my thinking. A calendar to count the days I have left of this... Punishment would at least reassure me that time has not come to a halt."

The 12th icon in your folder is your muse's reaction to being hit on in a bar

A Man seated reading at a Table in a Lofty Room, 1628-30, Rembrandt van Rijn

♟  His first instinct is to tense. Foma wasn’t sure what he expected, but it wasn’t to feel so suddenly visible. Like the narrow column of his throat was made of glass, and it put on display the strain of his fake accent. No one had ever commented on his accent before. No one had ever made known that he sounded forced, or unnatural, or that he may have been hiding something. The only people who knew he was Russian in more than name were those who had heard him scream—when he screamed, he screamed in Russian, and it came out fast and fluid. He couldn’t pass it off as a second language under any circumstances.

♟  And now the request for his name hung unanswered in the air, suspended over his head like an anvil held by string. If he spoke, he’d give an answer. If he didn’t, he’d seem rude. Being rude to this man felt almost unforgivable. Like spitting in Monet’s face. "It’s—" He paused. His fingers folded over his knee, legs crossing (and then uncrossing, as he found that he couldn’t get comfortable in so formal a position when he was contemplating lying to a true artist), and he straightened his shoulders. He had played this off before; fumble a little on the dialect, make ‘Vsevolod’ sound as foreign to him as it did to others. He could at least try to play it off like he was only Russian in name.

♟  "Special Agent Garrett Vsevolod.” He watched Tobias for a few seconds. Contemplated him. From what Chilton had told him, the man wore a hearing aid due to being rendered partially deaf, courtesy of the carelessness of one Will fucking Graham. Leave it to him to ruin nice things. "And I’m not here to discuss my vocal chords." Or anything remotely relative to himself, really. He wanted to know about Mr. Budge. He wanted to know everything that made the man tick, what inspired him, everything and anything he could have the privilege of hearing. But unfortunately, he had to be mindful of how he spoke. Chilton could screw him over in a second if he heard Foma being anything even close to admiring to a man like Tobias.

♟  He crossed his legs again. Forced himself to be more comfortable, as he wondered what it would be like to have sat in this man’s shop for a chat instead of this place. He wondered about how human gut strings played, and whether or not they let him listen to music. Perhaps he’d ask. He’d brought his cell phone with him, and it contained many a symphony. Should Tobias request it, he could play something. “I’m here to talk about you.”

♟  That felt so stupid to say. But his planned dialogue had derailed on account of the intrusive question, and now Foma self-consciously put a hand to his throat to cover that pane of glass he presumed was giving him away. “I’ve been.. curious.” Eyes downcast. Wondering how he can word this without sounding like he was batshit crazy. It was likely that Chilton was listening, and so he had to chose his words wisely. Or alternatively, kill Chilton. But that wasn’t a very good idea, and Foma was quite sure that he would never kill another person. Fyodor and his father, of course, didn’t count. They weren’t people as far as Foma was concerned. More like.. pests.

♟  Did Tobias have any pests in his life? Perhaps Franklin. And the trombone-player-turned-cello. And maybe now Dr. Chilton. He didn’t tend to get along with his smarter patients. ”Particularly concerning your motives and inspiration.” The ‘r’ at the end of his sentence sounded thicker than the rest. Russian descent creeping in with carelessness as he let his thoughts derail his discipline. He furrowed his brows. "Would you be willing to discuss that?"

There is something off about him. The way he moves, the way he gazes at Tobias. He could be a journalist, but he isn't. Little people managed to filter through Dr. Chilton's scrutiny. Only Freddie Lounds was allowed in that sector of the hospital due to the remarkable favor she had done to Frederick Chilton which had saved his life but doomed him to a expensive cane which could be heard from miles away. By Tobias at least. Tobias thinks doctor and it may be so, but the man looks so uncomfortable in his own skin, the ex-musician can't help but wonder if he wasn't a runaway patient dressed up like a normal person. Trying to act like one. Failing miserably. Special Agent. FBI; who would have thought. When the words are spoken, Tobias almost immediately blinks and curls his lips. He doesn't care much for the name. Eastern Europe, just like he had supposed. Tobias wouldn't dare trying to pronounce the man's last name, alas his accent and pronunciation in most languages was atrocious. Except for German. Tobias was excellent with German. A precise and sharp tongue was needed. Russian? Russian was much more complicated. It dragged over iced over asphalt and wrapped around the throat like a warm but alien hand. Forbiddingly comfortable. Tobias pictures himself wrapping both hands around Foma's throat. He tries to pretend he's Will Graham. It's not quite the same. When the agent speaks the word curious, Tobias' lips curls into a full closed smile while turning his head slightly to the side, eyes never leaving Foma. Curious about him? Oh, that he had never heard. The words "wondering" and curiosity about his actions were often mentioned by doctors and investigators but curious about him? Tobias eyed Foma from head to toe. The suit fits him as badly as the skin over his flesh. This was an act. This boy had fooled someone to get in here. Interesting. "I don't get the opportunity to speak with many people, Agent." There is a pause. Tobias straightens his back but remains seated. "Dr. Chilton believes his voice to be more therapeutical than any visit. Alas, I think you'll find that very little people, sane or otherwise, agree with Frederick." He had spoken loudly enough for the recording to ring in Chilton's ears. But his eyes are focused on the man in front of him. Always. His smile twitches into something a bit wider as he agrees. "I'm willing to discuss that."

          A  pause,  a lapse  in thought.

          “Oh—”  Just   a   curt  sound,           half-processed on his tongue.           It’s only a dog, or… well, three.

           ”S-sorry, um.  I c—I can leave                 ‘em out here, if-f-f…?”

"...If you'd be so kind as to do so." He watches the man carefully, an eyebrow arched with a mixture of skepticism and pure curiosity. All animals which entered his store were already dead. Or soon to be. "How may I help you?"