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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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[The change in in topic wrestles a still wan, but more genuine smile out of Neville and he puts his glass back down.]

Oh! I live with him. Morholt, right? [Neville was never particularly great with animals, mostly because he can't seem to convince any of them to respect him. If you're at the point where you get sass from a toad, you're hopeless. He still quite likes them, though, especially the sort you can pet a bit.] They get on great, I think. Sirius and him, I mean. I suspect he keeps eating the end of my shoelaces, though. --Er, not Sirius.

[Though, maybe Sirius, you never know.]

And Professor Dumbledore is quite nice, isn't he? [Ahahaha.] He's much younger than I've ever known him, though. This place is odd like that. At least, I think, with our world...

[Oh, though. Neville looks straight up at Will again, alarmed. He just spent a year listening to a woman he hated screaming about how horrible Muggles are, he just lost half his friends to the cause of protecting them from his own kind-- the idea that he's been insulting or offensive about them (to them) without knowing makes color rise to his cheeks.]

Oh, I'm- I don't mean-- Sorry. [He bites down on his lip, racking his brain for a better word and coming up empty. He has never really thought about how silly the word sounds before, mostly because silliness is practically a naming convention in the wizarding world.] Is there... something you'd rather be called?

You don't have to be insane to lose days. That doesn't make you insane.

[She's a little hung up on this whole insane thing, he's noticed. He can't say he's not hung up on it, too, but now that he knows who he is and who he's not, he's got a better grasp on it. He still gets a little hot under the collar and wakes up sweating, but it's much better than it was before. He's got a doctor and a simple treatment plan to thank for that.

He's also got a doctor and a complicated treatment plan to thank for his real issues with insanity in the first place. He's got another doctor he'll return to that he cannot believe would make it any better unless Will takes it upon himself to bring about a compromise.

Insanity is a hell of a thing. Will knows. All he can hope is that whatever happened to make her stuck on it wasn't as bad as what happened to him. No one deserves that.

But what if it was worse?]

A misfiring in the brain that can cause a black out or a loss of time isn't insanity. It's a physical problem. There's plenty of things that could cause it. Just because it's not common or commonly spoken of doesn't automatically mean you're insane, Alice.

[Will's not insane. Never was. He was just sick. Sick and getting sicker, and all on purpose.]

Anyone who says otherwise doesn't know what they're talking about and should shut their traps.

[he is
a little
mad]

Edited 2014-04-05 00:51 (UTC)

[This kid, Will realizes, has major social issues. That's not a judgment, either. Will has his own problems with being social, would rather be left alone with his dogs and boat parts than at any gathering. It might have been a morbid thought, but the only real group activity that would be palatable to him would probably be a funeral.

Everyone silenced, muted, coming together to watch someone they loved (or tolerated, or outright hated but came to see off out of obligation) get put in the ground. There was no need to fake smiles or pretend like he enjoyed anyone's company. It was a social meeting that require little that was actually social. He could handle looking absolutely miserable.

What a hideous thing to even think.

The mention of Sirius eating his shoelaces is far more appetizing than getting out of the house, going to a funeral, and calling it his social outing of the year. It flashes behind his eyes easily enough (active imagination and all), but he keeps them on that fish, slowly but steadily getting right where he wants it. He lets Neville take and makes no mention of what he thinks about Albus, because there's plenty of unkind things he'd say if he was being honest. It's not until he apologizes and offers to call him something else (like what, non-magical human being that we sort of frown down upon back home?) that he looks back at him, partly incredulous and partly actually thinking about it.]

It's what I am when you label me by the language of your world, so I don't mind it. [But it still sounds like something weak and easily eradicated; he hardly likes that.] I'd prefer it if you just called me Will from now on. [Not Mister Graham, not the punch to the gut of Doctor Graham or Special Agent, not the dreaded William, none of it. He has no doubt that if he's ever mentioned, his being a Muggle will come up. Saying he'd like to be called by his name is better than saying he'd like to be referred to as a human being; they seem to be aware that some of the thoughts on these Muggles aren't so tasty when spoken to them. Rubbing that in the face of a kid who'd just had his arm burned and was thrown into a fray with people he did not in any way get along with? Not very fair. Also not something he could stop no matter where he was.] You like a little spice? Or mostly plain?

[He's not lingering on the subject of what he is or isn't (being a Muggle would be much better than being an intelligent psychopath). He recognizes that fish in the leaner, healthier choice, he truly does.

He's just not telling that his recipe is a little fattening. A lot fattening, actually. He's from the South, for pity's sake.

Artery's sake.]

Edited 2014-04-05 01:26 (UTC)

I like mostly plain. [His gran hadn't ever had a taste for spicy things, so plain is more in keeping with his sense of comfort food.]

You're not, though. I mean, maybe the word sounds silly, but-- [He frowns, picking at his sleeves again, not sure if he should say anything but blundering forward anyway because he's embarrassed by his gaff.] There are only a couple million of us. Total. Everywhere.

[He grew up in the nearly complete isolation of Britain's wizarding societies, and until taking Muggle Studies last year he'd never once considered the sheer scope of the world outside it. There were billions of them, Alecto Carrow had told them once when one of the students had tried to argue with her over the fact that it was silly to imagine Muggles had the ability to chase witches and wizards into hiding. Literal billions of them. And now he can't help but think back to the "gun" Ellie had shown him, how she said she had used it to kill Voldemort. With all of his might and magic, the stuff he had used to torment and terrorize the magical community for decades, a teenager without so much as a wand or an army or a grand plan from Dumbledore himself had put those tiny little bullets into him and he had died. It's a bit frightening, really.

He doesn't buy the Death Eater rhetoric for a moment, of course, but it's certainly difficult to imagine them as harmless woodland creatures, now.]

And you have got weapons, haven't you?

[If only he knew.

It's not the first time she's heard a reassurance, from another dubious person. Pyro, for example, but he knows a little bit more than most do. She's suddenly feeling a little self-conscious even sending that to him to the first place. Whatever it is, she gets a small reminder of Rutledge. That's never a good sign.

Alice isn't the most familiar with modern slang, it only takes a few minutes to stop herself from asking "what traps?" before it dawns on her.

Oh. He wants them to shut up? Okay, Alice can agree with that. Everyone around her sans Nan Sharpe have been a bit of a joke. On a better day, she would smile.]

The sentiment is shared, Mr. Graham.

[No, but raving and ranting about hallucinations can be up there, not that Will wants to know.]

You're Barty Crouch's special person. Just thought you should know.

Wrong.

[Let's get this threeway started right, shall we?]

He's my special person. I just let him think the opposite.

Well alright but whatever it is you're my only dead zone. I've got the run of any and everyone else, but you're his cut off point.

Who's going to wear the dress?

No one wears a dress. We're both men. We wear pants. What do you mean by a dead zone?

I mean he owes me and you're the only payment he won't give.

He shouldn't give me to you as payment because he doesn't own me. Giving me to you would imply he does. No one owns me. I own myself.

[Here in Asgard. Back home? No, he belongs to someone else, someone he really doesn't like at all. It's a terrible thing, not only having his identity taken away from him, but his freedom.

He's not looking forward to it. This is a little alarming, but really: it could be worse. It could be so much worse.]

What do you want from him about me, Jim? You have questions? You could ask me. I'd rather be asked than talked about behind my back with the possibility of false information spreading. That's not something I find easily digestible.

Hahaha aw!! You two make quite the pair. Here, have a direct quote: "I won't be talking about him behind his back, but if you want to approach his front I'm hardly going to take offense. Especially since I believe you're just his type."

/)//////////////////(\!!!!!!!! Oh, Mr. Graham...

[but now now, come on, back to business. Will's offering him a free buffet, he might as well see what's on offer at the table.]

Honestly I wasn't going to pick you. It's just a risk I was happy to take to test out my hunch. But if you're offering answers, I'll happily give you questions.

What's the deal? You and Barty. What's got his lips sealed so tight?

Our bond is a strong one. It runs deep.

[like a good hot dicking deep]

It's probably polite to say I'm honored you picked me, but I'm not honored. [Good thing, too, because last time people got honored around Will they were eaten and turned to paste and putty and hides and pillows and and and] You're saying your interest doesn't lie in me, but my connection to Barty. That's our business, Jim. You're not truly involved, are you? Butting into other people's business is rude. But if you're my type, as he called you, perhaps you deserve another chance. The this I can give you is information Barty won't. You don't get things for free. I give you a this, what's the that I get in return? You don't trick without treat, and you don't give a treat without a trick. Try again.

[oh, he's magnificent. isn't he magnificent? he gets hints and traces of every time he talks to him but really, but really. it's enough to have his lips tight against too many teeth, grinning despite himself. yes yes yes yes yes yes somebody not good not bad not afraid to play the game.

somebody who sees the big bad wolf and wants not to kill him for his furs, or just to be rid of him, nor to run away. somebody who has met with wolves before, somebody who knows how to stand and hold their eye and not worry too much one way or another whether or not he'll be eaten alive (he doesn't stink, doesn't stink a bit, not like fear stinks.)

this is rare. this is a rare phenomenon. he's something quite unique.]

If this is what you do to him I'm really not sure I need to waste the words.

[he's not right, not in all of it. right now, maybe, his interest is in what's got Barty's tongue tied, what could possibly be payment enough to keep a fiend's throat from vibrating and his mouth from making words (he's sold out others happily, readily - why not Will Graham?) but that's on Will. that's all on Will Graham.

truth told, he'd have asked Will's name either way.]

[When the hare screams, the fox comes a-runnin'. But not to help. Never to help.

Will knows wolves in the guise of sheep who have no interest in the well-being of sheep at all. Will knows a snake that's sent him, the mongoose, after plenty of others. Gave him others, drew snakes out of the grass for Will to get his fangs around and wrestle to the ground, take apart bit by bit, all while he let a certain other venom take over his brain and every thought. He saw his fear and made it worse, left him in the dark and made himself the only thing that could ever guide Will, no matter how bad it got.

There are monsters in the dark, but the worst of them function perfectly fine in the daytime. Terrible people are the kind that Will hunts and puts away. The kind he gets inside the minds of and feels everything they do. He's never met one quite like Lecter, can't think of anyone at all like him, and with his voice in his head and Will not so sick anymore? There's nothing to be afraid of. There's nothing to be scared of. Not now.

When Will Graham goes back home, he'll be accused of rather awful things. And when that happens, no matter what it takes, he'll bring Lecter down. The time for hunting wolves is over, forced into retirement as he is. The time for collecting their furs and fears is over. The time for holding his eye while the mind behind his own works furiously to make it so the world around him closes in, suffocates him, and he can no longer hide himself? That's what time it is.

There's no fear in him when it comes to wolves. Not now, and hopefully never again.]

Barty is a man who has nothing good waiting for him if we all end up going back. This is a second chance for plenty of people dragged here. With nothing to return to, what should one do when they have this and only this? What does a man who's sentenced to be sent away with absolutely nothing to look forward to do, and one who is so curious?

[Surely not start fires. Surely. Surely Will isn't including himself with those plenty of people. Surely Will isn't fishing for Jim to tell him more about being from Earth, just six feet under it. Or for him to go on about spiders and curiosity and hunger. Oh yes, that "curious" is there for a good reason. Jim should pick up on it, if he's not busy being...distracted.]

Barty fills a need for me. Something that I need as much as I need air or food or drink. I assume he finds me of interest and indulges me. It helps pass the time, be it because he needs something to entertain him or just wants it. I don't inquire about it. That's what I will say. He gives me something that only he can. Needs and wants that we can give each other. Give and take. This and that. Trick and treat.

[Treats. Him and his dogs. Scooby snacks.]

So. Jim. This payment that he won't give you and you've come to me about, tell me this: do you need it, or do you want it?

[Details without details. They have an agreement, but why, and what does it really relate to? What does Will need and how does Barty fulfill it? What does this somewhat awkward man who loves dogs need from someone like Barty, and what could possibly be needed as much as the basics to keep human life going?

Does Jim need details, does he wants details, which is it? To someone from his own home, they might have heard that as Will asking if they needed him or they wanted him. Jim might take it the same way, though he honestly can't know exactly what that means. Not to Will, who's spent so much time skirting the psychiatric circles and refusing to dish out his thing.

Barty is not a friend, because Will has no friends. Jim and Barty have something going on, obviously. If Will's going to publicly stick up for Barty, of course he'd attract the attention of those who find Barty interesting more than a problem. He doesn't need friends. He needs connections.

So why in the world would he not take the time and initiative to absorb Barty's connections (friends?) into his own circle of trust that involves trusting absolutely no one who's inside of it? He'd have to be a bit out of his mind not to attempt it, and he is a man with a head that's very, very interesting. It's a matter of playing his cards right, and with Lecter's voice whispering his thoughts...perhaps it'll be easier than it might have been on his own.]

Edited 2014-04-08 00:55 (UTC)

[A couple million. That's a minority when the world was, what? Seven billion now last check? Granted, doing a check of all of Earth must have been a heavy task and, really, impossible. There were so many areas that could not be covered, and how many people were living in them? Guesses could be made, but there was no real way to say exactly how many people populated the planet. By the time they managed to get an exact count, so many would have died and been born that it would be off. He hadn't heard that little tidbit from what he could recall, but it doesn't give him physical pause.

He digests it inwardly if it needs to be addressed later.]

That's not a lot in the grand scheme of things. [He's sure Neville knew that already, but he feels it appropriate to make it known he did hear it. Conversation is give and take, inclusion instead of exclusion. No one wants to use their voice only to feel it being totally ignored. What he drizzles on the fish serves to make a little less healthy than it would be on its own, calorie wise. It's nothing like it would be if it was fried, and it also has the bonus of containing absolutely no human products.

His form of a garnish is just a bit of kale shoved between hot fish and the plate, but it's better than nothing. A gourmet chef like Lecter might look at it and tell him it was better to just leave it off entirely, but Lecter wasn't here and if a gourmet chef happened to wander into the kitchen just in time to judge him, he'd missed his chance. It's just fish, but it's large enough to serve its purpose, and if Neville were to ask for something else, he'd do his best.]

We have weapons, but nothing quite like magic. [Fact, nothing more, said as he comes around with both plates in hand, carrying them but not really with any expertise in the matter. He's not the sort of guy one would see at a restaurant and think he had plenty of waiting experience, especially not how he's just holding fork and knife in one hand because he has nowhere else to put them, but it gets the job done. Neville's get slid over first before he sits down across from him, doing his best to smile and, this time, succeeding far better than he had before.] Guns are probably the ones you'd know. We used to use bow and arrow, cannons, ancient men used pointed sticks in the face of no real technology. Battleships were useful. Grenades and bombs and all sorts of things, but guns are the ones people seem to know the most. [Neville's the guest. The guest starts first. Will may not be a practiced host, but he knows that much.

...but if he doesn't start soon, Will's not going to stand on ceremony and just dig in himself.] If you're trained right, though, the best weapon you could ever have is your own body.

[Will's body may not seem impressive, and no, he hardly has large muscles that would intimidate. His mind, though. Ah, that mind of his just happens to contain countless brutal murders, the tactics of the killers, the methods used to end human lives and fight their way out of situations that would seem impossible to defeat.

He doesn't need rippling muscles for his body to be a weapon. He also doesn't need to tell that to anyone, much less ever get in a place where he has to get physical and goes from dumpy dog man to someone who has a bit more than a few self-defense classes under his belt.]

[Dubious. Will could handle being thought of as dubious. Law enforcement is a field that attracts some rather unwanted individuals, there is no doubt about it. Law enforcement, journalism, certain parts of the medical field...]

Feel better?

[Where else is there to go from there, really?]

[Not really, no. Alice won't burden him with that and she's already worried that she's done so. She gives a hollow reassurance that she will be.]

I do, thank you.

[It makes her even more worried for him rather than her own well-being.]

Next time, you can share if you like. Even if it's something silly about your dogs. Or just happy things.

[ oh, Will.

so here it comes, all of it spilling out like great big flashing signs set up to point out that one tiny detail that he doesn't n e e d of course he doesn't need it but which doesn't make it any less tantalising when framed with the secrets that aren't quite enough. oh, but Will's just as tempted, isn't he? and so very good with words. leaks laid out here and there have caught his notice and here they are, laid out, subtly obvious (depends on who you ask). maybe it won't be worth Will's secrets but - but then again, how would he know?

how do you rate your secrets against another's when those secrets are stored in blacked out casing? more to the point, why should Jim bother hiding his when he's absolutely nothing left to lose.

he thinks for a moment, two, three. can't find a single thing he'd rather not say, a single real reason not to say it. but this isn't much of a business transaction, he's got no snare to put Will in and there's no guarantee he'll have any use for him if the man ever does put neck in a noose and hand Jim the rope. so it's a game, then. a purely personal game.

the question is, to play or not to? ]

Pardon me, Will, but you're hardly necessary. [ it's not a dismissal: you are recreation. it's all recreation for a dead man walking. ] But I'll give you three questions if you want them. In exchange for a peek at what's necessary.

[ ... hey, would you look at that! seems like he feels like playing afterall. ]

[Will's secrets aren't stored in blacked out casing. Rather, they were taken from him and tossed into something like it when his world was already stepped in blackness, and there is nothing he won't do to get them back. Perhaps he'll get a few memories of driving from Virgina to Maryland, but when he does stumble over something important, it'll be worth it.

The "normal" things in Will's head might prove boring. Barty might grow a little uninterested if everything starts seeming normal with him. If that happens, all he'll have to do is think back to a particular crime scene and everything will be fascinating again, even if Barty ends up assuming that Will made totem poles of bodies on beaches, made a garden of people covered in mushrooms, killed families and their children during the holidays...

Will gets his memories and risks being thought of as one of the most deranged men out there if he can't verbalize properly what it is that's been seen. If they come spilling out, perhaps it'll be thought that this awkward dog-loving fellow from the South is dangerous not only because of what he can do but because of how normal he seems. If things slip, if Barty opens his mouth and tells the world, Will can't rightly argue otherwise.

Cannibalistic serial killer? Allegedly. He hasn't been convicted. How reassuring.

He has nothing to lose here in Asgard but his own mild reputation. And that? Means jackshit in the grand scheme of things.]

Some would consider entertainment a necessity. People can go a little stir-crazy if they're left with nothing to occupy their minds or just lose them completely. Why Incy Wincy when everyone who's heard the rhyme might automatically associate it with being the spider that always fails? Is Incy Wincy poisonous? He's not a victim of eight-legged love's end, cannibalized by his choice in female spiders to copulate with, is he?

[Three questions, over and done with. No point in putting them out one a time. Everyone who goes to a sports event has to wait through the national anthem and ceremonial proceedings before they get to watch big burly men tackling each other or balls being hit by bats or cars constantly making the same turn. Will has no time for that. It's either bunt or going all out, aiming for a home run but being content with getting at least a few bases for his teammates.

Recreation is something Will's used to being. This time, however, he gets to know it for what it is and never once get to the point where he trusts Jim enough to think otherwise.]

[Layers and layers of lies hidden beneath the sad glint in a child's eyes.

Too bad he can't see her eyes.]

I'm glad, and I'll keep that in mind. Hope everything looks up for you, Alice.

[There are so few happy things in his life, and she basically mentioned the big one: dogs. He has no reason to call on a child (or anyone) unless he absolutely needs them, same as no one will have a reason to call upon a cannibalistic serial killer once he returns home unless it's out of need.

What a world.]

[Only because there are things that she sees that remind her a little too much of herself. Or even the darker aspects of Wonderland.

Still proceeding with caution.]

Thank you, Mr. Graham, I hope the same for you as well.

[In the meantime, Alice will... just let him be for now, out of fear of bothering him enough as it is.]

This is true. But in a city where Satan quite literally walks the streets, entertainment's not hard to come by. I can do without you. I'd rather not.

[ oh, this is Jim's type of game. metaphor over metaphor and no interest in playing coy: we're straight in, tight up at the deep end and we wouldn't have it any other way. ]

Why not Incy Wincy? Only a few made it past the anonymity and if any of those feel like tumbling into the trap of false security through association it really only works in my favour.

Of course! Not that he needs to be.

Oh heavens no. She might have tried, god bless, but he did one better and ate himself ahead of time. Not that the coupling wasn't wonderful to start but it turns out he was out of her league.

[ three questions, three answers. easy. there's no trouble in sharing them, no difficulty in the words. he has no secrets of his own worth keeping anymore: what use are his secrets to him here? so the sale is quick and to the point and Jim doesn't ask for his return payment, waits instead for what's offered.

what's the point in limiting his field if Will might see fit to offer him more? ]

Edited (no i'm so bad at html) 2014-04-16 10:07 (UTC)

Spider spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins and spins [If Jim looks back on it, Will did, in fact, use just as many and spins on Jim as he used on Will in their first meeting.] but I do not. I use teeth to bite and I jump and spring. [Someone's gone reading up on a certain mongoose.] I'm not poisonous, if we're doing animal symbolism. I have the distinct honor to be immune to snake venom. I catch snakes, they don't catch me. When they don't slither out from under the house, I go in by myself and drag them out. Throw them in a cage if they don't have a suicide wish. I've been stabbed, watched a young boy being encouraged to shoot me, nearly strangled with wires from stringed instruments, discovered someone who had no idea she had killed her good friend under my bed, and finally shot, but I've never been beaten by a snake before. Never been killed. Or hurt so badly I'd be put out of work.

[No offense meant with that suicide wish mention.]

Until just before I came here. It was made apparent that while I'd been catching snakes regularly, I'd managed to miss the one who had been coming into the house with me, camouflaged so well no one could have realized he was a snake in the first place. I don't know how it happened. Barty's helping me piece it together.

[If Jim knows what Barty has, if he knows about his telepathy—he can fill it in. Sort of. It doesn't explain how they met or came to the agreement they did, but Will is getting more specific.

Mongoose put away by snake finds methods to get back what he needs with another snake. What a life.]

Edited 2014-04-16 19:39 (UTC)

[it's read, all, with a smile. the intrigue of Will Graham is certainly not without its foundations. another detective ...

but what sits sharper, suddenly, what hums like curious vibration just behind his eyes is the question of the snake who did so well as to hide itself in plain sight. Will has been very clear with his presentation of his own success (and as he's stated, he does not spin— some creatures have no need for webbing lies) and to hear him so defeated, so blind to that defeat and so desperate to see, desperate enough to stalk into the path of Barty Crouch Jr and dance with him...

well. it does wonders for his snake's reputation. but it's also clear that said snake isn't here or he's certain he'd know about it, so there are questions, so many questions, questions enough to fill the room and have him c h o k e, but—]

You must be paying a steep price. His aid and his silence... You trust him?

[but Jim's got priorities, and he's got time.

of course not is the answer but they're neither of them talking in straight lines anymore; Jim's curious whether Will is certain of Barty's silence or is simply relying on it. either way the man's clearly holding his tongue, has clearly found something worth keeping that pays Will's way, but does Will trust in the value of whatever unknown payment it is he's giving or is he just so craving the slithertracks that he's willing to take the risk?

and because Jim didn't miss a thing (that cheeky little deathwish), because you've been so good and he'd like ever so to issue a reward:]

It was inevitable, really. Potent enough poison's bound to affect the host.

[is Incy Wincy poisonous? of course! not that he needs to be. not that it does him any favours.]

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