IC Contact [Asgard]

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Catch all IC contact post for Will Graham at 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.]

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i'm here because i'm your friend

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[Aurors get assigned to what they're best at sounds familiar to his own career, same with most everything else, although the life-expectancy issue with law enforcement has always been greatly exaggerated. Or so he thought. Then again, Will wasn't just a regular agent (or an agent at all) and Hannibal Lecter was not just a regular person. Had he not come in, Will might have just lived to a ripe old age teaching about murder before retiring to a boatyard with a pack of stray dogs.

The questions make him give out a laugh, barely anything more than flared nostrils and air rushing out of them. Good thing he wasn't facing Neville just yet, instead turning to get something to drink (water with fish, that wasn't a funny combination at all) for the both of them.]

I'm what you'd call a Muggle, yes. [You because Will has had some experience with wizards in Asgard. A little bit of their terminology has wormed its way into his addled brain. Muggle. Some sort of defenseless woodland creature, that's what it sounded like to him.] I've been here over two months, last I checked. It was very strange at first. I had to spend some time alone in the room here just checking everything out to make sure I hadn't lost my mind and been put somewhere for it.

[It's not a potshot at Neville's issues, what he knows of them, but he's not letting on that he's speaking from personal experience. That's what awaits him back home, but the way he hesitates before he comes around to slide that glass of water in front of the kid clearly says something. Maybe he feels he messed up. Maybe he's said too much.

It was all public. He can't really be blamed, can he?]

Then I realized my imagination is not good enough to make up all the different people here, gods, magic, everything. Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. [He shrugs, carefully looking for any reaction that comes from his possible flub up, drinking out of his own glass as he looks back to the stove.] Once I accepted that, it was smooth sailing.

[Maybe the kid will latch onto the whole "how do you know about Muggles, really?" thing, might prod and ask how well he knew Snape in the first place, who he talked to, and that? He'd be fine with it. Maybe he'd get a little somber at the mention of being driven mad, which he'd feel not at all great about causing.

Or maybe he'd just rip his thumbnail off in record timing; he hadn't been around him enough to know how he'd really behave.]

bless

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[Really, the only reaction Neville gives is that his eyes drop down to the table instead of watching Will anymore. The thing about his parents is that he told nobody, not even his friends, not even after they'd walked in on him in St. Mungo's. As soon as he was away from his gran and her constant reminders that he wasn't as good as them, that the memory of who they used to be was owed more than what he turned out as, he'd clammed up completely, never let anyone know what sort of thing bothered him. Except that one time he tried to punch Draco's lights out for mocking people like them, shut up for life with irreversible spell damage to the brain - but that was accidental and intensely embarrassing to think about after.

So he's quite used to pretending it doesn't affect him, casual mentions like that. He's not even certain Will knows: it'll take a little while longer in Asgard for Neville to really wrap his mind around the idea that such heated conversations are infinitely re-watchable, even by people not involved at the time.

Instead he offers Will an awkward, slightly wobbly, stretched-thin smile, eyes never really getting higher than his collar but making no comment on it one way or the other.]

I don't suppose there's much that's impossible here, is there? But that makes sense. [He reaches for his own glass of water and looks down into it.] You've talked to some of us before, haven't you? Other witches and wizards, I mean. [There hadn't been that note of mild bewilderment behind the word Muggle when he'd repeated it, like Neville had gotten used to hearing from people here.]

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[Ah. Lack of eye contact, Will knows that rather well. Granted, he blames it on looking too much, seeing what doesn't really matter, but he doubts that's the case with Neville. He doesn't seem the type to know what sort of diseases can be shown in just the eyes. He just seems a little...bothered.

And trying not to show it.

Will makes no attempt to keep his eyebrows from lifting, face a little incredulous at the question. It's a little silly, he thinks, but he can't truly be blamed, can he? He'd just gone through a traumatic experience, was shoved in a new world that had others from his own here, others he did not have good experiences with, and was surrounded by Muggles. Will probably did similar things (questions that might have seemed stupid) when confronted with the knowledge of werewolves, of vampires, of everything else that he thought fiction. Gruesome murders? Bodies mutilated in terrifying, unheard of ways? Why not.

Wizards? What the hell?]

I have. Well, a few of them. [There's a shrug before he turns back to the stove. This little meal is a first, a chance for Neville to feel he's made a better impression. He's not going to take that from him, and he's sure not going to make him anything less than the best he can.] Let me see. Sirius Black. He likes dogs. I found one and...just didn't have the space. He was my first thought. They seem to get on just fine. [And he'd said something to Will that really, really, really gave him food for thought.] Professor Snape, obviously. Albus Dumbledore. Those are the ones I've talked to the most.

[This is A Lie. This is a big fat lie. He's talked to Albus quite a bit. He's talked to Barty Crouch Junior far more than he should have. He's seen his head, and he's seen Will's. Letting that be known to the kid who, apparently—

—he'd heard screaming. How many people had Barty tortured? Was the screaming he'd heard Neville's—

No, no, he couldn't tell him. Wouldn't until he absolutely had to.]

I've picked up a little terminology by this point. It's all very strange to me. I think Muggle makes us sound like some sort of...defenseless woodland creature.

[Is he a little bothered by the idea that, maybe in his own world, no matter how prepared he'd be, a gun, whatever, there could be people who would be able to take him down without doing much?

Maybe a little.]

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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?

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[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.]

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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?

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[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.]