[OPEN] you see, i am the wolf, and this dirty little piggy lives inside of me

[infomodder]

WHO: Will Graham + YOU!
WHERE: All over
WHEN: Month of May (he will not be around the 15th-19th)
WHAT: Making friends. Losing friends. Getting experience with his shadow stag power. Aggressively playing pool. Fishing. Stuff and things, Coral.
WARNINGS: Standard Hannibal warnings apply (cannibalism and murder and sadness and season 2 spoilers). If anything else crops up, I will edit to add.
NOTE: Everything's been written up in prose, but if you'd prefer to do action, just reply with it and I'll match! And if you'd like a specific starter, shoot me a PM or something and I'll write it up in comments.




I. AROUND NONAH: Are we out of the woods? Are we in the clear yet?

He'd have gone to De Chima, had he not been there so recently for work, had he been sure he could keep himself from stopping by the old house. Worse, going into the old house, seeing if Mike Parker was there, perhaps checking in on his religiously conflicted roommate. Going to Virginia for leisure time is bound to end poorly, bound to have him finally giving up and checking in on this universe's version of Wolf Trap. Better to avoid all that inevitable mess by going somewhere else entirely.

So he opts for Nonah, and after going through the city itself, finds a nice patch of woods that doesn't seem too used. Seems more like the place where joggers go for morning and evening routines than anything popular, where parents might bring their children or couples might take to for a quiet, slow stroll. Once the noises fade to nothing but nature, he loses his shadow to its new, stag self, to get a better feel of how it works. They'll walk side-by-side as much as the stag decides to explore, bolting for a particularly playful squirrel, scraping his antlers on a nearby tree for reasons Will doesn't want to think about. Same with any rolling in mud. Probably just enjoying his freedom to be a strange, shadow stag; that's the story Will chooses to take on and believe as true. Every now and then, it might smack as more dog than deer, stumpy tail wagging, but Will doesn't pay that any mind, either. The thing's never far out of his sight—until something (or someone) truly interesting and not yet in Will's line of sight comes around, of course. Leave it to Will to not find this of too much concern and continue to take his time, walking fashion disaster that he is. Don't worry! That shadowy creature means no harm, and the guy following after who doesn't cast a shadow at all despite whatever sunlight is around has covered himself in a truly terrible plaid shirt and jeans that are two or three wears from being worn out. No threats here.

II. HEROPA: have you been herring a lot about the hook line and tinker?

Will doesn't work at the bait shop anymore, not technically. He is, however, still the owner, and that means he has to be involved. He's a little more involved than some of his employees might actually like, but at least whenever there's a minor issue plaguing the place, he can generally take care of it. If he can't, he knows who can. So every now and then, for anyone stopping by (or just looking in), they'll find a still plaid-clad Will Graham sporting a ridiculous hat that's clearly been worn by him for a while, however off and on. It fits his head, and the fishing hook stuck on the brim of it has been there so long it's created a dent. But Will isn't behind the counter or going through the shelves to fix them. Nah, he's the guy in the corner on a stepladder fixing some busted part of the ceiling or wall, or fiddling with wiring. He rather looks like the repairman.

If someone stops by to see him, specifically, here he is. If someone stops by with a question that the staff either can't answer or doesn't feel equipped to answer as well as Will can, he'll be pointed out as well. Yes, go ask the guy making an effort to center the WRIGGLE ROOM sign after it last fell about fishing seasons. That guy who's cleaning the front windows in the wake of the Flare and dragons alike will know far better than the person behind the counter why the hell the lures are different colors. Go pester him, he has the answers, he's the owner.

III. HEROPA 2 NAUTICAL BOOGALOO: We ain’t only fishin’

Will owes plenty of people fishing trips. Want to go fishing? Who the hell wouldn't? His preference is for standing around all day in waders, but if someone would rather go out, he'll get a boat. How accommodating.

IV. HEROPA 3 RETURN TO THE HOMELAND: Flowers and trees depress and frankly bore me

There is a house with a yard that's well kept but not much to speak of just yet. The dogwood tree in the center of it is in need of some nourishment and time without the world being in ruins to get back to its former glory, and the scattered beds of flowers weren't in any particular order. Until today, that is. Will's out with his sleeves rolled right over his elbows, bearded dog providing help by doing the best thing he can in this situation: lazing underneath some shade and taking a nap. He's got all the tools he needs, pots with plants waiting to be transferred over, dirty hands bare instead of covered with gloves. He's not dealing with anything too thorny or prickly, so there's really no need for that, is there?

Except for the fact that the soil he's using contains manure, and says so right on the bags waiting to be tossed out with the rest of the trash. Whatever, it's all as organic as organic gets, he'll just wash them more thoroughly than usual and everything will be fine.

V. MAURTIA FALLS LIBRARY: Take a look, it's in a book!

He isn't even certain if he can check out anything, considering where he lives and all, but he's been through the Heropa library more times than he can count. It's good to expand one's horizons, isn't it? Maurtia Falls could have something on their shelves Heropa doesn't, so while he's there and following the rule of minding his own damn business, he stops by just to see. Curiosity isn't always a bad thing, after all. Will pointedly avoids any sections that have to do with crime, true or fictional. Fiction is supposed to give him an escape, and hopefully nonfiction will teach him about something that isn't his usual. Why even bother looking at books that won't do either? It's always much better to bump into someone who has a stack of books that relate to dogs, fish, the history of railroads, and what appears to be the first in a series about magical cats that can travel through space and have kept their secret from humans for all of eternity, isn't it? Because that's what Will's going for. Magical alien cats.

VI. BARS, BARS EVERYWHERE: He drinks a whiskey drink, he drinks a vodka drink

Will keeps a rotation of bars in his head, places with a little more shade than usual. No loud and booming music, no crowd of youths looking to get their groove on. Will's more comfortable in the quiet sorts where the jukebox plays "oldies" and no one has any complaints about it. These are the nights were he slaps his watch over that tattoo to keep himself as much of a nobody as, well, everybody else in the dim, sometimes smoky lighting. His pool game isn't anything to write home about, but he's steadily getting better, with the goal to one day wipe the floor with Hank Schrader. And because some of these bars are the places that don't ask questions, or have family members of the owners (or their friends) coming through just a year or so shy of the legal drinking age, Will keeps his job and this aspect of his life completely separate unless there is a real need for someone to step in. He's not a complete hog at the pool tables, though, and some affable competition is bound to only help improve his game. Loser buys the drinks—what a great deal.

Comments

[acclimatized]

"Okay, good. You never really know with this place." John huffs a humourless laugh, but the tenseness in his shoulders eases a little bit. He watched plenty of those American crime shows when the element had been forcibly removed from his life. No point in visiting Scotland Yard when the man they regularly consulted was supposedly buried six-feet under in Brompton Cemetery. He needed to get his fix somehow. Still, it was amazing how many major characters stood behind that mirror to eavesdrop.

"Sooo... I spoke to Mary after work the other day. She told me what she had been getting up to lately. Her extracurricular activities." He slides his elbows onto the desk and links his hands together. His tone is casual, almost conversational despite the subject matter, but his gaze is sharp and attentive. Someone is benefiting from his refusal to elaborate on what he means by her 'activities' but good luck figuring it out super detective.

"I'd like to hear your side of the story. Please."

[infomodder]

Any comments Will had in mind about this place vanish off his tongue like they were never there as soon as John makes the reason for his visit very clear. He might not be speaking in the most explicit terms, but it's obvious Will knows what he means exactly. Realization gives way to confusion, almost horror—asking for Will's side of the story isn't something he's used to going over well at all. From the gobsmacked look on his face (for Will, at least), John might easily assume Will's not familiar with being given the chance to actually share his side of the story. It's as if John asked him something he's so unfamiliar with that Will Graham honestly has no idea of what to make of it, how to handle it, can't believe what he's just heard. Perhaps he imagined it?

If only.

"There isn't much of one." John must be familiar with patients on pain medications or just waking up from anesthesia, those precious moments where they can say anything and even though it might be garbled or jump several tangents, there's truth coursing through them as much as there are drugs coursing through their veins. Will's the same way, mentally dazed for no physical reason but offering up that sort of honesty while staring at John like he's a god or the vision of a dead, beloved family member. "She walked by the shop...as Freddie, found out later Freddie wasn't. Here. Mary invited me over a few weeks after. Revealed what she could do with her gifts from the Porter. She said you and Sherlock were the only other ones who knew...and that's how it had to stay."

So many words! So much honesty. It's almost enough to parch a man's throat.

"And I told her that back at that fair, the one with the...shooting range, you remember? She somehow got a memory of mine and I got one of hers, I just." He looks down at the table between them, hands in his lap idly fidgeting. "Hadn't found a good time to tell her, so I...told her then."

Interrogation room was a good idea, because even though Will's being honest and not attempting to cover anything up right now, he still appears to feel like absolute crap about everything coming out of his mouth. He's not sure what Mary has shared, and he didn't have the time to call and make sure their stories line up. What if she held something back for a purpose and he just crashed into her design like a wrecking ball? What if Will's side ruins something between John and Mary? What if Will's story flies in the face of whatever Mary said and John thinks he's a brazen liar?

Well. He was honest, Goddamnit. He can say that much.

[acclimatized]

John is well-acquainted with the disorientation associated with anaesthesia. People mistakenly think it works as a truth serum and the amount of time he's rolled his eyes at the television shows that incorporate it into their storyline. It drives him completely mad. The patient's defences are dulled and they come out with all sorts of rubbish. Is this real life? Have I always had five fingers? Honesty is just a side-effect and John has disregarded most of what he has heard when a patient comes around after surgery. It's why he didn't think of it much when Sherlock woke up and uttered his wife's name. He was unable to put the two pieces together back then. His best friend had been shot and left for dead; he was emotionally compromised and focused on his recovery.

As he listens to Will, he doesn't have any reason to think this man will try and deceive him. He doesn't trust him exactly. Trust a precious commodity that John rarely shares with anyone but the two people he loves most in this world. Ironically, these people have abused it. Sherlock faked his death and let them hurtle through the various stages for grief for two years and his wife was responsible for putting his best friend into hospital, amongst other things. He might begin to trust him after their conversation but, for now, he remains attentive and he masks his feelings with a blank expression.

"Is that it?" John doesn't want to know what memory he experienced at the shooting range. Her past is her problem. He has to focus on their future and determine whether their secret is safe with Will Graham. Clearing his throat, he nudges the glass of water an officer brought him earlier.

"Here. You sound like you need it."

[infomodder]

John's question has him blinking, seems to snap him out of that daze. Is that it? He spilled honesty and he gets Is that it?

Will can't decide if it's a smack in the face (he was honest!) or a relief (he got to be honest for once, holy shit) or both. Smacked in the face with something soft and warm instead of hard and bloody, that's relief enough. Will hadn't realized his tension until the sound of glass on the table echoed far louder than it actually could be and it took actual effort to move his hand out for it, every muscle in his arm ridiculously taut.

John gets a half smile and a jerky nod before following doctor's orders, taking just enough to wet his whistle despite feeling like he should be drinking five full glasses just to keep himself from having to talk.

"That's basically it, yes." He frowns as he sets the glass back on the table, legs spreading slightly as he seeks a more comfortable position. "Congratulations on getting married, by the way. I'd've been there if I could've."

Maybe it was best he wasn't, though. No one's going to be at his and April's. Easier that way.

[acclimatized]

Sorry Will. John appreciates your honesty, but he needs to be absolutely certain before he can cast judgement on your testimony. The people involved in his life have a habit of lying to him regularly. Any doubt about Will being an active player instead of a victim in his wife's game is erased with his confirmation and he nods slowly, lips pursed together in silent contemplation. No one is truly immune to a doctor's withering stare and John decides to leave it at that.

"Thanks." He says tersely, his gaze dropping to stares at his hands. He stares at the gold band on his ring finger and heaves a weary sigh. "Look. I want to apologize for what she did. Mary. She... well, isn't always honest. But I'm also just as guilty as she is. I haven't always known what she used to be, but I've known while I've been here and I didn't say anything. So... yeah. I'm sorry."

[infomodder]

Why can't it be both? Will's perspective on what makes a victim is arguably different from others—still alive? Might just be a survivor! Victims tended to be so dead, in one way or another. He'd much prefer to be a survivor. As long as he lived, though, he knew he wouldn't be able to forget the name of Hannibal Lecter. His voice, his face, all was cataloged away in a very special, very personal part of him. No matter how many years passed, no matter how many miles were between them, no matter which one of them was behind bars...he'd remember. But he was still alive, so perhaps he'd be considered victim, survivor, and active player. The most ungodly of trifectas. Mary had done a bit of damage, no doubt about it, but she had yet to put Will in a position where he truly felt victimized. That might have been part of her skills with being a liar and a bluebird; Will continued to feel confident and comfortable in her presence to the point he would have no issue seeking it out.

He stares at the glass and then at John, clearly not having expected this turn. An apology. John Watson was apologizing. To him. Will Graham. The patient with perpetual foot-in-mouth syndrome who couldn't have always been the easiest to have around. The guy who came over to his place and ate his food, supped at his table, spoke frequently with his lying wife. He was getting an apology for...

Ah.

"It's all right." An eyebrow quirks and some life is injected back into him, no longer that tense, uncertain man from before. Will might not be good at or accustomed to apologies, giving or receiving, or he might just not think this really merits one, if the way he shifts is anything to go by. "This place makes it easy for us not to be honest. Without anyone else here from the same world, we've just got to take each other at our word and hope it doesn't turn out too badly. I don't hold her any ill will for what she did, and I certainly don't hold any for you, either."

He's trying to say that John isn't guilty, but he can't say that. Will Graham cannot, in good faith, invalidate someone's feelings in matters such as these. He simply cannot, so instead he does what he can to add a nice, downy padding. A hammock, one that provides the support needed but is still completely malleable as another tosses, rolls, turns. And not unlike a hammock, he's capable of an overthrow if need be, of turning so much the person he's attempting to support in that moment falls out on grass or sand or dirt or a lake filled with flesh-eating fish and realizes they can actually read a book inside.

Except, with John and Mary, Will has no intentions to twist too far, so far that neither of them can find him reliable or trustworthy. They're in his head too much for that. John with his constant patience and generosity, his willingness despite any aggravation. Mary with her talons, blood-soaked and insistent and so good in the kitchen.

Makes for a very fair balance.