[The gods aren't watching—as much as he can suppress a nod of his head, a quick exhale of what would stand in place of a laugh, he can't prevent the odd hardening of his face that comes with those words, can only change it by taking another drink. If any gods were watching over his world, he wouldn't know about it. Just people society classifies as psychopaths without understanding what that means, monsters who want to be more. No gods looking out? He can believe it.]

Tracked this one guy, couple months ago, had a thing for God. [The way he looks up, points one finger idly, it's all the extra effort he puts forth into making it clear he means a specific, supposedly one and only type of God.] We talked about Vikings, the way he strung them up. Made angels out of them, gave them wings—the Blood Eagle. Chose criminals, gifted them a transformation in return for their lives. Their prayers over him as he slept. [For the fact of the matter that Will worked this case, he talks about it distantly enough, technically, like he might with a classroom that he doesn't want to assume their teacher is about to dive off the deep end because the line of work they're all trying to get into is a horrifying, outrageous nightmare. That he didn't nearly quit his job and go play with boats because it was getting to be too much just the evening before class, that he in no way hallucinated a conversation with a dead killer he related to in uncomfortable ways.] Did some looking up on the Norse then. [Gruesome, bloody topic, and yet he manages one of those grimace-smiles when he looks back at her.] And you just told me way more than I learned then.

[There's little grimace left now.]

Thank you.

[Completely genuine gratitude, that, and not at all because of the morbid details gleaned.]