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IC Contact [Asgard]

Catch all IC contact post for Will Graham at

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[Note: Will is unlikely to use video unless there is a good need for it. He'd be more inclined to do text until he's made a substantial recovery and becomes more comfortable with voice.]

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[Let it be known that Evy spends an embarrassingly long time trying to decide what sort of salutation to start off with. People seem to be rather casual about such things here, but it still feels rude to leave it off entirely, if she's contacting him out of the blue. At the same time, My dear Mr. Graham is altogether too formal when he's asked her to call him Will, and--well, really, it's a silly thing to struggle over, isn't it? Set one down at the very front here, and if he doesn't reply in kind, follow his lead. Then everyone's satisfied.]

Dear Will,

I hope you didn't find yourself in too much danger during the latest business with the giants. I don't recall seeing you about; were you in the usual Asgard or the one with the inverted colours?

And would you be interested in a little bonfire tonight? I know it's rather warm out, but I'm hoping it might cool down a bit with the evening.

Sincerely,
Evelyn Carnahan

[It's not only Evy that spends time—too much time—thinking of how to address it. Dear Will, he should have expected it. She's from a different time. He knows this, but he's still...it's still odd.

And she still has no idea what sort of terrible company he is. She's using a greeting, too, so he takes his time trying to figure out how to return it.]

Evelyn, I was in the "usual" one, as you called it. I kept to myself as much as I could. Bonfire with smores, right? I'm still interested. I can get a hold of the ingredients by tonight. Where would you like to meet? - Will

[Maybe they can have a bonfire over some form of text.

No they can't.

This is going to be terrifying.]

[All right, he was formal, too. Sort of. Writing just her name reads rather more intimately than she suspects he might intend, but perhaps it's an appropriate choice for new acquaintances in 2013. In any case, she's not about to try leaving the salutations off now.]

Dear Will,

I'm glad to hear it.

Gefion Park might be our best bet. I thought I saw some fire pits last time I was there. Would you like to meet around sundown?

Sincerely,
Evelyn

[Oh no, they're not doing this forever, are they? No. No, they're not. Will's dropping it because he knows who it is. She knows who it is. They're good to go.]

I can get to Gefion Park then, no problem. Is it just you and I, or are you inviting someone else? I can bring along the dog, if you want. She won't eat any smores, though, so there will be plenty to go around.

[THANK YOU FOR BREAKING THE CYCLE, WILL. She'll follow your lead. Manners!]

It'll just be the pair of us and the dog, unless you've anyone you'd like to invite.

[And when it gets to around twilight, Will will find her in the park, putting the finishing touches on a little pyramid of kindling. Once a Girl Guide, always a Girl Guide!]

[Beth just stares at the screen for a long time, eyes red and puffy from crying. She's clearly exhausted and her voice trembles when she finally speaks.]

Will... Y-you said you kinda owed me a favor so... [She sniffs and hugs herself.]

I was in the other Asgard and... And something happened... Mitchell, he... He...

[Tears start rolling down her cheeks again and she ends the feed, unable to say more.]

[Will has little experience with teenage girls. No experience that ended well, for reasons he'd never get into. But he knows despair when he sees it. He just can't bring himself to show his face, not just yet. He doesn't know what he's feeling. It's better to do text for now, he feels, and if they have to meet up...well, they're not too far from each other.]

I do owe you a favor, and I meant that. I can't help you if you don't tell me what happened, though. We can talk or not talk or whatever is best for you. Where are you? Do you want me to come to you, would that be easier?

[He answered quicker than she thought he would and she looks at his message in relief. He didn't forget and he's willing to help. What more can she ask ?]

I'm in my bedroom. Come over, please ? If you can spare the time, of course.

Edited (Ok. I stop editing now.) 2013-12-04 22:56 (UTC)

[ It's not that he doesn't trust Mr. Graham, because really, he does. Will is a grown man who hails (he claims) from a position of authority and responsibility. He teaches, he shows great kindness and empathy to animals, and --

-- And, well, there's something still not quite right there, is it? Maybe it's the clipped quality of his speech, even when waxing poetic in complete sentences, maybe it's closed-off way he looked to the eye of the bracelet camera. Maybe it's that he was sitting with a bandaged hand in a room full of dogs and one enormously outsized wolf, more than obviously reluctant to part with even a scrap of fur.

Yes, in retrospect, it's definitely that.

The first peculiar thing about wizards is that a very great many of them (especially those with strong magic to their blood) live to a very great age. The second peculiar thing about wizards is that they only grow more peculiar with time. Back in Godric's Hollow, there was a friend of Bathilda's with near an entire flight of enchanted canaries, each one named for the miracle of some long-dead saint. Then another, a wizard near Hogsmeade with boxes upon boxes of literal rubbish crammed into every cauldron and corner of his room. There was his sister, and the way that she would hide --

Albus is familiar with the trappings of obsession, of illness; he does not suspect the latter of Mr. Graham now, but oh, how easily loneliness might drive one into excessive measure. These things must be managed, they must be controlled.

He hopes that Will has already seen to it.

Albus scoped out Graham's room a week or so back to deliver his gifts. After a cursory search of Hel proved fruitless (something of a relief, the veritable threstral-haunt that it is), Sigyn became the next natural target for a man of the law.

His robes swish about him now as he strides down the narrow hall, keeping his eyes open on the approach. ]

[Will was sick, very very sick. Or, he had been. Here, he was getting the help he needed. His brain was growing back to its regular size. He was getting clearer and stronger with each passing day, the only thing that reminded him of time lost and extravagant murders being nightmares and the way he caught himself looking at meat sizzling in a frying pan. He did his work with the school, he came back to his room, he repeated the process.

He'd gone from the one dog (a little, mostly Pomeranian thing, promptly named Samantha) and one alone to two now, this one far uglier than his first. An ugly thing with a face that looked like she'd run straight into a wall, the kind of ugly dog he'd never have been able to give away back home. Not too large, but he couldn't tolerate too large in his room. He hardly wanted his suitemate, already so out of place, to feel crowded because the man who shared her bathroom was obsessed with dogs.

He wasn't! It wasn't him being sick, it was him being...it was...it was Will being Will. First people had just dropped them off near his house. Then it had been idly cruising the roads with the hope that he'd find a new member of his family running around in need of food and drink and love and—

It wasn't an obsession! He only had two this time. Just two. He'd keep it to two.

Unless he found a very small third.

But only three!

He'd been baffled by all the gifts he received and, of course, kicked himself in the pants for having not thought to give any himself. Even poor Abigail hadn't received anything from Will Graham, though what could he give her? Assurance that whenever he returned home, he'd put Hannibal away? Earrings? What did he get a teenage girl?

The sound of footsteps down the hall wasn't all that odd, but for the time of day, he wasn't really sure who it was. He'd done enough meeting and greeting to know the basics of his housemates and when they came and went, but he couldn't quite wrap his (burning) mind around who it was this time. He pushed aside the little desk he'd made for his fishing lures, got up, and went to his door, opening it and looking out like a man who was trying not to be overly nosy but honestly couldn't help himself.]

You lost? [He couldn't place the face, and knew he didn't live there. Unless—] Or, ah, did you just get here? In Asgard, I mean, are you a new arrival?

[ Albus smiles, broad and casual -- it doesn't match the intent way that he glances over Will. He reaches up to adjust his spectacles, and as his hand falls away (to clasp ever-so-neatly behind his back) so does something of the X-ray in his gaze. ]

Mr. Graham! Precisely the man that I was hoping to find. No, I am happy to report that I am neither lost nor new, though perhaps, the joy of a fresh introduction might be worth the price of its accompanying confusion.

It's Albus, I believe that we spoke on the network? Dreadfully sorry for the surprise arrival, I was making a tour of the city gates and it occurred to me to stop by. Might you have a moment or two to spare?

[ He steps forward a pace, lingering easily by the wall. ]

[Will's name gets a curious tilt of his head, one he doesn't think through and can't really stop because of it. His eyebrows knit together as he tries to think about the people he's met so far, people he's seen, and if he appears a bit standoffish, it's hardly being imagined. He hadn't talked to so many people, he thought, but—

Albus, he remembers that name. Realization breaks out over his face slowly, like rosy-finger dawn breaking out over a serene beach, and he pushed the door open further to show that he did, in fact, have the time. There was no place he had to be, not for a while yet.]

We did speak, yes. You gave me a present, actually. I didn't—I didn't really think to get anyone anything, so if you were expecting something back, uh. That's. It just slipped my mind, the time of the year. [That was the best way to introduce himself, wasn't it? Just shy of stammering and taking longer to reach a conclusion right in his face.] It's good to meet you finally, and yes. I have time. My room's free, but I don't know about the common area. Wherever works for you works for me.

[The fact of the matter that a little orange fluffy dog has come up behind him and is staring at Albus without trying to hide herself is apparently unnoticed. Samantha does whatever she wants, within reason. He's got rules. He's got his pills.

He's got this.]

Not to worry over the gift! The pleasure of giving is hardly in the receiving, Mr. Graham; I assure you that I'm not here to loom about like some Dickensian collections agent.

[ If the awkward patter fazes him, Albus shows no sign, pressing out a hand to shake. ]

It's very good to meet you as well. Your room, perhaps? That is, if other parties hold no objection.

[ He tilts his head respectfully to Samantha, as if the little scrap of fur is a tiny duchess in disguise. ]

It's nothing particularly private, but the couches were -- as last I saw -- happily occupied.

[How charismatic, Will thinks, even if he's always aware of just how very much the opposite of that he is. The guy who lingers in the doorway like he's ready to bolt, the guy who'd rather stay at home than do anything else, the guy who no one goes to for advice because he's just that distant. He's not intimidated so much as made, yet again, how aware of his awkward nature he is, and it takes a moment before he realizes what other parties are being talked about as he makes sure the grip of his handshake is firm but not too much.]

The other parties don't have any objection, no. [The other parties will do anything for bacon, after all, and he moves aside with the door open to let Albus in, eyes moving from one dog to the other—besides Samantha, there's a mostly-white, medium-sized mutt in the corner. He's kept himself at two, just for now. The room's rather lived in but clean, and his desk is overtaken with little bundles of feathers and bits for making fishing lures. It's the messiest thing about it, other than a toy in the shape of a stuffed frog that is one frantic bite away from losing its leg.] The little one's Samantha, the other one is Walter. You can have a seat in the chair if you want. Or stand, whichever you prefer.

Hello, Samantha.

[ He stoops low to offer a hand out to sniff, before following Will inside. His glances about are brief, and cursory enough. It doesn't take long to take the little room in -- particularly without an entire pack of hounds clamouring about.

Good. Good, excellent indeed. For its own sake, of course, but if he's doing well than this might yet just work. Honesty, he hadn't been banking on presenting this request so much as pleading for the removal of half a dozen strays.

Albus settles in the chair, gesturing slight to the bed. ]

Thank you, Mr. Graham. Lovely little place -- I had no idea that you fished.

I'll preface my usual rambling with the note that there are two sides to every story, and that I cannot fault anyone for looking to seek them out. However, I would also ask that what we speak of remain between the two of us alone, for the time being.

I do not intend to attempt to hold you to any ridiculous promises, I only trust that you will use your judgment and discretion if relating the matter to others.

Healer group to meet in order to organize sub-groups today at Ril Sorrin's clinic "Time and Tea", in Loki District.

Cpt. B.F. Pierce

(OOC: The log post is up here. Please be advised that this is really time sensitive, and we should probably keep long, meandering discussion tangents until after we've at least managed to organize people into the sub-groups and figure out where your character will be.)

[Samantha does, of course, sniff him, and apparently approves, even if it's Will she gravitates towards instead. Will, who lowers himself slowly on the edge of the bed, sitting in a way that invites her into his lap without him really having to think about it. Up she goes, his hand resting on soft orange fur, obvious that he's quite familiar with the behavior of dogs.

This? Not so much. He runs in small circles, and he's aware of what's needed and wanted from him in them. In a strange new place full of people who have no idea, really, what it is Will does for a living? It's harder. It's why he's gotten that table all set up, because lures don't lie. Dogs don't lie. If he keeps to himself, he won't have to lie, either.]

My job requires confidentiality. [It's the only thing he can think of that speaks to him being fully able to keep things to himself, the thing that sounds better than him just blurting out, oh no, I can keep secrets, really, no problem there.] Agreements, signed contracts. If I don't keep to them, I won't just lose my job. I'd go to prison, no doubt about it. [His lips twitch upwards in a poor attempt at a smile. Who wants to go to prison?] I'm not going to end up in prison here, far as I can tell, but you ask for things to remain private? They will. I've never broken confidentiality before, and I have no desire to start for no good reason.

[The only reason being good, of course, is it being a threat. If Albus sits here and tells him he's plotting a murder, Will is going to have to do something about it. If it's harmless, there won't be anything to do but nod along and keep it between them.]

So go ahead. It's just between us, whatever it is.

I should deeply hope not, I doubt these giants of ours would much fit in a cell.

[ Albus runs an absent hand through his hair, affecting an odd, straight-backed slouch that should look measures more forced than its patrician's ease. Truthfully, he doesn't care for that particular line of conversation much more than Will. It's been nearly two years since he last visited Azkaban's gates, and yet not nearly long enough. ]

Thank you. I presume that you have seen -- at least in passing -- the furor on the network regarding a Tom Riddle?

A young man of my world, Mr. Potter has seen to explaining some of his future actions; Mr. Miller, his present. The boy is a hazard, and has already shown himself as vicious in temperament as the so-called lord that he will become.

The question of what to do of him is a thorny one, but finds itself further complicated by the matter of those others that he surrounds himself with. Chiefly, one Bartemius Crouch Jr., and one Merope Riddle.

[ Albus leans forward, arms resting on his knees to spindle his fingers together. He looks to Will evenly, calm, as if they've just been discussing the weather. ]

Merope Riddle is in danger, Mr. Graham, danger of a sort that Bartemius Crouch assists in furthering. Presently, she is unable to leave Tom's quarters; there is no doubt in my mind that Crouch is one monitoring her whereabouts.

It strikes me as principally problematic to have no eyes on him in the handling of the matter.

[Will's watched, of course. He hasn't said anything, because what should he say? He doesn't know the full story, and without the full story, he can't make an accurate assessment. Of course, it's arguable that Will knew the full stories because of his abilities or because he was the one to kill in the first place. But still: without all the information, what is he to do? Jump right into a fight that he doesn't belong in off the words of—

—but isn't that his presence here in the first place?

There's no interrupting on Will's end. Albus leans forward, he leans back, but he's not intimated. He just doesn't want to show too much interest, because he's already spoken of his career. To lean forward, to look eager and hungry—he doesn't need that reputation. It's not until he's sure Albus is finished that he finally smiles, pathetic bastardization of a smile that it normally is.

There's been some poor communication here, and it's all Will's fault yet again.]

You're right that there are two sides to every story. You're right to preface what you've told me with that, because that is part of what I have been trained to do in my work back home. [His lips twitch again, and then there's nothing like feigned happiness on his face. Just misery, but he finally leans forward, rubbing his hands together.] I don't work with life, Mister Dumbledore. I work with death. This...this isn't what I know. I see life after it happens, never before. I have been guilty of being in a group of people who. I have done work. [He cringes a little, shoulders tensing.] Encouraging hidden killers out in the open. Provoking them, if you will, to kill again. Then I see the new bodies, I get new information, and it starts again. You want eyes on this poor girl? Not very close. You don't want my eyes. My eyes don't work like that. [Perhaps he's said too much. But it could come across as him being uncaring, unwilling. It could come across as him just looking for a reason to get out of it, and there's—well, there's a bit more to it than that, and the next excuse for a smile is because his lips cannot frown that much.] This all must sound horrible, I know.

[Which is, obviously, difficult for him to do.]

The last time I tried to keep my eyes on the living, it didn't turn out so well. The last time I kept my eyes on someone, they lived in death as much as I, as much as anyone else who claims to eat death. It's highly likely I'd do far more harm than good. Unintentionally. I. I can keep my eyes on the situation. I will, if that's what you ask, I don't mind it. I don't have much else to do. But if you're thinking my work back home would make me great at this, it doesn't. [It's hard to talk about, and it's so obvious. It's so obvious, and he hasn't spoken of anyone to it. He can't tell Evy, poor soul, already so entrenched with the dead coming back from the life. He sure as hell can't mention it like this to Abigail, because he doesn't know, really, her last memories. Albus speaks to him of a man who cannot love and feels entitled. He speaks to him of sociopaths, or what they might label this Riddle as. He speaks to him almost like those he knew before he came here. He wants to speak of it, wants to confide in someone, and yet this isn't all about him. There's a young woman in trouble, and the last thing any young woman in trouble needs is the failure that is Will Graham, even if there's no cannibalism involved (hopefully). A deep breath, one he almost doesn't release.] I'll look, but don't expect me to be of much help. Don't expect me to look too hard. This isn't me refusing to help. I can't help like others could. From what I know of me and what I might never be able to fully reveal to you is that my being involved too deeply? That's very problematic. If you feel I led you to believe otherwise, I apologize. I just do not believe there are some things that should be discussed in full view, which I assume you do, too, since you're here now.

[The odd thing about Will's dogs, even if he's only had them a few days? They know his moods. He's not hard to read, not to the canines. Things get serious, they lay low. They do not run or bark or try to lick hands and distract. They sit, they stay, they listen. Perhaps they understand. Hopefully if they don't understand, the other person currently in the room does.]

Albus Dumbledore is used to hearing confessions. Typically, they’re little things; the small tragedies and malignancies of everyday life. A predisposition to drink, an absent father, the threepenny affairs of farmers, magicians, and cheats.

It’s a rarer reward, to chance upon a tale so weighty, poignant as it is with the shape of desperation and self-loathing. He savours the words, and pretends to do anything but – if not a particularly good man, Albus at least recognizes the motions, and the grief in Graham’s face is honestly moving. He listens, quiet and attentive, as the words spill out, as Will winds himself up (like the hands of a clock, set carefully to remind himself of a rationale too easily cluttered into rapidity).

He listens, yes, and he waits for Will to finish. There’s sympathy to his eyes, clear and plain. When he speaks again, it’s softer, though absent of its earlier springing warmth.

“Will,” Albus finally breaks for the man’s first name. ”Look about you for a moment, please. Which House do you find yourself in now?”

He watches, but doesn’t seem too concerned for an answer, continuing on.

“Not Hel, I should think, but Sigyn. The House of builders, growers, of those that would mend and shape. Those without life to them – without experience in living – should not find themselves here, for life is this god’s most principle focus.”

“Understand that I do not say this to malign Hel and those within it, only to underscore that you are defined by far more than the work and world that you have left behind you. Understand also that it is not my wish to attempt to press-gang you into duties unwanted, or disturbing.” Albus cants his head again, an overgrown pigeon in spectacles. “I came to you, Will, because you strike me as a caring man; one who feels deeply, and who possesses the courage and strength of character to admit to that emotion. Not such a very widespread gift, and one invaluable to understanding the complexities of the situation that Merope finds herself in.”

Empathy. Even if only for a pack of street mutts.

“We all make mistakes, Will, and we each sacrifice much for them. The horrors that we experience do not themselves make us horrible. You have been forced to make difficult, ugly, brutal decisions, in name of greater cause. They are not choices that are ever asked lightly, and they are not always choices that are wholly ours to make. If there is anything that I have faith of you for, it is that you have not done so callously. Speaking with honesty of your reservations has made that much apparent.”

Albus considers him, chin tipping back upright.

“Truthfully, there is nothing to apologize to me for, Mr. Graham. Were the situation any less than this, I suspect that I would owe you a few of your own. Thank you for trusting me enough to speak of it now. In turn, I shall trust that you will use your best judgment with regards to the matter of Mrs. Riddle. Take that time which you need to consider, and contact me when you've come to a conclusion.“

He moves to stand.

Edited 2014-01-20 16:42 (UTC)

Will doesn't have to stand, not just yet. All he has to do is tap the dog on his lap, and off she goes, running in between them and effectively standing in the way by standing on Albus' shoe. She's a tiny thing and couldn't scare or stop anyone at all, and she could at the moment just be doing it to try and get some love out of the stranger before he leaves. If asked, Will would shrug it off. Surely he doesn't train them to respond to every little move he makes, to react to his moods. Surely he doesn't put that much effort into stray dogs. This one's just a very sweet dog, it has nothing to do with him.

Fortunately, he doesn't take Albus for a man who's willing to kick a dog just to get his way.

"You don't need to do that, Albus. I know where I am. I know what it is Sigyn values. I know who I am, and I've done rather well at piecing together why I actually belong here and not in Hel."

Will's heard this same song and dance for far longer than he'd like. He's asked for help, assured there's something good in him and he seems to be genuinely caring, and then it's all pulled away. He gets sick, he keeps working. He gets sicker, he gets lied to, guilt is used to get him to continue, and it keeps going. But he could never say he was forced by anyone other than himself, even when his brain was burning and he was getting too deep into the whole understanding the complexities of something unwanted and disturbing.

Albus is not his boss. Albus is not here to fiddle with his glasses, though he's apparently here to ask for his help. Albus is also not here to evaluate whether or not Will is stable and, in the process, do everything he can to make sure he's the opposite of it. The methods, he knows, knows them well. Knows that they work. If Albus thinks he can't recognize that much, he's sorely underestimated Will Graham, which isn't new, either. He's being manipulated, Will would say, for lack of a better word. To call it that out loud may insult, and he doesn't want that. Not just yet.

He's not being fooled, not again.

"You were trying to propose something, weren't you? I interrupted it. I shouldn't have been so rude. Tell me what it is, exactly, you want from me."

Of course, one doesn't have to kick such a small dog to get it out of the way. They just have to step past it—what's it going to do, nip at an ankle?

He doesn't hesitate, crouching low to rub Samantha's ears with a smile. It lingers as he glances back up to Will. This one might yet do.

"Good, because I rather doubt that I could repeat all that without a drink of water." Unfolding back up to his feet, Albus moves to pick up Samantha, still scratching her head in short, absent strokes. "Rude seems a bit too harsh a word for it, you hardly interjected."

He leans back against the door, as if never expecting to have left.

"I want for someone to keep an eye on Barty Crouch. To note who he meets with, to make a record of his various guises, to intervene directly should the threat to Merope appear immediate. He is a manipulator, a deceiver, and a man without a face well-known. I want you, Will, to help me change the only one of those that we might."

Will knows full well that how a man treats his inferiors reflects a great deal on him, and that how a man treats an animal reflects even more so. Snapping at another person, always putting them down, bullying them? That's one thing, because they could find their voice and eventually turn the tables. Hurting an animal, conditioning it to accept the abuse as opposed to ever fight back? That's quite another thing.

Albus is free to think that Will's staring at the way he treats the dog because he's worried about it being hurt or so obsessed with them that he can't tear his eyes away. He's free to think he's just an awkward guy who doesn't like eye contact, which is partially true. He can't turn off the wheels of his mind any more than the last person who manipulated him, and he's analyzing Albus with every touch he gives the little dog.

You want me, or you need me? Do I interest you? Wind me up and watch me go, is that it?

No. Not yet. Not now.

"I'll do it." It's resolute, spoken with more confidence than he might have displayed earlier. No stammering, no hesitation. For the first time, he finally looks straight at Albus' eyes, something he might not understand for being so rare and so telling. Not just yet, anyway. "You're going to have to fill me in on some things, though. You're going to have to tell me who else from your world is here, and how they relate. You're going to have to tell me what kind of murderous the both of them are, past what's already been told. You and I are going to have to not be seen as overly friendly at the school. If I pass you in the hallway, you nod. I nod back. Maybe we say hi, but that's it. No small talk. No being seen outside of it together. This? Doesn't happen again. We'll have to find someone in your house or someone in mind to be friendly with, so that if we ever visit, it makes more sense we're seeing someone not each other."

He has to make sure boundaries are understood, because he can't afford to see too much, not with Abigail here, not with murderers running around.

"And I am going to do some things you may not understand because I've done this for a long, long time. I'm not going to consult you on my every move. You're not my superior. What I do, if you don't understand it, that's fine. Just know that I know what I'm doing. I've eaten death nearly half my life, Albus. You want me? Fine. But we're going to draw lines in the sand right now, and you're going to have to realize that I know exactly what you're doing, and I understand from personal experience that people can be manipulators for reasons that are not harmful."

He knows what Albus is doing.

If he doesn't accept that, if he denies it, he'll know a bit more about him than showering a dog with love could tell him.

“Thank you.” Albus meets his gaze. “I will provide you with the required information over the network, you will, of course, inform me of any insufficiencies.”

“Ignoring you outright would look suspicious in itself; I speak to near everyone that I might, as those involved know well. A cursory amount of small talk will be necessary in those instances that proximity cannot be avoided. You will exercise your experience and judgment in reacting to it, and I will not press any further interaction – for all intents and purposes, I will consider you boring.”

“You are familiar, I believe, with Miss Evelyn Carnahan? She rooms near to me in Odin. As to Hel, I am familiar with several here, and I will see to reinforcing those ties.”

He stoops, carefully setting Samantha back down and giving her a final quick scratch behind the ears.

“Means and ends, Mr. Graham. For what little it's worth, I have always found that the best lies hinge upon a grain or two of truth. I trust in your expertise. If you require anything more, do not hesitate to ask.”

The idea of small talk isn't something Will's ever really gotten used to, not at work. It always leads up to him being asked to do something he'd rather not, or asked questions he'd rather not answer, or being told something has come up in a case and—Doctor Lecter? What a surprise. Would you like to help us catch the Ripper?

The anchor that ended up ruining him entirely, hook, line, and sinker.

Will is not seeking a replacement paddle here in Asgard, nor does he need it. For the first time in a long time, he's seeing clearly. Perhaps his psychoanalysis has kicked into overdrive thanks to things that happened before he came and has no intention to ever tell anyone about, but he doesn't think he can be blamed for being a little paranoid. Still, he's not damaged enough to see anyone with the ability to manipulate as a serial killer who would be more than happy to share a meal with him that's not exactly what they say it is.

Albus is pretty lean, he notes. Probably doesn't indulge in gourmet meals featuring human organs. Probably.

"I don't think anyone could blame you for thinking of me as boring." Samantha bounds back up on the bed, and his hand goes through her fur like it belongs nowhere else. She also serves as a welcome, tangible reason to look away. Hopefully, Albus finds Will interesting only on a level of his work, not a level of winding him up and watching him go. He's not about to go through that again, or spend all his time fighting it. "So that works out really well, since basically everyone has mostly seen me as that guy who might like dogs a little too much." Yes, he knows people must think he's hoarding them. He'd rather be that crazy dog man than anything else. At least then his crazy would be contained to collecting dogs, not collecting memories of the criminally insane and keeping an encyclopedic account of methods he could use to disarm, injure, maim, kill, and then set up the body in a fashion that would make opera enthusiasts shake their heads at how over the top the entire thing is. "I'm familiar with Miss Carnahan, which works in our favor."

Too bad he won't be able to tell her any of this, even if he wanted to.

"I'll let you know. We're gonna have to save talk of lies and truth for later. I haven't had breakfast yet."

A breakfast he cooks himself that includes absolutely no meat whatsoever, naturally.

Edited 2014-01-23 20:31 (UTC)

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IC Contact [Asgard]

day 366 // text

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video (because she can);; Backdated to D365 if it's ok for you.

text; it's more than okay!

text; \o/

action; i hope this is okay i wasn't sure if you were srs

get out jaime

rood will stark rood

you've no idea how rood he can be

you've got the manners of a future sandwich sir

kept inside a heart-shaped box in the freezer for a week

cold, hanni, cold

[Text] Day 386

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i wrote this in prose and i'm too lazy to switch it sorry

i am 110% okay with this breaking development

smells like roast muggle

wizard nirvana needs to make that a top 50 hit

kurt crowbane

and dave crowl on the drums