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infomodder) wrote2016-04-14 08:35 pm
infomodder) wrote2016-04-14 08:35 pm
Entry tags:
IC contact [Mask or Menace]
"Gone fishing."
[ so don't leave messages to ruin the after fishing glow !!!
your one stop shop for not leaving him alone ]
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Thanks. [Six letters, one word, but chock full of sincerity. It's not an overabundance of gratitude; he injects just the right amount into it. He rattles it off with ease, too, just as easily as he swims along from one conversation to the next. Comfortable, familiar.] You haven't, actually, but not everybody's always open about theirs. Some of them can be very personal. Why, something happen with yours?
[You know, like that cup repair is personal. He has no clue in his head what's coming, it's obvious. He's even thinking he might be of some help here, that her powers aren't behaving properly.
It's so obvious he's a blind man when he picks up the slice of orange that he'd taken to zest and rips out the meat of it with his teeth like he might do in his own kitchen after he asks, eyes turning towards her, a particularly rowdy section of curls falling over his forehead with the force.
What? He touched this orange. He can't expect anyone else to eat it after that!
Oh, Will. Remarkably bright boy, when he doesn't have a reason to empathize with the dullest, dimmest bulb in the entire city. When he doesn't actually like having scales over his eyes. How could Mary's darkness hurt him when he was so willing to hang out in her shade and make no fuss about it? Had he not been a remarkably good boy?]
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With it? Well, it's been a...learning experience, but you don't need to worry about me.
[ No, no, don't waste any tears for this one. She refrains from speaking further, but only while finishing up the cupcake pans. There's one knock against the counter's edge with her right hand before she slides them in, then two with her left once she closes the door (like a lucky habit). ]
You might be able to shed some light on a certain dilemma I've had regarding it. ...But first, is that ready to be chilled? Does it need egg whites?
[ And can she sneak some of it, too??? Yes? Thanks! I mean he's snogging with an orange. ]
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He watches that lucky habit, corner of his mouth twitching upward in a brief smile. It's homey, cozy, honest, and he likes it. He likes being close enough to people that they'll show themselves in private moments like these without thinking that he might judge them...just as he likes it when people are confident enough in who they are that they don't care about being judged and act just the same. This is perhaps the latter, but he'll take the former. For now.]
It's ready. [Of course she can sneak some of it! Will's lucky he didn't stick that entire slice in his mouth, otherwise he'd have one of those tiny orange smiles on his face. But he has, so he keeps his mouth shut to avoid showing off any bits of citric meat, and hands it over. Look at him, Mary, he was quick, he did it all neatly. A man who's efficient in the kitchen, will wonders never cease!] What's the dilemma?
[Break his heart, Mary. This teacup has been shattered in worse ways. You know. You saw.
He'll forgive.]
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You see, it's the sort of ability that works best when it isn't well known.
[ Even if her voice starts out light, there's a somber weight added with each word as she continues. At first she flutters, wiping off a spot on the table here, shifting a chair there (conveniently just beside Will), but her movements gradually slow. A care that's taken with each step and gesture, as if to guide the words along. That much is something she's used to, but what she's working up to is not. There are reasons she must come clean, but she understands the risks involved. Not just of upsetting Will, but of opening the door to poor questions or deductions. But as discussed with Sherlock, it could be worse if he comes to worse conclusions at a later date (if there is much that can be worse than her). She's broaching an honesty that she never afforded John...not even once married, at least in London.
But everything is different now, the threats are different, and yet she is the same. What to do with that? This might not be what she should do with it, but they could all die tomorrow. Why not? ]
And yet, in this case, I feel that it doesn't suit me best to keep absolutely everybody blind.
[ Will's been blinded quite enough in his life, hasn't he? Mistreated, lied to, and tarnished. But so had John, and that hadn't spurned her to willingly give him the truth, and that isn't the reason she allows a peek behind the curtain now. Honesty isn't kind, because she can't see how it can afford to be. Right now, all it can be is necessary for it to prove any worth. That pragmatic application is more apparent in her now businesslike voice as she murmurs, nonchalantly wiping her hands off on a dish towel while leaning against the knife drawer. ]
I like you, Will. I've always liked you. I don't have many friends here, but I do consider you a friend. You see things in people that others can't, things that would make others turn away. Will you promise not to turn away?
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He also notices that chair so subtly put beside him, how helpful! And after Mary's put everything in its place, Will quietly resigns himself to sit in response to her question. That dog can sit pretty and silently and ignored, but that does not mean he's incapable of going from 0 to 200 in record timing. Does Mary know that? Does Mary realize that Will has it in him, some would say? Does she see that in the wrong ways, like others had? Here and now, there is no danger, to her, is there? He's just a shaggy fellow sitting in her kitchen, legs spread as though he's comfortable and relaxed, hands limp in his lap, wearing a ridiculous apron. What is there to worry over?
He looks her straight on, even. She will bear witness to the fact that Will is soon to no longer be blind. She will watch it happen. She will see how he reacts, and he will see if she finds satisfaction in it. Running from problems has never worked out for him. He can't turn away now. That would be discourteous to Mary.]
I'm not going anywhere.
[There is a heart in him, somewhere, buried under the emotions and motivations of others, the worst of society. Buried under an avalanche of guilt, and loss, and grief, and regret. If Mary can find it, it is hers to skewer, or roast, or massage new life into.]
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It seems to creep from her clothes, her skin, her hair; a mist that's barely visible if not for the shadows that flicker underneath and stretch across her figure, as if she alone had just stepped beneath a storm cloud. It's a deflection, a mirage to obscure and muddle until a new form clears one's vision, and Freddie Lounds sets aside the dish towel like she was the one holding it all along, her gaze on him calm and worn. The fog's lifted to reveal a vulture intruding in the luminous kitchen, but with air already scented of citrus, vanilla and aftershave, the memory of apples shouldn't seem so out of place.
But while she bears witness, there is no sense of superiority about it. To deceive in such a way doesn't ignite pride, because that isn't why she had done it, and she gains no perverse joy from wounding friends who have only helped her. Mary (who?) doesn't cower, though. She doesn't hang her head, because there's also no shame. What she feels is a sorrow for circumstance gone wrong, a guilt built on an unbalanced exchange drawn out for too long, but that is something that is necessary for all of her relationships. Maybe it doesn't need to be. Maybe this will prove why it does. Hasn't lying always been sweeter, for all parties? ]
Do you still feel that way?
[ Does he want to go far, far away now? Or does he want to come right at her? Her placement is no coincidence, but she keeps both her hands folded in front of her as if nothing but a polite lady. Mary presents this dark actuality with little context just yet, and expectation of every possibility before she explains further. She wishes to allow him a moment to breathe, or perhaps she's curious what other conclusions he might come to. Better to do so to her face than to others. It says nothing of wrong or right ways, because she knows all are capable of both, and he has shown capable in some already. Is he as fragile as Chilton warned? Is he as fierce as Chilton suggested? ]
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But he sees possibility, too. He looks at this broken house with regret and confusion, and wonders one thing that he can't bring himself to say: Can you be Abigail, too? No storm could stop him from doing what it took to save her, if only he could see the storm before it came and rendered him useless. No, no, he can't do that. Mary must feel strange enough about the entire situation, no need to have Will Graham literally breaking down in her kitchen.
She isn't Hannibal Lecter, after all. He can tell that. No shame? That's one thing. No smug smirk to show that's he bested him? He can remain a good boy, in this case.]
What's bluebird?
[Honesty is rare, and honesty deserves to be rewarded. He has other questions, it's true. But Mary's been honest in a way that he finds worthy, and Will can only think of one little detail (which is where the devil has been residing, as per usual) that he has kept hidden. He does not ask as an attempt to snare, to smear, to judge. He sits quiet and furiously trying to piece this all back into something that makes sense, and his only thought is that if he expects further explanation about this whole taking on the skin of Freddie Lounds?
He owes Mary the courtesy of returning her truthfulness, without barb or venom. This is not a snake biting. This is a bewildered (perhaps somewhat bewitched; he can't stop staring at those red curls) man fighting for clarity and showing a willingness to give as much as he might take.]
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Her own realization doesn't result in collapsed walls, but the forging of more. Absolutely everything changes in how she appraises him, in ways that only the sharp can spot. If her posture had been particular before, that was merely a courtesy. She is poised, and her process is considering entirely new outcomes in this entanglement. Will, why did you have to ask that? She resists the urge to grip the counter, not for support, but to be that much closer to the drawer. No need to be so dramatic here. The threats are not the same, are they?
She can remember another time when they sat in a kitchen and asked if apologies were necessary. He had said no, but there had been more he hasn't said. How much more? She hadn't thought this. What does he know beyond this word? Is he asking out of sincere curiosity, or is he testing how much more she'll lie? No apologies needed. ]
How?
[ The fair in January? Freddie? Someone else? Does it matter? Yes it does. Nobody else here should recognize that code in relation to her. Not John Watson, not Sherlock Holmes, not Will Graham. ]
It's— [ She's flustered, and that isn't a comfortable feeling, every nerve prickling beneath her skin, urging her to strike out in defense. Fond regard keeps it from becoming more than an urge. ] It's nothing to do with me anymore.
I didn't kill her. I never hurt her. This was a means.
[ He must know that like Chilton knew it, but mentioning bluebird has made her throat dry and her heart race. Otherwise, there's no unnecessary movement; no hitch to her breath or darting glances. Responding without really answering, did she hope to be better than that? Does he hope her to be? ]
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He hadn't been quite as prepared for Hannibal, but that didn't mean he could not learn. The whole situation with Yuri Petrov made horrifying sense at the worst possible moment. With the advantage of being Mary, mind, body, and soul, he had been able to gather himself a little better. He listened to her more carefully. He strung her words together. He kept them all locked away in his own mind vault. He hoped that it would never come to anything this extreme, but now that it has? He's prepared.
Maybe.]
I know it wasn't you; what information they could get from Freddie's body about time of death matched with a shift you worked at the children's ward you told me about over the phone a few days later. Some little boy made you a picture out of his yogurt lids. [BOOM. To be fair, Will hadn't checked into it in an overly investigatory way. There was no snooping. He pays attention to their small talk, that's all. But here, he is extending some faith. He hasn't talked to her coworkers or boss. He didn't think he needed to. He still doesn't.] You saw how I worked at that fair. I saw how you worked, too, once upon a time.
[Tumbling and struggling man that he is, revealing truths that might seem insidious, Will brings his hands up to run over his face. He is a shattered sort, who comes together for brief periods of utter clarity, who falls apart and rebuilds. Rebuild, rebuild, rebuild. One day, his sand will be more rock, because he will stop keeping a shoal of the sorts who work so well to scatter. He has April, and had Abigail and Freddie, he has Grey, and Annie, and Sasha. John. Clark. Ken. He has support. His sand is not the worst it could be, he is no longer isolated and codependent on Hannibal Lecter. He is capable of hiding his face, he is capable of losing sight of her, he is comfortable enough in his own abilities to be both wonderful and terrifying that he has confidence to do that much.
And confidence to speak through his fingers as they pull over his lips, Will staring off at the kitchen sink.]
I apologize for lying, but it felt like. Poor timing, to drop that on you.
[Will might not be good, but he is not vile. He thinks, to himself, that if he can say those words and truly mean them, when the time comes...he will tell Hannibal Lecter that he forgives him. And it might be just as genuine and raw as what he says to Mary in her Freddie suit. Might have just as much agenda behind it, too, but he has no desire to hunt Mary to the corners of the Earth and bring her to justice. To take her freedom.
Mary has thrown a drowning man an anchor, weighted and sinking. Will is doing his best to grab onto those chains and climb up, turn chains from that which brings down to that which promises mercy. If there is no one to save his life, he will save himself. He's done it before, spits the water filling his lungs out and endures.
Will Mary endure with him? She said she stood by his side once. He sits in her kitchen, personal and open, and makes no move to leave. He will stand beside her, if she wants. For what good he may be. Perhaps that depends on the outcome of these cupcakes, hmm? Reserve judgment until she gets a proper taste of what he can do.]
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Did this motherfucker just apologize for keeping something from her? You piece ofThe image of Freddie serves no purpose save for offering up a tainted nostalgia to him, and so the shadows flicker to life again, the wisps of smoke settling across her and obscuring like a gaussian blur before Mary Watson once again comes into focus, ridiculous apron and all. And all, she is still poised as if readied to finish the job Hannibal Lecter started if Will says just the wrong thing. Instead what does he say, and without insincerity by her lie detecting skills? ]
Seriously? That's what you say to me? You're apologizing.
[ The incredulous disbelief almost shakes the deadpan application that ought to be her default when presented with a man who just admitted to understanding at least one very dangerous thing she's not only capable of, but done in a professional capacity. All of a sudden she's in a room just like the one Sherlock Holmes revealed to her in his mind palace, and she's presented with another choice. Is she going to make the same mistake, when she's already reasoned why that would be a fool's errand?
Her expression doesn't change, sharp and distant, but slowly she moves from the counter and drawer. Not that she couldn't turn most things to weapons, but why? History (and future) had done nothing but burn the soles of her feet, why should she repeat it? So far, so far, living in the moment whilst here had only elevated her. She wants nothing to knock her down, least of all her own weak fear. John would make such a face (he will anyway). ]
Have you told anyone? April? Frederick?
[ Is it a threat, or just a question? It's presented with an amazing neutrality, but she has to ask and there's a very specific desperation behind it, even as she moves away from the most obvious weaponry. This is dangerous, this is very dangerous, because at any moment she can change her mind, and so can he. ]
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On the table like any other pig. Hopefully not the case if he ever goes home (if he has anything to go home to that is not a bodybag).]
Kate Bishop. [He is too weary for this, pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes, elbow on one knee and head hung.] She has a different circle, and we were talking. I asked if she knew anyone who could take on other bodies, and told her about Freddie being in the shop.
[He doesn't apologize.
It's in his voice, though, just a hint of it, like that hint of orange he'd worked to make the right amount. If he had known beforehand what Mary could do, if he had been told, he wouldn't have passed it along! He can keep secrets. He can behave. He can be a good boy, when he's been treated. Being treated involves being given information so he can work with it to the best of his ability. He worked with what he had, at the time, and now he's slightly aggravated that he, Will Graham, essentially ran his mouth. Note to self: serve to nearest and dearest, and just don't speak anymore.]
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Ah, so that's why. Miss Bishop approached me and told me to take care. Warned of the dangerous folk that lurk around Freddie Lounds.
[ Dare Mary look amused at such a warning? She would, but she has the shame to subdue it with a sigh. ]
I haven't walked in her shoes since... Not for the danger, but after a certain point it's merely crude.
[ Not that it wasn't crude before, but not merely. It had been with a purpose, even if that could seem meaningless to everyone else. Perhaps everyone else has a name to call their own. ]
...I am sorry if I hurt you during this process. I don't know if it helps any to know that I wasn't exactly successful in my original endeavor. But it's...important that you tell nobody, Will. The decision is yours. [ As are the consequences. ] There is a reason I'm this way, and there is a reason others shouldn't know.
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By nobody you really mean nobody, don't you. [She wants him to keep this from Frederick, is what he's assuming. After their whole discussion in therapy, after Will thought they could use a more open and direct line of communication, something like this would go down. Shit.] Who already knows?
[No mention of being hurt. This is not the worst pain to have dropped on him in the kitchen, evidence of that rests beneath a dumb apron. He's keenly aware of it, and Mary isn't unaware of it, either. He'll rebuild just fine, perhaps with a better understanding of Mary, and be stronger for it.
And then he'll go home and get very wasted with April. After cupcakes.
They're still going to have cupcakes, right?]
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She had shot Sherlock with only one warning, only one step, and even if it wasn't a head shot, hadn't he died, if only for a time? Here she is presenting a truth willingly, and this man may get to walk out the door with his heart still beating. Possibly bearing cupcakes.
Why? Because of how circumstances have been forced to alter in this world? Because she's backed into a corner? With John's (scarce) knowledge of her and the realization of how much worse the other imPorts can be, is that all it takes? Well, it isn't as if she's going so far as to really ask forgiveness or even explain herself. If she had faith, her gut wouldn't twist so, even as her tone cools and she once more becomes stock-still. ]
That I can shapeshift? John, Sherlock...and you. That I know how to point a gun? Same answer. It doesn't ever need to go beyond that.
[ Said as if that's all any of them know. Maybe it is. Is her marriage really built on that much faith? What more that Sherlock and John know still doesn't add up to much by anyone's sane perspective, and she's reluctant to deliver even that much. What might Will deduce on her, just as Sherlock had after being shot in the chest and awakening in the hospital? ]
By now I'm certain others beyond Frederick and Bishop are aware of an imitator running around, but what matters is that this cannot connect back to John. Frederick is not to be trusted with that level of power, and April can't be a part of this. Nobody can.
[ Maybe he can trust April with his world, but Mary can't trust anybody outside of hers. Can she trust Will? Mary tells herself she wouldn't, same as she would anyone. But she does know how to practice something similar, something almost, when no other opportunity is presented. The only alternative is to simply kill him, and even if she was going to be that dramatic, she's aware that imPorts don't always remain dead. No matter who she likes, their demise is always going to be a consideration, even if it's a distant what-if scenario behind a door with a number. ]
John wasn't part of this. He didn't know.
[ Said as if it isn't the first time he's been kept in the dark. Well? She doesn't need John finding out through Will, and she certainly doesn't need him taking the blame for something she did on her own. Will is handling this remarkably well, but that seems to make her more on edge than anything. ]
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He doesn't much care for the idea of keeping things from April, either, but he's done it before. He felt he couldn't tell anyone about Hannibal Lecter, and why would he? Abel Gideon, Freddie Lounds, Frederick Chilton, and Abigail Hobbs all knew more than he did. They had been there, and they kept silent as well. Will Graham being one his most front and center victims/survivors would be an incredibly biased source to get honest information from, so why bother spreading the word?]
Okay. [Almost inaudible, but his lips move and he jerks his head in a nod. She can figure it out. But does she realize what she's doing, he wonders. She says the decision is his, and goes onto make it for him. Is this Mary in her true state, this woman who pretends to give choice while surrounding any other option with bloody animal traps, ready to snap up and crush flesh, muscle, and bone? It is, perhaps fortunately for Mary, a highly effective tactic with Will Graham. It has been used on him before, to great (and disastrous) results. He feels it fortunate, at least, that he's got enough clarity to be aware that's what is going on. Perhaps they're both lucky, in this tapestry that's weaving together even as it unravels.] Are we going to finish these cupcakes or what?
[He's also very used to the idea of stress cooking and baking. Of getting one's appetite back, even while he feels better suited to vomiting everything in his stomach on the table itself.
But okay.
He'll keep her secret.
He's kept it all along, hasn't he?]
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Okay?
[ It's like whiplash, for everything he could still ask or say, he just agrees. It may not be joyously, but it isn't with much fuss like John, nor is it with loud analysis like Sherlock. In his own way, he's allowing her a reprieve she hadn't known she was seeking. Even if she'd been asking for his cooperation, perhaps Mary hadn't actually been expecting it so simply, as proven by her sudden scoff. That much turns into a hushed laugh of disbelief as he brings about cupcakes.
It could be shock! This twit just nods along after she'd agonized about this for weeks? She should kill him out of spite. But recognizing that he has indeed known about her former work for a couple months now and told nobody might be the saving grace above all. He could have sat on it for his own leverage, but he hasn't threatened to use it. So there's that.
That and being blood brothers with Hannibal Lecter. ]
The...double boiler is above the sink. We need to melt the white chocolate and cream.
[ Best give him a weapon first. Hell. ]
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Okay.]
And here I've just been using regular pots or pans for that sort of thing.
[He looks up at her with that same harmless and unassuming face, running his hands up his thighs (that don't do much just yet either) before he pushes off the chair, neither smiling nor frowning. Less miserable this time, though, something bordering on fond. He would never use a fancy cooking or baking tool in a fight if he could help it, because that sounds like something he'd be sorely scolded on. If a fight broke out and it was all he had, that's a different story! But he'd prefer there to be no violence, thank you kindly. He's not infected, has no disease to blame it on. Mary's not infected, either (he hopes). There is no point in getting physical.
Except the plague, and John being away, but that's another type of physical altogether.]
Did Abigail leave anything here, by the way?
[This is totally a normal conversation to have while they're making food. Very healthy. And while Will hasn't been using this specific sort of tool in his own kitchen, Mary may note he still appears to be very familiar with its function and design.
Blood brothers who hung out in the kitchen, one of the Daily Doubles on Jeopardy. You either win or you lose your entire bank, and Alex comes around to stab you in the face.]
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[ What normal conversation! Like nothing at all happened, but it very much did. Even if Mary is also very accustomed to bouncing back or even barrelling on ahead when needed, her worst expectations make it a struggle to accept the ease with which Will cooperates. At least she accepts it more than she had with Sherlock (by his design).
Abigail sounds like an abrupt topic shift while Mary is still circling around Will's lack of relevant questions, but the girl never seems to be that far from his thoughts. It doesn't help put Mary at ease (why ask now?), but it's an answer she can give fairly. If she wished, she could cut all affection out of her voice, but that wouldn't help her any. She's fond of Abigail, and pretending she isn't won't charm Will Graham any. ]
Not really, unless you count her box of Cheez-Its getting stale in the pantry.
[ There's a further moment of considering before she shrugs and adds on while measuring out the white chocolate, keeping Will in her peripheral all the while. There's no hurry, as the cupcakes are still baking. ]
I found a hair elastic of hers when cleaning one of the guest rooms last month. ...Why?
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But a hair elastic. Oh. Oh goodness, he can't get away with that one the same, can he? Like hell is he going to be giving it to April, and he has no intentions to grow his hair that unruly. She asks for reasoning and Will's eyebrows lift. He knows this might sound odd.
He's going to get it out there anyway. Be honest, politely.]
May I have them?
[Why? Because Will has a small shrine of her old belongings, and he assumes that Mary hasn't absorbed Abigail's elastic into her own collection. It's possible she threw it away, even! But if she hasn't...]
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I'll get the elastic for you.
[ Does that answer your question? But before she goes to head for the stairs (why would she worry about leaving Will Graham alone in her kitchen?), Mary twists her lips in thoughtful consideration before explaining further. ]
I was keeping the snacks there for when she returns.
[ DON'T TAKE ABIGAIL'S STALE CRACKERS, Mary will be good. If he looks, he'll even see that half of the shelf is still empty while everything is jampacked, as if purposely reserved. ]
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She's not coming back, you know.
[It's the bitterness of a father who didn't lose his children, but had them taken. The difference between a child who has a legitimate, tragic accident and one that happened because of another person just not doing what they were supposed to. Going out of their way to be dangerous, taking pride in it. In Will's case, he doesn't have only "God" to blame. He knows exactly who is at fault, who should be rotting in jail.]
April keeps to her three months rule, but that's never come true with my people.
[Abel Gideon. Freddie Lounds. Frederick Chilton. Abigail Hobbs. Hannibal Lecter.
His people.
Whether they like it or not.]
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The topic of Abigail leaves her quiet for a bit as she peeks at the progress of the cupcakes in the oven. Why is he bringing her up now? Obviously she is always on Will's mind, but why ask for her things now? Has Mary lost the right to protect her and hers, or is he reminding her of something tangible that they can still bond over? Is he simply more shaken by Mary's revelation than he had originally seemed? Will is never completely out of sight, even as she sympathizes and finally responds.
If John left...to a fate like Abigail's... ]
I hope that she'll be the exception, then, assuming the city doesn't fall apart in the interim. [ Don't really want Abigail coming back into pestilence. ] In a world where we can cheat death, the thought of you mourning her again is too sad. I wish it were different.
[ But she wishes a LOT of things were different. If wishes were horses? Waste o' time. ]
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Can't live a life in mourning. No glory in that. [Flowers!!! The connection springs to him with little basis for it, other than what he's been adding to the lawn outside his place with April. People want to live in glory, and die in glorious ways. Poetry, books, songs, movies, so much to sing about glory, even when it came at great costs. Will didn't want that. Abigail hadn't either. She'd just wanted to live, and what little time she was given was the opposite of glorious.] Maybe she's better off where she is, anyway. Finally got the chance to. Rest.
[What cruelty could possibly be in such a statement is completely missing when it comes from Will's mouth, when he's speaking of Abigail Hobbs. It was nice of her to cheat death, again, but where else is she going to find something that lets her, at last, stop being afraid? Worried? Stop wondering who she might meet on the street, what they'll want from her? Who is friend and who is foe? The stove is hot, Florida is hot, the world around them is heated and mad, but none of that is what has his face flushed, blinking a few times in rapid succession as he goes about putting the dirty in one bowl so he can transfer it all to the sink at the same time. That isn't a reaction to outside circumstances pressing inward, but quite the opposite. Emotional and raw and Will shouldn't have brought this up over cupcakes, they're supposed to be happy. Not sad, sappy, goopy, melting messes.]
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She can't help but think of Sherlock and how worrisome it's been knowing he can lock himself away for hours, perhaps days, in his mind palace, given the reach of his imPort abilities. Will isn't Sherlock, but he shares enough similarities that Mary can see him doing the same thing, with or without special powers to enhance the effects. April had hinted at the depths of his despair, but Mary had already gotten a peek. It's all she had needed, really. How he latches onto things like hair ties, the tremble in his voice, it's enough.
Will Graham don't you dare think you ruined this cupcake fest instead of the crazy liar right here, are you insane. Mary is the one who brought the dead back to life and pulled at the threads of his grief. He ought to stick her head in the oven instead of cleaning up. ]
Do you wish you were...resting, too?
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No. [Stern, perhaps louder than it needs to be, but he's running water and that can do a number on what one hears. Of course, considering Mary's whole stint with this bluebird thing and how easily she became Freddie, Will is of the opinion she is one of those who picks up on everything, regardless of what else is going on. Short of an air raid siren blaring, a plane flying literally feet over the kitchen as they stand in it, and the other rooms being filled with loudly barking dogs and roaring lions? He's probably good to go, with her. But it helps for him to hear that, too. Vibrant and firm, no, he does not wish he was resting. They would never inhume him next to Abigail. There would be no way that their bones could rest near each other, not without that being written somewhere beforehand. If he goes home to rest, his body might still but his spirit and soul won't be quite the same. Could he have survived? Could both of them? Could all four of them have pulled through? He doubts it, and that knife has probably never so thoroughly washed as it is under the care of Will's hands.]
And I'm not just saying that in case you let it slip to someone else, [like April, Frederick, John] I mean it. This place has its ups and downs and its absolutely baffling people, but I like it here and wouldn't risk losing it.
[Which is why he has some problems with certain types, other than the baffling. Go figure.]