infomodder | IC contact [Mask or Menace]

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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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[ 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.]

[ He asserts clarity, and it's up to her to decide on if she believes him. That's important, more important than what he's done or who he's protected. If Will isn't self-aware yet, then that proves as more of a danger than a killer. She thinks, she decides, he's no rabid dog. That much is urged on by what he suddenly asks, referring a scene that was presumably everything but controlled. Presumably.

Of course, a straight answer on this comes with a risk. She doesn't know what he saw at the fair, but she knows he saw something. Something that wasn't worth commenting on, or something that he felt he couldn't. If he had seen what Abigail saw, that surely would have been worthy of comment, even off-brand sarcasm. So naturally, she wants to know. She wants to know, but that risks him saying or asking something he can't take back. She didn't come here to offer her support, only to be forced to bury him beneath the house she just brought a gift to.

More than that, even more than that, though, she wants to know (hear) about what she saw. That, too, comes with a different risk factor, as he's already forced to re-live Abigail's death and possibly his own. Clarity is fragile, and when it becomes too dark to see anything else, serves little purpose. ]

I saw you working. I saw...how you work.

[ Fucking fascinating is how. Mary doesn't belittle that opportunity to see a mind's working process, nor had she when getting the chance to witness Sherlock's mind palace. How Will's mind works is actually poetic, and not the forced mockery that Hannibal paints kitchen floors with. But then beyond that, it wasn't just work. She can't say that. ]

I saw a man wanting to be an animal. Seemed like...all the animals in one. [ Felt it, more like. She sits up straighter, both hands now gripping the mug that's still barely touched. Her brow crinkles with an unease that would have to be natural for any person to admit to seeing such a thing (the only unease she has is for someone else), but her breaths are steady and her focus isn't pulled by anxiety. ] One and two.

[Two parts of Mary's explanation made this relieving to hear.

For one, it was the same glimpse that the others who had touched him got as well. He wasn't blindsided by the revelation, which made it easier to hold a straight face. If she had spouted of something he had not heard before, at that fair, confused and unaware it had even happened, that would have changed. Possibly, depending on what she might have seen.

For another, rather than immediately see it as Will being the killer, returning to the scene of the crime under the guise of solving it, she picked up something else. That was how Will worked, end of story. How he worked, not how he set up murders to later solve, working behind the scenes with strewn guts to later be given the glory of finding the one who'd done it, whoever Will later set up to take the fall.

Mary had never shown herself to be dim, or slow, so that she comes to this conclusion doesn't shock him. Doesn't seem out of place. But as she talks, moves, he can't help following her lips, the lines of her body standing out more than they had moments prior. He remembers what he saw, remembers being in a body that was not his own, which isn't unusual...but being in Mary's body? He hadn't ever thought of it happening, not in such a fashion.

She speaks of man being animal, animals, and for a moment, Will's eyes on her neck are so intense it might very well look like he's ready to launch himself across the table and bite. Fortunately, he seems to become aware of that soon enough, and goes back to looking at the not-fully-coffee drink in his hands.]

Randall Tier. [A name that comes out much, much easier than Hannibal Lecter. A name he can lean back in his chair saying, almost at ease.] Wanted to be a cave bear. He slaughtered cattle first, a truck driver, a couple...didn't take us long to find him and put a stop to it.

[Because he came after Will, and Will beat him to death with his bare hands. But that doesn't make it out of him, and there's nothing overly odd in his voice or body language. Just discussing facts.]

I never intended for anyone to see that, I'm sure you...know. Feels polite to offer an apology anyway.

[So there's her apology. Gosh.]

[ She isn't one to say everything she sees, anyhow, but the rest wasn't as relevant as the process. A bear isn't as relevant as a stag, because the stag isn't mentioned. Randall Tier is another faceless name to be filed away with Nick Boyle, no real classification other than 'dead' applicable. Killer or victim is irrelevant to the immediate context beyond that and connection to Abigail, to Will, to the hunt.

As he confirms the capture of Randall, she nods in eager approval of that much while reaching to stroke the dog's head again.

But then oh, such apology. Funny how she didn't ask for one, and she doesn't seem to remotely care that he's offering it. More pre-occupied with how he keeps looking at her, spied in glances between the dog, the coffee, and a window's reflection. Brows flinch as she narrows her eyes, though she turns the direction of her gaze to her coffee before anything can be read there beyond processing the story. Then she offers a smile for what was clearly a hapless instance, still unexplained even to this day. That burns, but she can let go of unsolved mysteries. There are many more out there she can solve.

Which ones are playing through his mind? He isn't Sherlock, but if there's anything that Mary took away from Will's memory, it's that his mind might be as dangerous. Sherlock hadn't suspected what she was for longer than she had even hoped to dream for, but he had to have suspected something about her. Maybe his connection to John had coaxed him into ignoring it while she wasn't a threat, but Will doesn't necessarily have that buffer. If anything, Abigail could be just the opposite considering her history. ]

Oh, I'm just glad you stopped the man, so that's what I'll keep with me. [ How did you put a stop to it, Will? ] Someone intended something that day at the fair, but it wasn't us. Nothing could help it, so there's nothing to apologize for.

[ Unless he saw something that upset him beyond a certain point. At that, her head tilts, her eyes wide in such an innocent gesture that one would have to be paranoid to instead see it as a hawk's inspection. ]

Is there?

[Whether or not Will Graham is paranoid, or regularly veers there, is something of a debate. But here, he's just asserted his clarity. There is a difference between the two, he's also firmly aware of that.

So if he catches something off in her look the way she might have caught something off in his, he doesn't let it show. He doesn't know if he's reaching.

All those days in court, all those visits in the BSHCI, have made him much more adept at just letting himself be watched by hawk and sheep alike without ever once appearing bothered by it. The sheep could take that as a heartless killer, dreadful shame about that poor Hobbs girl, and avoid him. The hawks could wait for their chance.

Is Mary hawk or sheep, or somewhere in between? Will would never think of her as a sheep, not with her asserted beliefs on the evil on the humanity, not with her connections. Not with bluebird. That doesn't necessarily make her a hawk, though. Or a vulture. Or jackal. Or anything bad.

He doesn't want to lie. He's just not sure if this is the right timing for it, Will already torn up over the loss of Abigail. Mary already seeming ready to help him shoulder some of that loss. Can he afford to upset (or lose) a steady ballast in the midst of a storm, just because he couldn't realize bad timing for it was?

So he'll lie, and whenever (if it ever) comes up later, he has her own words to digest and put back out. He had nothing to apologize to her, for that day. Telling her what he saw, and felt, and knew, would just turn that back around on her. Why do that?

There may be nothing to apologize for, currently.

But he'll make sure there's something to apologize for later on.]

No. I wouldn't have known anything strange had even happened if Clark hadn't told me, right then and there. [His lips twitch in a smile, friendly and honest, not a hint of lie to be seen. There is relief in him, even, settling against the chair in more of a slump than anything else, going so far as to reach a foot out to bump Gunther on the nose. Playful and relaxed and comfortable.] Glad you didn't let on with Abigail, I should add. She...wouldn't have taken it well. You've been. [The opposite of what Will could be considered, right now.] Kind to her. That's rare.

[He's...not only speaking about Abigail, with that. She's not the only one from Baltimore (and the world around it) who isn't used to much kindness.]

[ Liar. Something, at least, is going unsaid, but his skill at pulling it off makes it easy to ignore. Bless him. And so it goes, because it's safer for now. He doesn't need to apologize, and neither does she. Even after the gruesome memories she just shared, whatever he saw of hers is worth lying about, so it's either something dangerous by his standards or tragic by hers. Her past has honest sadness as a nurse and a partner, and he may simply not want to further upset her given the context, so she can't immediately suspect he saw something worthy of making her afraid. That's best, frankly, as she doesn't react so kindly to fear. ]

Clark? Like Clark Kent? You certainly keep mixed company.

[ It's an easy guess for anyone paying attention to the network. There aren't exactly a plethora of imPorts named 'Clark', surprisingly? It seems only worthy of passing mention to her, though, as she slinks in her seat to observe Gunther's behavior towards Will's easy affections and quickly grasps back onto the topic of Abigail & Co. (Why don't you just make yourself at home, Mary?)

Was Dr. Lecter kind, as well? You seem to have some heart left over. ]

Is that so? I haven't felt very kind. [ As true as a statement can be, Mary's smile is tight and half-hearted as she takes a generous drink of the cooling coffee. Even those Mary loves she takes advantage of. She won't stop, but she usually won't call it kind, even as Will seems to give her retroactive permission to lie-by-omission to Abigail. Ah, kindness. Of course, it can easily be dismissed as her feeling like she hadn't done enough for either of them. ] It can't be that rare here. I know that you both had a rough go of it back home, but those rumors didn't follow you here, did they?

[ Just rumors.

Does she need to stalk some gossip mongers? Those gents are as much (more) of a threat to her as they would be to Abigail or Will. Freddie had been a threat, but she'd been a threat intended to keep close. What if she had seen Mary's file? What if she'd seen it and shown it to Will? It isn't paranoia for her to entertain the possibility, but it also isn't something she thinks she should obsess about right now. Not until it becomes relevant. ]

[Yeah, he's a liar. A liar who's made himself at home (why don't you, Mary, really?) and isn't getting much out of bothering Gunther. The dog takes it like a champ, reaches out with his tongue to get Will's foot drawn back quickly, the half smile on his face showing how much he absolutely would not mind a little dog slobber. And how much he likes Clark, on his own, answered with a nod. Not a lot of them named Clark, and only one Clark Kent. That seems to be an unfortunate thing, some days. The world would be better with more like him, as far as Will's concerned.]

Freddie...mentioned that I was locked up, when she first arrived. But Abigail wasn't here then. She might not have done it if she was. [Because no matter how much bad blood Freddie Lounds and Will Graham had between them, keeping the peace for Abigail Hobbs still took priority. That's something he can drink to.] Don't know how to say "you've been kinder than we're used to, you and John," without that sounding...insulting by comparison. But you have. Probably why she latched onto you.

[Because she didn't latch onto Hannibal or anything, either, right?

Oh, Will.]

[ Oh, Will. And oh Freddie. Sweet peach. Why doesn't he ever sound like he hates Freddie Lounds as much as he ought to (at least to her eye)? Curious boy. ]

I'm not insulted. [ Can't speak for John. ] I had become fond of Miss Lounds, and the plan was for her to be in the bridal party. She owed me for a little something and being here in so little time, I didn't precisely have a plethora of female friends to choose from. I figured she would at least make it memorable.

[ It's the easy kind of rambling that seems dismissive, because in a way it is. While the topic of Freddie is intriguing to her (and the topic of Mary's kindness utterly is not), she doesn't wish to convolute the intent of this visit. And while she has her points to make, and her questions to answer, she can be patient. Will's proven himself nothing but a friend so far, and even knowing what she does so far doesn't change that a bit. John really doesn't need to know any of it, save for the confirmation of Hannibal's hand in Abigail's murder. And above all that, at the worst it merely makes him a person of interest to her. Thank God he left. ]

He may be gruff about it, and doesn't quite understand your...humor, but he's made of sturdier stuff than you might think. Keeps his own friend that's ruffled his feathers for ages, and they couldn't be closer.

[ Of course John has so much room for one brilliant git in his life, which is fine. More for her. ]

I suppose we all have our crosses to bear, and that's something that's easy to understand.

Edited 2015-04-03 00:40 (UTC)

[Will watches, quiet, the smile that crosses his face at the idea of Freddie Lounds being in a bridal party working as a surefire way to make it memorable making it difficult to keep on. But he does, lips twisting upwards more. He agrees about that one, and even though he trusts Mary (sort of) and Freddie was definitely murdered, this isn't the best timing for that, either. So he plays along with ease, because conversations about Freddie being of interest, or worth note, or making a scene aren't uncommon to him. He smiles and wrinkles his nose and nods, takes a drink like he'll drink to that notion, and lets it go.

A huff of air escapes flared nostrils, ruffled his feathers for ages, as Will also physically agrees that yeah, he can be a it of a handful at times. He knows. And he knows that John must be sturdy, his career taken into account. He finds no harm or foul here, in this conversation. It's good for everyone to be aware of where they stand. It's good for them to have clarity, and the ability to have frank discussions without worry that the other will take is offensive or rude.

One thing, in this moment, is not a front, or a lie, or a performance: he quite enjoys Mary as a person. He's quite glad she came over, he's grateful. Gratitude, with Will, breeds loyalty. Whatever bluebird might stand for, he's stood by a cannibalistic serial killer and discussed murdering a man in his own home, while that man was drugged and pathetically destroying his face.

If Mary stands with Abigail and Will, he'd be a right damn fool to not stand right next to her.]

Good thing, too. Easy's not easy to find. [Relaxed and comfortable, every part of him gives that vibe off. Because he is. Even when the next words come out of his mouth, perhaps abrupt and unexpected, a display of honest emotion that's raw and doesn't feel shame or a need to hide, he looks just as cozy.] Thank you for coming over. You were right. I needed to talk, and I appreciate you being willing to talk with me.

[Not to, or at. But with. With, together, a relationship that involves give and take, this for that, equal and rare. That's also not something Baltimore is overly familiar with, and something that's precious for it. Precious, worth holding onto, worth working for and fighting for as much as any war. To Will, at least.]

[ Likewise, beyond (or is it before?) the desire to know just what makes him tick and what could turn him against her...she quite likes Will, too. She thinks John could, if allowed moments like this with him, but those things take time and their friendships with Will are separate. She still isn't certain what sort of things she should tell John, both in regards to fact and her suspicions, given that she very much wants him to continue to like Will and Abigail, especially as Will's doctor. She doesn't want him to be put in the same position that Mary had already placed him in once before.

Easy is not easy to find, and she admires that he points it out. Should seem obvious, perhaps is, but people forget, despite everything being hard. They really should never forget. Will is a reminder of many things, and the contrasts faced by his empathy and choices are never going to make those reminders as easy as what they're talking about. ]

I'm glad I did. For you, of course, but I wanted to chat to soothe my own wits, as well. To...know about her. A bit belated now, but— You're still here.

[ Not everything's lost (and she could still return). If this little visit helps Will in any manner of speaking, then belated or not, it isn't a waste. It's helped her, and not just from an intel perspective. She cares about these fractured people.

Carefully shifting her feet to plant more firmly to the ground, still aware of the dog's presence beneath the table, Mary straightens and reaches to refresh both cups with coffee and rum alike. Clink! ]

To Abigail.

[Does Mary know what happened to those girls Abigail's father hunted? He can't help but wonder. While the idea of toasting, and drinking to someone, is common, does she realize what that invites when Abigail Hobbs is the one being honored? He looks at his refreshed cup and then Mary, as if this is all very unusual to him, but lifts the cup anyway and clinks just the same.

If she doesn't know about the extent of Garret's hunting, and it comes out later on, fine. He'll say exactly what he would if she asked now, that he partook of this because it was normal, and Mary didn't seem to know, didn't seem to be testing him.

His gut flips, though, at the mere thought of it all. Drinking to Abigail. Consuming with her name on his lips, and not as some topic of conversation. As the sole reason he takes it upon himself to ingest and encourage another to do the same.]

To Abigail.

[His stomach is still upset even as he drinks, but after a moment's consideration...Garret would never toast to Abigail in such a manner, would he? So possessive of his lure that he made her hunt with him, made it very clear it was these other girls or her own life that would be taken. The Shrike did not share. Abigail came, and Will fretted, and he worked to make sure she could be as free as possible. He met with Freddie to give them both a better understanding of it all, that Will wouldn't work against her in Abigail's presence. Frederick would have had to do or say something extreme for Will to be upset that he had immediate access to her, and he never felt envy over it. Abel Gideon, she saw herself in—whatever conversations they might have had, Will would never attempt to stop without legitimate reasoning. He did his best to be even with the boys in her life who showed more interest than friends. And here sits Mary, an outsider that Will had honestly been glad to have in Abigail's life.

He'd told Hannibal that he thought he would be a good father. Looking back, rationalizing it all, he had been, hadn't he? Not just in comparison to the Shrike and the Ripper, but in general. He'd done the best he could. He'd loved and been loved in return, they'd communicated, they had shared, there was give and take, and neither of them had wanted for anything. Weren't those the most integral parts of fatherhood? Eventually his stomach goes back to normal and that drink settles.

It had done the same when he knowingly ate human flesh he cooked, but he'll ignore that.]

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