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infomodder) wrote2016-11-10 08:05 pm
infomodder) wrote2016-11-10 08:05 pm
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IC Contact [Asgard]
Catch all IC contact post for Will Graham at
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asgardeventide[ Text | Voice | Video | Action ]
[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.]
get out jaime
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?
rood will stark rood
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. ]
you've no idea how rood he can be
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.]
you've got the manners of a future sandwich sir
[ 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.
kept inside a heart-shaped box in the freezer for a week
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.
cold, hanni, cold
[ 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.
no subject
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.
no subject
[ 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.
no subject
—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.]
i wrote this in prose and i'm too lazy to switch it sorry
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.
i am 110% okay with this breaking development
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?
smells like roast muggle
"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."
wizard nirvana needs to make that a top 50 hit
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.
kurt crowbane
“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.”
and dave crowl on the drums
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.
Re: and dave crowl on the drums
Albus moves to leave, tipping his head one last time to the larger dog.
no subject
Hopefully, Abigail doesn't press too much. Hopefully, Abigail's father never comes up in her conversations, because Will would rather not deal with that. Deal with the fact of the matter that she's going to have to put up with people who won't take kindly to it and that she's telling their secrets like she didn't with Lecter. Isn't that a selfish thought?
The offer seems to bother him as much as the mere mention of him being interesting, jaw clenching. It could very easily be taken as a man who enjoys his own cooking getting the idea that his toes are being stepped on. In reality...well, it's not something he ever plans on coming out, either. His eyes don't leave Albus, not needing to in order to figure out he's giving a moment's notice to the other dog in the room. It's not until a little tongue wets his palm that he realizes he's supposed to say something in return, because that's just good manners. That's polite. Even though certain people aren't around, he hasn't forgotten what exactly becomes of the rude.
It just doesn't always stop him.
"I'll pass on the recipe." He'll pass on anything that Albus thinks he needs for as long as he can. He might even pass on a glass of water, just to show that he doesn't need anything he can get himself. He's a grown man, no one needs to help him figure out how to make scrambled eggs. Granted, that's not what sharing recipes is about, but he has to put up those walls. "You too. Have a good one."
A good one way, way, way far away from Will Graham.
no subject
Albus doubts that he'll like the possibilities, no more than Graham plainly (dis)likes him. But they've already spoken of means and ends, and his ends are already well-decided -- Graham is sharp, he is a almost annoyingly perspicacious, and he has been set upon the proper path to make that of use. It's the measure of the man that blooms interesting now, and the means of handling him.
"For the best," He grants. "Until then, Mr. Graham."