Calvin had a way of looking at people - ever since he was a toddler - that an old family friend had once described as "like the two of you have got an inside joke the rest of the world wouldn't understand." The description was fairly accurate: his eyes were bright and lively and his brows moved almost-imperceptibly; from the first time he met a person it was as if his face was saying:<i>all these other bozos out here - but you and me, we totally </i>get it<i>, right</i>? The trial and subsequent sentencing had robbed Calvin's eyes of some of that warmth and depth but the muscle memory remained; eager and sharp little dots of grayish blue honing in on Dr. Wells with a level of intensity that would be off-putting if it weren't accompanied by a warm smile, thin though it may have been.<br/><br/>At least - once upon a time, Calvin would look a woman over that way and make her feel warm and fuzzy. Given the sensationalist media coverage of his predilections he supposed the way he watched this psychiatrist now may have had the off sensation of something predatory; a hungry pair of eyes stalking from the edge of camp. With little else of detail in the sparsely-furnished room, and - crucially - no insight into Dr. Wells herself spread out on the walls as may have been the case if this were an actual psychiatric office<i>on the outside</i>, the doctor herself bore the full brunt of Calvin's laser focus.<br/><br/>Regardless: he assessed the fair doctor quickly before taking the seat she'd gestured to. He reclined as best he was able and brought one leg under the other, elbows on the armrests. If not for the slightly-oversize orange-and-white jumpsuit hanging off of his torso he would've looked in his element. Calvin had often thought his peculiar trade had a lot in common with psychology; the crucial difference, of course, was<i>how </i>the psychological tidbits gleaned through conversation and observation were used. He had a lot of respect for the field, and his smile warmed faintly when Dr. Wells asked him how he was doing.<br/><br/>"I'm doing...<i>alright</i>, I think," he said. "I hesitate to say 'good' in a place like this. But I'm adjusting, anyways. Each day is a little less<i>terrifying </i>and a little more<i>tedious</i>. So that's got to be worth something, right?" He asked, and let out a forced laugh, a quick little exhale. "If I stopped and thought about my situation for too long I probably wouldn't be doing quite so well... but I'd imagine that's true for just about all of the men in this building." At some point he'd refocused his gaze on his fingernails, which he now rubbed against the pant leg of his prison-issues and re-inspected. "Do you mind if I ask where you're from, Dr. Wells?" Now, again, his eyes were on her. "I've never been in one of these kinds of sessions before; I always like to know a little about the people I'm talking to. And your accent is... not quite local," he said; and though his words conveyed a certain sense of unease his voice and his posture did not. There, again, was that ghost of a smile that dared a brief appearance.