infomodder | IC contact [Mask or Menace]

[Why, because he's been so bad at it in the past? Huh??? Whatchua sayin, Marigold!?]

Everything that has to do with Abigail absolutely should be my responsibility.

[ No Willis, you've just chosen shitty co-dads to look after her with. Maybe possibly. ]

I mean, it shouldn't be yours alone.

[don't give him that face you lying minx]

Why?

[ Maybe she won't respond to that. It's a long time before she texts again. ]

I want to talk. I think you need to.

[He does. He really does. But Will's really good at doing what he needs to do, and talking about feelings? Feelings about Abigail Hobbs? When the last person he discussed her with at any real length was the one who shattered them all?

Things get more difficult then.]

I saw how you reacted to Abigail asking who else was dead. [The first thing she said, at any rate. He doesn't hack, and he doesn't snoop unless it seems absolutely necessary. It didn't. Mary and Abigail could handle themselves. If not, Abigail would have brought it up. But it still stood out to Will, just that one word. Sorry. He doesn't need that. He does not need that. Abigail does not need that. Even if it came from some sort of facade, bluebird taken into account, neither of them need sorry. It does nothing. It changes nothing.] Are you certain you want to talk about this?

[Or is she just being polite?]

[ It had been a loaded sorry, though any Brit would have simply taken it as an exclamation of surprise rather than a heartfelt sorry (truly she can't deny that it was both). The conversation that followed made it clear her feelings (or the feelings she had felt like making public), and she was more than aware at the time that Will would be following it. His connection with Abigail is something special, something nigh-untouchable, but Mary's been privy to other odd connections (Sherlock and John), despite the disparity in dynamic. ]

Well not through text.

[Good thing Will is only played by a Brit and Mary ain't a Brit. Fake Brit! Fake Southerner! Everyone here is lying!]

Your place or mine?

[One does not discuss something as special and nigh-untouchable as dying in each other's blood (sort of) over coffee in a public place, after all.]

[ Who's a what now? Can't keep track.

Better to make this Will's turf ~~especially since it makes it easier for Mary to snoop~~ because she is clearly the intruder here. ]

I can pop by your place. Now? Later's fine if you're busy.

[BED OF LIES

Everyone's an intruder when it comes to Abigail and Will, no worries.]

Now's fine. I could use a break. Should I make some coffee?

Please.
Be there in fifteen.

[ Coffee with Bailey's pls. ]

[Mary is probably bound to notice that the dogwood tree planted in the front yard is a new addition. That much is quite obvious, as is the fact that whoever planted it clearly had intentions to do more to the yard that never quite made it to fruition. It's not a mess, but it's unfinished, a process that started and was entirely interrupted instead of just a slow and steady process. But such disarray is probably to be expected, and not easily noticeable by anyone who looks at a yard with a freshly planted dogwood tree. In fifteen minutes time, Mary won't be the only one taking in that dogwood tree and the the signs of a yard that was almost dug up in spots before they were covered back up, filled back up, and left until later. No, Will's sitting out in front of the door on a cheap plastic chair, the matching chair empty and across the way, providing additional shade to the bearded dog curled up underneath it. Will, all baggy jeans one might expect exist in his closet still to just beat around the house coupled with a plaid shirt that looks almost brand new by comparison, seems rooted to the chair. Tired, paler than usual. Makes sense he shifted his seat to get a bit of that sun on him, he knows how badly he needs it. Polite society might dictate he rise to greet her, immediately get up as soon as he spots her, but Mary and Will aren't complete strangers, and he feels that she'll give him leeway. He'd do the same.

So he waits, that coffee set to finish by the time she arrives, looking to a passerby like someone who's enjoying the weather and sitting outside instead of...well, the truth of the matter. All the truths of the matter.]

[ She chooses to walk rather than take the vespa, using the wedding as an excuse for the exercise, when being fit in this world seems just as important as it had been when she was an agent. Her sneakers are high-end, though, like her grey coat and shoulder bag, though the bag is a bit worn by now from use. Thumb hooked through the strap, her head tilts while she appreciates the tree in a quiet passing. She smiles for herself and nobody else in that moment before continuing on, her expression settled into something closer to a mute sobriety as she heads up to the porch.

At least he's getting fresh air, and of course she's got a biscuit in one hand for the dog as she immediately crouches to hold it beside the chair, greeting him before she greets Will. With a glance up to him, she'll take a quick note of his sorry state before glancing to the screen. ]

Coffee ready?

[ She's ready to stand and go help herself, though not without some form of permission from him. She already knows how he takes his coffee, after all. ]

Edited 2015-03-23 06:14 (UTC)

[Gunther had been attempting to be a good, quiet boy, the dog who came outside to provide some company and enjoy the weather, too. He hadn't done anything other than look in Mary's direction as she walked up, no barking, no quickly getting to his feet and making a scene of it all. For once, he and Will were both aligned, physically speaking, rooted to their spots without a desire in the world to move elsewhere.

And then she has a biscuit, which destroys that. His tail goes wild, smacking against the legs of the chair, pushing himself to a half-stand in order to meet and greet and, of course, eat. Though for all his excitement, he manages to not thoroughly coat her hand in doggie slobber. Unless that's what she wants, of course, and then he'd be perfectly content to oblige, like any good dog should!

Will watches with mild interest, pale face breaking into a more sincere smile than usual. He approves of the interaction, finds Mary's forethought charming, and uses that as fuel to get to his feet. Using the armrests of the chair, of course.]

Should've finished brewing in the last couple of minutes. [So it should've had time to not only brew, but sit long enough that it's a nicely hot. This is his design.] You might wanna hang your coat up by the door, I should add.

[He says as he opens the door, gestures for her to step in first. The planted hooks next to the door seem to be unused, but April and Will have dealt with random bits of fur on their clothes for quite some time. The place itself isn't messy or appalling, but it does contain a population of fuzzy little creatures and he feels it good she have some warning. The house is more of a work in progress than the yard, though neatly so, being turned into a veritable paradise for the raccoons, the cats who'd want to follow them along their trails. Will's not at all ashamed for their house to be seen, however odd the additions might seem. He's actually proud more than anything else, won't make apologies. Doesn't feel he has any reason to, and feels comfortable enough with Mary to let her have everything in full view. Sharing, like friends do.]

[ She'll do just that after stepping inside, though the blouse beneath is no less nice, she doesn't care enough to keep it away from any animals. She just about misses the hook when she gets distracted by a walkway in her peripheral, her mild gasp of delight as genuine as the way she immediately pushes up onto her toes. The coat and bag are then quickly discarded on the hook so she can move around to see where little steps are.

If the timing weren't inappropriate, she would be snapping pictures to show John, because it's far too adorable, even as a work-in-progress. Spotting a raccoon instead of a cat first, however, grounds her smile once more as she returns to where her bag hangs to pull out a few more treats for the animals. As Gunther has been so enthusiastic, she'll have a second one for him. Any look tossed towards Will is unabashed endorsement for such projects, even if it might result with something furry inevitably landing on her shoulders one day. ]

I've never seen anything like that! It's lovely. Was it April's idea?

[That earns a smile, human and real, the kind that doesn't usually look like it fits his face. This isn't approval that he sees, doesn't crave validation of their choice to turn the place into a sanctuary for animals as much as it is for April, for Will, for the others in their lives they would gladly allow the guest room as needed. No, what Will takes from this is acceptance, which is worth its weight in diamonds, gold, silver, everything precious and costly would be tossed aside. This is far more valuable.]

It's...they'd [indicating a fuzzy bandit] made their own sort of walkways, back when she lived in a regular room. [The funny thing is now that Mary's handing out treats, Will Graham might as well not exist to the animals nearby. And the funny thing is that Will Graham doesn't give a shit he's being ignored by the mouths he provides for.] We just...amplified that idea, once we got a bigger space.

[Yeah, yeah, ignore him, he'll ignore them, too. Watch him masterfully step over Gunther without getting his leg thwapped by that hyperactive tail. It's almost as though they've all lived together for so long they can predict every movement long before it comes.]

Should we have something a little stronger in our coffee today, you think?

[Half-and-half. It's half coffee, half booze. The joys of adulthood in full action!]

[ If she wasn't with Will, Mary might dare to look sheepish as she straightens and wipes her hands off on her trousers, but instead she looks sheepishly coy. No, not about wiping off her hands, who (but Will Graham) wants dog slobber and raccoon fur with their coffee? It's for the next treat she fetches out of her bag, a small bottle of Bailey's irish cream quickly tossed in Will's direction. ]

Of course I wouldn't turn down something stronger.

[OH SWEET BABY JESUS

That smile grows, takes away some of the tiredness and pale features, replaces them with happiness and a more youthful look overall. It's like Mary's spoken straight to his heart and soul, and he catches that bottle without hesitation, the dog who wouldn't let a single frisbee drop. He stares at it for a moment, approves even as he considers what else they have, and reaches into the cabinet. He pulls out two mugs, Will's more battered compared to the one he fills up three-quarters of the way for her. But that's to be expected, the guest always gets the good stuff.

The good stuff this time around involving a bottle of spiced rum that looks to be more expensive than anything Will wears, set on the dining room table, or what passes for it. It wouldn't pass for one in Hannibal Lecter's book. The chairs to go with it aren't from the same set, either. They fit just fine, but a good eye will notice they were never built together.]

How's that? [The rum, he means. Though, of course, he puts her own addition on the table as well, won't be at all offended if she goes for it instead. But that's it, what he sets out. Spiced rum, her luck of the Irish, their mugs. Great host work, he can sit back down. After a look in the animal's direction that gets across the message of knock it off, give her room to breathe, of course.] Best we got in the whole house.

[ A prepared Mary is a welcome Mary, a setting she has now established and cemented quite quickly. With the animal's acceptance, everything else just comes naturally, especially when there's alcohol to help things along. But it isn't all analytical — she's pleased to see Will sport a genuine smile, even if it's going to be short-lived. Spikes of stress are not overtly unhealthy, but prolonged exposure is only going to lead to medical issues he especially doesn't need, as any good nurse (or psychiatrist) knows. A two-minute break from the dark pit of one's mind is never to be undervalued. ]

Oh, spoiling me now or buttering me up?

[ She'll opt purely for the rum, as the Bailey's is a gift for the house, but she'll keep it light, the cup hovering over the table so as not to risk spilling on her shirt should some spontaneous creature decide to check her for more treats. She'll remain perched on the edge of the seat, but so as not to appear anxious or hurried, she'll shift the chair so that she's sitting sideways, her other arm draped across the back.

Every mismatched item is noted, the kitchen's layout memorized, any visible weapons and exits catalogued...and another little pathway appreciated; Then back to him as she toasts the mug in his direction and tries a taste. Coffee and spiced rum is new, but she's going to have to chirp out a whistle in approval here. It's noticeable even with the bit she added. ]

What do they say? Smooth?

[Buttering up...he has no comment. Not yet.

Mary can go light, Will won't judge her. But he won't follow in her steps simply for propriety's sake. His turf, after all. He doesn't have to walk anywhere after this, and if he expects Mary to feel completely at ease and welcome, then the least he can do is just be himself, drink what he'd usually drink, spike that coffee like there ain't no tomorrow.]

I'll drink to smooth. [Agreeable, a fitting descriptor, any excuse to down booze. There he goes.] I won't insult you or waste your time by filling in as much as small talk as I can...we both know why you're here. [No accusation to his tone, propping up his elbows on the table and leaning forward.] I know Abigail and you spoke where I couldn't see it, she didn't tell me everything. I didn't want her to. But... [His brow crinkles.] ...I don't know where you stand. What you know, I should say.

[Deets for deets.]

[ Cutting through the poetic to the prosaic isn't something she'll reject, and neither will she have any negative offerings for any excess drinking he might partake in. She had been banking on that, if anything. ]

Where I stand is with you and Abigail.

[ For now, at least. Now that that's out of the way... ]

She told of her father hunting girls that resembled her. She's been regularly traumatized, referring to herself as 'bait' for men like her father, another man attempting to kill her for you — [ And why would that be a gift to you, Will Graham? ] — and for Hannibal Lecter. It's clear to me that he killed her, unless I'm wrong?

[ That's deserving of another drink, and that's no facade. It's a miserable business even for the jaded. Her sadness doesn't need to be faked while she stares at her murky reflection in the mug, though it becomes more muted as she walks back through someone else's memory. ]

But she wouldn't have been able to tell you everything. Abigail shared some things with me that she wasn't even aware she had. At the fair, I saw him. A house with snow all about, air frigid and dry. Minnesota? The key was above the door. It should have been a home, but it wasn't anymore, not with such shaky steps that didn't belong. But she went in anyway, looking for something, and she found Doctor Lecter. Their exchange...

[ There's a pause there, mouth ajar as if contemplating repeating Abigail's words, but then she promptly lifts her mug for another sip. ]

It seemed cruel and unnecessary to tell her. She would have worried I would judge her.

Edited 2015-03-24 03:33 (UTC)

[He watches, unmoving, none of what Mary says registering to shock or inform of something he doesn't already know. If she had ever doubted what Abigail had told her, the best way Will could serve as testimony that none of it had been a lie might have been his face, here and now. None of this is new information. None of this takes him by surprise. None of this, perhaps most importantly, hits him like a ton of bricks.

It's all sad truths he's known for long, long time, being given to him again, the voice and face new. Nothing else.]

You're not wrong. He did kill her, but it wasn't... [His lip curls, he shakes his head, folding his arms on the table and looking down at it.] ...in that kitchen, in Minnesota. [Oh, had Mary not mentioned the part about the kitchen? That's just fine, Will can fill in those details.] We thought it was. It was...meant to look that way. He kept her, though. Alive. Made us think she was dead. The scar on her throat...there are two, same spot. He reopened the one her father gave her just after he put the knife in my gut.

[Still staring at the table, easier to grin and bear it that way.]

That's the last time Abigail and I saw each other, back home.

[Does that explain a few things?]

[ She certainly had not made a note of the kitchen, but everything else is worth far more of her attention. As Will makes mention of her throat being cut twice, she absently reaches up to touch her own, though her fingers linger up more towards her ear. She had seen a window's reflection, and Abigail still had it then, something Mary mulls over while looking up from her coffee as he continues on.

He reopened the one her father gave her just after he put the knife in my gut. There are so many pieces of information here that she'd had, but they hadn't quite fit together in the timeline until now.

Abigail had been dying when Will last returned, when he was lying in the hospital with his gut barely held together. She had been dying, and that had been his last visual no doubt. Mary respects it enough to linger, to imagine with visuals made clearer by the different facets revealed by these three people: one man she didn't even know personally, but felt like she so easily could. Her throat is dry, but not from grief or shock. It's a painstaking curiosity that's leashed by respect, and only that.

He was curious what would happen. He must not have liked what happened. Will, what did you do? Her breaths are short, tiny gasps stretched far apart as if Mary needs to take several steps before broaching the topic (she must act partially shocked or appear a psychopath). Any indignation in her tone needs just to be fanned a little bit. ]

Why would he have kept her alive only to kill her right then? And attack you? Does he fancy himself a poet?

[Poet? Will doesn't know the answer to that, not for certain. He feels it's probable. Highly likely. Artist and musician, definitely, why wouldn't poetry follow? But they're discussing facts, so Will goes into the most undeniable of them all:]

He fancies himself God. [Warped, just like the smile Will tries for. Warped because it turns into a frown quite quickly. He looks back up, shifts in the chair, and keeps his eyes on her face. It might be considered inappropriate to keep them on her chest, Will being a man clearly interested in women, the both of them having their own chosen partners, but it's more to do with keeping his eyes off what gives away her short breaths. Directing attention away from it by not acknowledging it's happening.] Think of the bible. Sodom and Gomorrah, Noah's ark...where God saw a place filled with sin that wouldn't conform to his image, so he obliterated it. Started over. A new slate, fresh, to the sounds of the former drowning because of Him.

[Fitting, Will thinks, when it had been raining that night, too.]

That's Hannibal Lecter.

[God and natural disaster of unholy destructive forces wrapped together. Will's best friend. Abigail's father, the one more like her real father. This is definitely the time for a bit of that rummed up coffee. Keep him from saying more, give her time to digest this, give Will less reason to think on her hand nearing her ear and how the hell he could ever explain it if she asked, on the tail of all this.

While Will is the one in this room who lived this and suffered, it's not his chair Gunther ends up sliding underneath. It's not his feet the dog will rest his head on, if she so allows it. And Will doesn't find it odd at all that, between the two of them at the table, the dog provides quiet comfort and support to Mary instead of him. Neither of them know what, who she is. Gunther didn't hear the call of bluebird. For all intents and purposes, the one in this room, now, who'd need a little pick me up? Is Mary, not Will.

She stands with Abigail and him, good. She'll be welcomed and treated well.]

[ In such a fashion, then, maybe it is poetic. That's something to mull over as she turns enough to move both arms to prop against the table's edge, though while her left hand holds the mug, the other hovers just beside, never quite grabbing on. She's caught between many thoughts, though not without keeping aware of her surroundings. ]

He wanted her to kill Nick Boil. [ She says the name very carefully, aware that Mary Morstan would not dismiss a life as meaningless, even a faceless one. Mary Morstan's a nurse, and life is precious even when one is forced to be pragmatic. But then china is also precious. ] To see what would happen. He saw it as her becoming. And you.

[ Her head tilts in a sudden jerk, though if she isn't looking at him anymore, but beyond his shoulder. ]

He protected her, but framed you for the murder of those girls, all to...play God.

[ Man and Woman created in God's image, is it? If Hannibal Lecter saw Abigail Hobbs as his vision, a prodigy killer, then it's clearer than crystal what that makes Will. He was framed for murders (Oh God, Abigail's ear), but that doesn't mean he isn't a killer. What matters is what kind he is. Keenly, she recalls another blood-drenched scene with the crunch of snow beneath boots...beneath a beast's claws. It's for that moment, that second memory, that her gaze again finds Will's. It isn't even suspicion, merely assessment, confirmation, then understanding. Not all of the details, but of what's most poignant.

But it's just a moment, then an appreciative sigh parts her lips and her gaze drops low as she feels a warm presence at her feet. The dog. She scoots to lean over almost without thinking, the hand hovering beside her cup immediately settling to rest over-top Gunther's head, her thumb hooking beneath an ear to gently scratch. Whether she's Mary Morstan or someone else, that person is right here with this creature now, just as she was with Will. Any thoughts before that, though still relevant, are not worth upsetting this. It's precious (perhaps more than china), and leave it to her to think that it's the dog that's perhaps seeking comfort. She carries a different tone now, one less shaken but no less involved. ]

I've told myself that evil is a concept only for the self-aware, such as humans. That a person's nature is driven by defiance, by knowing we ought not to exist and so it's up to us to prove that existence. At our core, in ways we aren't aware, it drives us. Your Hannibal Lecter is no God, and he's no Devil.

[ Perhaps he isn't evil. ]

He's driven by impulse and desire, and he's fooled himself into mastering his ego, so much so that Abigail believed. [ She heard it in Abigail's voice; saw it in Hannibal's face as he smiled at her. ] What do you believe?

[At that name, the brother butchered and buried and dug up, Will's face darkens. Jaw tight, leaning back in his chair somewhat, the effect only serves to turn those grey circles underneath his eyes completely black, shadows pronounced. Had he known that Abigail killed someone? Had he known that and been doing everything in his power to keep her secret, even when he thought her dead and that could be taken as protecting Hannibal, too? Oh yes, Will knew.

Life is precious, even Hannibal would say that much out loud. Will continued his work because, generally speaking, he saved lives. And that felt good. Generally. But in the face of the (to Mary) nameless dead, Will doesn't display sympathy, or regret. Both brother and sister are dead in their own horrific ways, and he can do nothing to bring them back. He can give their family no closure when Abigail Hobbs' reputation is, literally, at stake. She'd be burned for it, hailed as a murderer who not only learned from her father but enjoyed it. One thing should be clear: Will Graham values Abigail Hobbs' life far more than he values this poor man she took life from.

He stands with Abigail, always and forever, even when that standing involves bleeding to potential death while a madman playing God doesn't hesitate to tell the world he shatters it is the world's fault he's done it, can they ever forgive him?]

I believe I know who Abigail is. Who he is. I know who I am. [He is a very specific sort of killer, but she hasn't brought that up yet. Not directly. As long as it stays unsaid, Will is content to let it remain that way.] And by having that much clarity, I'll be fine.

[The goal of therapy was achieved. Just not the goal Hannibal wanted. Whoops. But Will leans forward again, picking up his mug and bringing it to his lips, looking at the alcoholic dark depths before he seems to all but blurt out:]

You see in my head when we were at the fair, too?

[Sometimes, one takes a lonely kayak with a lonely oar and quietly, gently passes through a river doing as much as possible to leave it undisturbed and go by without drawing any attention. Other times, one blares the speakers on a boat with a motor loudly protesting its misuse and shoots snake and bird and fish alike, leaving blood in a wake that is impossible to ignore. This is the latter, and Will drinks to it.]

IC contact [Mask or Menace]

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