["What's the worst that can happen?" is a question that's probably not the best idea to be asked in a place that houses two men who are no strangers to hallucinations and Victor Frankenstein himself. Any time they might be able to pinpoint the worst, it's bound to pale in comparison to whatever the Hel else Asgard throws their way later on. Will's fortunate in the way that he's already had issues with memory loss, though that hardly sounds fortunate at all. At least he's 110% certain now that no matter what problems he has with memory, he hasn't gone around, torn people's bodies apart, and then eaten some of them because he just couldn't handle the heat of his job.
When he first felt his memory being tugged and twisted, he'd taken it upon himself to write down the names of people he had some sort of connection to, and he'd looked at that piece of paper before he'd come to investigate the noise.
dr. whale (v. f.) baldr flight housemate sting recreation storybrooke
The bare bones of what he knew of his housemate (though recreation stood for several different things he didn't think Whale would appreciate someone coming across later), but in his efforts to protect with initials, he'd looked at it and been more confused than helped from time to time. Fortunately, glancing it at this time had those initials translating into what they really meant (this was real life, this was really happening), and it didn't take him long to shuffle those dogs into his own room so he could handle whatever it was Victor Frankenstein thought a kitchen was for.
The kitchen's loud but not as hot as it should be, he thinks, when he sees a dead rabbit on the table. What other reason is there for a dead rabbit to be in a kitchen unless it's about to be cooked? The stove should be on, there should be utensils out so the rabbit can be skinned and cleaned properly, but there's not. Will stands in the doorway for a moment, putting it all together as best he can (is Frankenstein making Bunnicula, can Will get away with that joke?) and trying to decide what to do with it, how to go about it, wondering if he'll recognize only one name right now.]
Did you get that yourself, Doctor, or did one of the dogs bring it home?
[Doctor seems the safest bet at the moment. So does leaning against the door as opposed to coming in—he's not scared by any means. He doesn't want to come barging in and risk making him more confused than he must already be. And, of course, in ten mintues' time, making them both confused as hell because if Will loses grasp on what V. F. means...
He doesn't care that there is a dead rabbit (how could he! a rabbit! cute bunny! adorable creature!) on the table. He cares that the kitchen and everything in this house manages to stay as intact as it possibly can.]
is it wabbit hunting season already
When he first felt his memory being tugged and twisted, he'd taken it upon himself to write down the names of people he had some sort of connection to, and he'd looked at that piece of paper before he'd come to investigate the noise.
dr. whale (v. f.) baldr flight housemate sting recreation storybrooke
The bare bones of what he knew of his housemate (though recreation stood for several different things he didn't think Whale would appreciate someone coming across later), but in his efforts to protect with initials, he'd looked at it and been more confused than helped from time to time. Fortunately, glancing it at this time had those initials translating into what they really meant (this was real life, this was really happening), and it didn't take him long to shuffle those dogs into his own room so he could handle whatever it was Victor Frankenstein thought a kitchen was for.
The kitchen's loud but not as hot as it should be, he thinks, when he sees a dead rabbit on the table. What other reason is there for a dead rabbit to be in a kitchen unless it's about to be cooked? The stove should be on, there should be utensils out so the rabbit can be skinned and cleaned properly, but there's not. Will stands in the doorway for a moment, putting it all together as best he can (is Frankenstein making Bunnicula, can Will get away with that joke?) and trying to decide what to do with it, how to go about it, wondering if he'll recognize only one name right now.]
Did you get that yourself, Doctor, or did one of the dogs bring it home?
[Doctor seems the safest bet at the moment. So does leaning against the door as opposed to coming in—he's not scared by any means. He doesn't want to come barging in and risk making him more confused than he must already be. And, of course, in ten mintues' time, making them both confused as hell because if Will loses grasp on what V. F. means...
He doesn't care that there is a dead rabbit (how could he! a rabbit! cute bunny! adorable creature!) on the table. He cares that the kitchen and everything in this house manages to stay as intact as it possibly can.]