"Yuh know. The more places I go the more I find words are a real small part of talkin' to people," he sighs. Logan's chin slides heavily into the palm of his hand when Wes— no, Walt seems to hurriedly close himself off. It's easy not to like this guy. It's easy to look across the table and see someone who's done something with Wes and refused to give him back. And it's easy to knock that guy down a peg or two. But sometimes, the way his voices catches a little, makes it hard to see anyone but the man he came here looking for.
His posture softens from the shoulders down and he swirls the contents of his cup around before knocking it back like he's fantasizing it's something much stiffer. "What are your interests, Walt?" he asks. Which feels like a stupid question because he knows the answer to that. Or at least he should. And if Walter should say anything different it's going to take some amount of resolution not to tell him otherwise. "What are you hopin' to find in New York harbour?" Maybe some part of whatever makes Walter restless can already be found on this ship.
If his sense of worth is largely delusion, it's one that has been built on a lifetime of praise received from those who know him best. It's easy for a man to be goaded into believing he's a success when others have shown nothing but interest in making him so. If he felt as though he'd come by it dishonestly he might hold more blame, but from as far back as he can remember his life has been arced toward this one aim. This singular thing he has pursued relentlessly, through pain and procedure, through humiliations and lashings and being set apart. It has been hard-won for the man, and for that reason, he wants to believe it holds value. Walter's life has not prepared him to be told otherwise.
"It's a trip for research and learning. To share ideas and learn new approaches to the proper education of deaf students." He scarcely needs to say how much he has played his role in that research. What practices may have been used on him, and where the idea of his own successes could have first taken root. Walter relaxes just a hair and holds his own cup of coffee between his hands. His fingers curl awkwardly around it, not as dextrous as Wrench's, but almost pained to move too much.
"Seems most people are traveling with companions. I'm nearly through my books, and I haven't found as many card games in the lounges as I'd expected."
For the most part, Logan also knows there is no arguing a person out of their faith. More than not they're just likely to double down on whatever system of belief got them to where they are today. But there's an arrogance to Walt that doesn't fee like Wes at all. It doesn't much feel like someone interested in learning either. For that, it takes nearly all of Logan's patience to remind himself that everyone wants to believe they've made the right choices. Ironically perhaps, if not for Wes, Walt's might be been an easier point of view to concede.
As it is, it's not really Walt's choices that rub him wrong. What people choose to believe in out of desire or necessity have never meant a great deal to Logan. What he finds himself coming up against instead, no matter the people or the era, is such conviction to those beliefs that it eclipses empathy. That outsiders like himself. Like Kurt are no longer his allies.
Travelling without companions, he thinks. "Better that than the wrong kind of company I guess," Logan mutters. It's no longer a thing honed to a fine point, sharp enough to make someone bleed. Just a tired man scraping up the only crumbs of amusement he can find in the absurdity of this.
His brow raises lightly. Hopefully. "You like cards, Wally? What's your game?"
He sees the shape of the man's lips just before the downward arc of his chin pitches James' mouth out of view. Walter's response is a swift readjustment of his own posture. He slumps and tilts his head, seeking an understanding of that grumbled response that may not be for his benefit. "I'm sorry, I didn't..." he starts, then pauses as the air in his lungs runs out. Walter blinks as some realization seems to strike. He imagines the man proving his point, and the smug smile that he'll no doubt wear to be told so easily. Rather than finish the request for repeat, Walter folds his lips behind his teeth and sits back in his chair.
"Pharo, Trade and Barter, Euchre, Whist..." He can see he has the man's attention now. For all the ways he's tried to escape it thus far, Walter finds himself drawn back to the curious expression and the little bit of hope that the man might find a different sort of amusement than that of a cat batting a mouse between its paws before the kill. "I like to learn the new ones." The residential children always had the most interesting variants, and games of cards especially have always had a way of defying the need for conventional conversation. In Walter's life, they have been a way of being with people on even footing without feeling washed over by something he can't keep up with.
If Walt won't ask, Logan won't give. It feels like some steps backward from where he was with Wes. But if that's where they have to be for now, so be it.
A nod. "I'll always take up a little poker over anything else," he says. "But I can be talked into euchre or gin if I'm feeling lucky." He nudges the mug away from him with something more of an honest smile this time. Mischievous but not cruel. "I bet they play for some real stacks in the first class parlour, eh?" Of course, he knows how the upper class work. They may well be all considered gentlemen's games if the parlor isn't off limits to women and children.
"But I bet we manage to have more fun downstairs," he teases.
"Poker? I'm not as familiar, I'm afraid. No one to teach me." Walter admits with something like a sly smile. For a moment the man doesn't look as uncomfortable in his own skin. He doesn't seem to be holding anything back, or putting on the kinds of airs meant to assure himself and his present company that he has value, that he isn't misplaced to be sat in this area they currently occupy, or wearing the suit that his family name has largely granted him.
For that moment he's comfortable enough, even, to laugh at the thought of the rambunctious inhabitants of the Third Class sleepers, kept deep under the belly of the ship, and what they must get up to in their own spare time. "I suspect you might be right about that, Mr. Logan. It must be something to see."
"I picked it up in New Orleans. Bring a little coin or some valuables to buy into the game. You'll pick it up fast when you got something at stake." Behind his mischievous smile, Logan wonders what kind of effects Walter Shaw prizes and possess. Surely, some of Wes' things came along with him. Did this place simply change their meaning to the man across the table or has it actually stripped him of his valuables too?
His cup empty and his belly full of disappointment Logan pushes his chair back as if to take his leave. Invitation extended, he can only hope that a little time and exposure will inspire a moment of recognition. Or else perhaps a cold dip in the Atlantic.
"It's quite a crowd of misfits down there, Wally." He raps the table with his knuckles as he stands up. "I'm sure you'll fit right in."
"Bring?" As their conversation flows to topics of more interest for the tall man, it becomes easier to see the methods he employs to mitigate the conversation. Habits that pass him by perhaps without full recognition. The repeating of a critical word becomes more apparent. It is a way to keep him on track and to allow his compatriot to drag him back if he senses him straying. But this time Walter's expression shines with the same kind of delight he receives in kind. Perhaps not for the same reason, but the invitation is worth his consideration. It is a clandestine thing that he thinks he should know better than to accept, but something about this man -- James Logan, as it were -- begs his interest. Walter is all too glad to follow the thread of his own curiosity past the pit of loneliness he's felt since coming aboard. Since longer, even, than that.
He stands as the other ma does, a force of habit he seems to realize is misplaced a moment too late. Walter takes his seat back almost sheepishly, but nods. Clear confirmation, perhaps, that he hasn't fully understood the accusation lobbed his way, or the intent it was no doubt shaped from. "I'll be there."
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His posture softens from the shoulders down and he swirls the contents of his cup around before knocking it back like he's fantasizing it's something much stiffer. "What are your interests, Walt?" he asks. Which feels like a stupid question because he knows the answer to that. Or at least he should. And if Walter should say anything different it's going to take some amount of resolution not to tell him otherwise. "What are you hopin' to find in New York harbour?" Maybe some part of whatever makes Walter restless can already be found on this ship.
no subject
"It's a trip for research and learning. To share ideas and learn new approaches to the proper education of deaf students." He scarcely needs to say how much he has played his role in that research. What practices may have been used on him, and where the idea of his own successes could have first taken root. Walter relaxes just a hair and holds his own cup of coffee between his hands. His fingers curl awkwardly around it, not as dextrous as Wrench's, but almost pained to move too much.
"Seems most people are traveling with companions. I'm nearly through my books, and I haven't found as many card games in the lounges as I'd expected."
no subject
As it is, it's not really Walt's choices that rub him wrong. What people choose to believe in out of desire or necessity have never meant a great deal to Logan. What he finds himself coming up against instead, no matter the people or the era, is such conviction to those beliefs that it eclipses empathy. That outsiders like himself. Like Kurt are no longer his allies.
Travelling without companions, he thinks. "Better that than the wrong kind of company I guess," Logan mutters. It's no longer a thing honed to a fine point, sharp enough to make someone bleed. Just a tired man scraping up the only crumbs of amusement he can find in the absurdity of this.
His brow raises lightly. Hopefully. "You like cards, Wally? What's your game?"
no subject
"Pharo, Trade and Barter, Euchre, Whist..." He can see he has the man's attention now. For all the ways he's tried to escape it thus far, Walter finds himself drawn back to the curious expression and the little bit of hope that the man might find a different sort of amusement than that of a cat batting a mouse between its paws before the kill. "I like to learn the new ones." The residential children always had the most interesting variants, and games of cards especially have always had a way of defying the need for conventional conversation. In Walter's life, they have been a way of being with people on even footing without feeling washed over by something he can't keep up with.
"Do you play?"
no subject
A nod. "I'll always take up a little poker over anything else," he says. "But I can be talked into euchre or gin if I'm feeling lucky." He nudges the mug away from him with something more of an honest smile this time. Mischievous but not cruel. "I bet they play for some real stacks in the first class parlour, eh?" Of course, he knows how the upper class work. They may well be all considered gentlemen's games if the parlor isn't off limits to women and children.
"But I bet we manage to have more fun downstairs," he teases.
no subject
For that moment he's comfortable enough, even, to laugh at the thought of the rambunctious inhabitants of the Third Class sleepers, kept deep under the belly of the ship, and what they must get up to in their own spare time. "I suspect you might be right about that, Mr. Logan. It must be something to see."
no subject
His cup empty and his belly full of disappointment Logan pushes his chair back as if to take his leave. Invitation extended, he can only hope that a little time and exposure will inspire a moment of recognition. Or else perhaps a cold dip in the Atlantic.
"It's quite a crowd of misfits down there, Wally." He raps the table with his knuckles as he stands up. "I'm sure you'll fit right in."
no subject
He stands as the other ma does, a force of habit he seems to realize is misplaced a moment too late. Walter takes his seat back almost sheepishly, but nods. Clear confirmation, perhaps, that he hasn't fully understood the accusation lobbed his way, or the intent it was no doubt shaped from. "I'll be there."