There's a strange sort of itch crawling in Desmond's limbs. The night was long and tense and strange and, honestly, he's full of a restless need to move. The desire to go isn't a new one, but the urge to go home is a bit odd. Ain't really one he's ready to square with at the moment, so he's been walking instead. It counts as moving.

His feet come to a stop at the railing of the bench, though. Head tipping to regard the uncomfortable angle Patrice has chosen to sprawl himself in.

"Can't help you with that."