Broyles: It happened in my office two hours ago. It wasn’t a heart attack. At least not in the traditional sense.
Walter: You have any gum?
Peter: No, Walter.
Peter: No. Later.
Broyles: Dr. Bishop. What you’re about to see… I don’t know if you’ve seen anything like it before. But I’m hoping you have. I’m hoping you can help. The man lying in that room isn’t just a colleague, he’s a friend.
Walter: I see. Do you have any mints?
Olivia: Can you help? Do you think you can remove it?
Walter: Oh, I’d be willing to try, but not here. My breath is atrocious.
Walter: Excellent work, son! You may have found your true calling at last. Working with me!
Peter: I certainly hope not.
Olivia: I may be able to get in.
Broyles: You got super powers you aren’t telling me about?
Broyles: I don’t expect miracles. I don’t know if I expect anything. But I am grateful for whatever you can do in this case.
Broyles: I was just saying I’m grateful for your work.
Walter: You’re most welcome. You know, I had a fruit cocktail once in Atlantic City. Mind you, I’m not the fruit cocktail sort of guy.
Broyles: Excuse me.
Broyles: We need to discuss your father.
Peter: Is it the fruit cocktail thing again?
Peter: Yeah, he’s been doing that recently. He gets obsessed about certain foods. It’s weird.
Broyles: We need him to focus.
Peter: To focus. Mr. Broyles, two thirds of the time my father’s not even lucid. And in those rare and unpredictable moments of clarity, he rambles on about the food and beverages that he missed while he was incarcerated in a mental institution for the better part of the last two decades. To say that he’s not focused is to say that he’s a biped, which is to say, you’re absolutely right, he’s not focused. And it’s not going to change anytime soon. I’m his son, I’m not a puppeteer. I don’t have a remote control. There’s no master switch I can flick and turn him into the man I wish had raised me, or even somebody I don’t have to baby-sit every day. (Broyles stares) I guess I’ve had that on my mind for a while.
(on the phone)
Walter: Uh, hello, Peter. This is me, your father. Walter Bishop.
Peter: Thank you, Walter, I know who you are.
Walter: We need to talk to that man Smith right away. He may be our best chance to save Agent Loeb’s life.
Peter: I know that, but he’s dead. He was shot. We’re out of luck.
Walter: Well, does he still have his head? Is it still attached to his body?
Peter: Only you would ask that question seriously. Yes, he still has a head.
Walter: It’s astonishing how this man’s scalp resembles...
Astrid: …Peter’s bare bottom when he was a baby.
Walter: How did you know that?
Astrid: You told us that already. Twice.
Walter: Excellent. Conductive gel to prevent the electrical current from setting him on fire. Spread it evenly, and don’t forget his nipples.
Olivia: We don’t know anything.
Broyles: You have a problem, Agent Dunham. You’re not easily satisfied. You want everything and you want it now. In your mind, somehow a small victory is no victory. What you did was save a man’s life but that doesn’t land for you.
Broyles: I would tell you to snap out the hell of it. To stop whining about what can’t control, can’t change. I would tell you to get some sleep while you can because tomorrow we’ll do this all over again, and guess what, you’ll have a million answers and a million and one new questions. I would tell you those things, but I won’t, because your dissatisfaction is what makes you so damn good. Someone I’m proud to say I work with.