I never forget to duck

[sofentheblow]

WHO: KARLA SOFEN and WILL GRAHAM
WHERE: RESIDENCE 008
WHEN: backdated to june 5
WHAT: completely innocuous roommate bonding
WARNINGS: standard hannibal cast possible horror. karla is also no peach.




[ "This isn't fishing," someone with a little less of the awareness Karla prides herself upon might say. "It's venting.."

Karla Sofen is, presently, standing outside Will Graham's room, holding the sort of glass that looks like it's designed to hold a massive party drink -- something cloyingly sweet, with a tropical-unfunny-sexual-innuendo-double-punch name. Hers is half-full of fresh squeezed orange juice.

(She assumes it's fresh. It was in the fridge. She doesn't do things like squeeze oranges into juice herself.)

Anyway, she clear on what's happening, and it's definitely fishing. Hopefully only the metaphorical front, but definitely fishing.

The other thing, too.

She knocks. ]

Comments

[infomodder]

[A few things can be heard right after the knock sounds. A collar clings, heavy paws hit the floor excitedly, a muffled roo sounds right behind the door, and then Will following along behind the dog to try and get him behaving long enough to open it. Gunther, no, boy, Gunther, puppies, Gunther, bed—is what it sounds like, the last one given as his hand grips the doorknob. The dog trots off in the opposite direction, his body flops onto the floor like its been dropped (heartbroken, of course, to not get to greet whoever it is properly), and it's a few seconds after that the door's opened and Will's there.

His own day's been something of a roller coaster, but it's difficult to tell when he doesn't give much away in the first place. He's still in jeans that are larger than they need to be, flannel shirt pushed up to his elbows, the usual. He attempts a smile when he sees who it is...then he spots the particular kind of glass in her hand. Orange juice. That kind of glass. Either they were out of all the others (could they really be?), she was going for a certain look, she was used to having a certain look, or she was in a certain mood.]

Know I don't look like much, Doctor Sofen— [He backs up, leaving the door open, giving her all the permission she needs to come through it, that dog watching her even though Will's get closer to him, and doing so backwards. It's to make a point, because when he stops slides a little tot the left, it's obvious what he's talking about on the shelf behind him.] —but I've always got a very nice bottle of whiskey I'm open to sharing.

[It's only nice because he didn't buy it himself. It's only nice because he did someone a favor (on a boat, naturally), and he got a little something on the side. Why wouldn't he be willing to share? Obviously wiling, because there's two small tumblers sitting next to it when he picks it up, eyebrows raised.]

Yes, no?

[There's no dog hair in the glass. Actually, for a place that houses a dog and has for over a while now, it seems to be lacking in dog hair. At least he can keep his room neat and clean?]

[sofentheblow]

[ Or the unnamed and slightly pathetic fifth option: she'd grabbed the first glass accessible and not bothered to swap back out when it turned out to be ridiculous. Which is telling in its own way -- she generally takes herself seriously enough to care if she's anywhere on the same side of the continent as ridiculous.

It's the fifth thing. At any rate, one of the side effects of a physiology enhanced by the chunk of alien rock inside her is a comparatively high tolerance to most chemicals. Karla’s predilection for maximum control of any given situation aside, the amount it would take to have the impact he's suggesting is basically horrifying.

But he’s offering, and it might shoot their tentative rapport in the foot to turn down the gesture. She laughs, nods, takes a step into the room. Sets the juice aside, and she’s about to take him up on it (not as a mixer, God, who does he think she is) -- except Gunther’s taken that moment to be overwhelmed at the presence of visitor and jumps from the bed, launching nosefirst with obvious aim to greet the guest.

It’s a move of pure instinct when Karla phases out, leaving the dog sniffing in confusion at vacant air. She catches herself quickly enough, the comfortable weight of her regular mass returning as she goes tangible again, but, uh. ]

Sorry. [ She offers up an apologetic shrug.

Karla is not, it turns out, what you’d call good with animals. ]

[infomodder]

[One of the last things Will did before he got dragged to this world was wake up, find his feet and legs covered in mud, go to the sink, hands also muddy with the addition of blood, and drink out of the tap with said muddy, bloody hands. Just cupped them and used them when there was a cabinet full of mugs and glasses behind him. He has no room to judge anyone for what they drink out of, not even a damn doggie bowl on the floor. She could waltz in with a sippy cup that's got a foot long Krazy Straw attached and he would not be able to say a word about it being ridiculous.

The phasing out is ridiculous by his world's standards; ridiculous that it exists, ridiculous that people think it can be done, ridiculous all over. Gunther is a little more used to it than Will. The dog moves backwards, takes the social cue, sits a good distance away, respects her personal space, very "good boy" behavior all around. Will, on the other hand, does not display much in the way of "good boy" behavior, finds himself stuck reaching for the bottle, arm awkwardly placed midair, staring with his mouth slightly open—not very "good boy" behavior at all. He's gaping, long enough for it to be seen as much, long enough for him to kick himself in the pants the moment he realizes it.

He hasn't had a drop of alcohol but it damn sure feels like he has.

(She doesn't want to know who he thinks she is; nobody wants that.)]

Don't be. He's a. Puppy. Been trying to get him used to staying put when people come over. But. No one ever comes over, so he's. Lacking experience with practical application. [Because Will is something of a hermit and currently trying to cover up his faux pas by ignoring it and pouring more than enough for the both of them. Besides his bed (where Gunther has now happily gotten onto because people are over and this means that Will can't be overly firm with in some weird puppy brain), there's the chair at his desk for her to sit on. Considering it's Will's bed, he leaves her tumbler at the desk, nudges his head in its direction, and sits on the edge of the bed with his own glass. He's not about to say, oh hey my bed's way more comfortable than that chair, you can totally have it. Bad move, no doubt about it. He doesn't even try for a smile, but it's not hostile body language she's receiving.] So what's got you wanting to stop by?

[There is a part of Will that's jealous of the power to just. Disappear. That's an ideal he's never going to achieve and one he's not keen on voicing just yet, if ever.]

[sofentheblow]

[ Even in a world where phasing is normal -- comparatively, anyway; at least it's an ability several people have -- even then there's not much case to be made for "friendly puppy" as a reason for employing it. ]

I'm not-- [ "...afraid of dogs. I don't like dogs." No, not going with honesty there. Who the hell just doesn't like dogs? Anyway, he seems at least as embarrassed by his reaction as she is for having tipped those cards; best for everyone to let it drop. She recovers quickly, accepting the glass and the seat. ]

--It's fine. [ She keeps her tone neutral enough -- if a little reassuring, a genuine-sounding enough "it's fine" -- not to encourage pressing the subject. Not that he would, but. ]

I just got a call from my... coworker. [ The last word makes its way out reluctantly, like it's not the one she wanted to use, like it leaves an unfortunate taste in her mouth. Maybe it's just the subject matter itself. ] From your home world.

Does he at any point stop making you want to put a fork in your eye?

[ She's picked up enough from listening over their limited public discussions to have concluded it's reasonably likely Will's opinion matches up with hers. Also, she's decided, Chilton is odious and it follows as a given for most. Just, you know, statistically. ]

[infomodder]

[The start-stop he gets doesn't alarm him. He doesn't even seem to recognize it as abnormal. It's really not. Everyone feels differently about dogs. Not just cat people, pieces of shit that they are. Some people had bad experiences growing up, were attacked, there's a whole wealth of reasons that someone just might not like dogs. Will happens to be very aware of them. He also happens to be very aware of why a dog would just not like people. It goes both ways.

Just like respect. He does not want a psychiatrist subtly trying to crack into his emotions, the ones he has no intentions of sharing. If he wants that, he'll return it. No pressing her about why the dog startled her, she knew he had it, any of it. Even if he planned on it, that would be quickly forgotten when she mentions a coworker. He knows her job. He knows the people from his world and their jobs. It doesn't take a guy with his abilities to figure out the most basic math problem she's presented him with. Which begs the question of: what the fuck am I supposed to say?

Deal or not, Will can't hide that they have their issues. He waves the glass in his hand, pulls a face in thought that says his relationship with Frederick Chilton isn't positive, gestures with his hand as if he's try to pull words from thin air to help him, and then he gives up on that. Gives up, takes a drink, and leans back without even trying to cover up what those few seconds just gave away.]

I am aware of him enough to know that it would be a bad idea for me to stick a fork in my eye anywhere near him. He'd analyze the shit out of it, and I would regret it more for hearing him talk than I would for losing my eye. [It sounds extreme, he knows. He's not suicidal and doesn't take joy in hurting himself, but they're both speaking in hyperbole here. He does not imagine she would do it. He can expound on how terrible an idea it would be, nothing wrong with that. But wait, the more he thinks about it—what does he care? She's "reformed" and he's been told he's free, if in different words. This is good shit, honestly.] I actually sort of did hurt myself because of him...I was arrested and framed for murder, knew I was being sent to his hellhole of a hospital... [He shrugs again, meeting her eyes finally. "Reformed" and framed, why can't they get alone?] ...promptly busted my thumb to get out of the handcuffs, took out the guards, dumped off the ambulance, and ran straight to my actual psychiatrist.

[Life story? Not...really. A lot to digest, he knows. If she's going to come at him with the Frederick Chilton angle, there's going to have to be some basic facts presented to make more sense why Will has more issues with him than just whatever might be considered the normal.]

What's that tell you?

[No.

No it does not ever stop.

Framed for murder, stuck with Chilton. This man has every right to cry at night over that double whammy.]

[sofentheblow]

[ Emotional tells notwithstanding, fortunately for Will, she's not especially interested in subtly cracking into his emotions. Karla's not there to dissect his special brain or reform him in her image or any of the rest of the Baltimore people's hobbies with respect to the psychology of Will Graham -- not that she's above prodding, but sometimes one gets off the phone with one's infuriating coworker and wants to vent or put a fist through a wall, and the latter's a little dramatic.

But um.

That's--

She blinks. Otherwise her response is pretty well-modulated -- frown, general look of concern; fortunately "stunned" is about standard, as reactions go, to a reveal like this one. There's certainly a little internal "oh my God, oh my God" going on on replay, though. Probably a little compensation happening, then, when she opts for understatement: ]

So I've been getting his good side.

[ Where does one even start? "Framed for murder," probably. That's pretty good. ]

I take it he was involved in the framing?

[infomodder]

[She manages to get him to laugh, short but real, until—was he?

The question takes Will off guard, has him looking at the dog like he hadn't realized the furry bearded head was flopped in his lap. Frederick Chilton. Involved. Before he got dragged here, one of the last things he did was accuse his boss, one of the few people who could have ever gotten into a friend sort of territory with him, of being the one to set him up. It had been a long, tiring day full of revelations that countered what Will knew about himself and backed up what he knew about a certain killer...surely Jack understood.]

No. [It's second nature by now for Will to pet a dog, comb through its fur, scratch the ears, almost on par with breathing. Gunther stares up at absolutely nothing as he receives adoration, and Will takes a moment to put it all together.] One of his patients didn't agree with his treatment and that landed him in a hospital. Critical condition. He'd had his stomach cut open and his organs removed and. He was completely out of commission by that point. Too injured to do much of anything. He had nothing to do with it other than running the zoo I was destined to get thrown into.

[Will's opinions on the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane are clearly very low. He doesn't like any hospitals for the criminally insane, but there's only one he's going to have to live in...]

Why do you take it he was involved? He doing something shady? Trying to do something shady?

[No real change in his voice, eyes fixed on that tongue flopped on his pant leg and getting it wet. Just a man and his dog.

And a boatload of secrets stowed away for the right time, should that time ever come.]

[sofentheblow]

[ Wishful thinking? ]

I, ah... [ She shakes her head, glances down at the drink in her hand, gives it a halfhearted swirl. She'd been too eager to presume Chilton's involvement in the framing, it would have been too easy a thing to save, to be brought up in front of the right people. Sheepish isn't really in her repertoire, but she can backpedal if needed. (It's needed.) ]

...No. It seemed contextually probable. From your account. I just assumed.

[ It isn't not true. No reason to lay out every little motive for assuming.

That other part -- the first part, the part that's only just sinking in -- that's interesting, though. Go back to that. ]

I'm sorry, you said he was -- a psychiatric patient vivisected him?

And this is an experience he's had. Chilton, here, in Heropa has had. Not, you know, an "in the past back home but in the future for him" timelines... thing.

[ It being comparatively routine -- her having been slung unceremoniously from alternate pasts to alternate future immediately before her arrival here -- hasn't made Karla hate time travel any less.

Fucking time travel. ]

[infomodder]

[He could stare at her as she backpedals, could narrow his eyes and tilt his head just so to make her feel more uncomfortable, make it clear he's picking up on things she doesn't want to be obvious. He knows what it's like to be on the end of it, can step into that role with ease, but that's not really his thing. Dogs are good for more reasons than most people ever realize, Will thinks. He doesn't have to scramble to find something to seem distracted by when he's got a big one right next to him.

Going back to that, good. He has his own moment to look at his drink, swirl it, put together what to say any what to leave off. Time travel (as good a way to put it as any, really) is unheard of where he's from, but he's experienced enough of it here to understand what she's saying, to get what she means when she says thing.]

When I first got here, the last I remembered of our— [He looks for the word (friend, acquaintance, guy that we're discussing?), waves the glass a little, abandons it.] —Frederick, that was it. One of his star patients at his hospital had escaped, killed the other psychiatrists that had. Been in his head. He abducted him, cut him open, pulled out his organs...patient had taken on help by abducting a reporter, too. Had her act as a ventilator. My boss takes his team in, finds her pumping air into him with his guts... [He wouldn't make the motion he does in Chilton's presence, certainly not, but, yes, he had spilled them.] ...in his hands. Didn't go in with them, didn't see that myself. [Didn't have to.] Found that patient, shot him outside the house of another psychiatrist he would have. Killed. [And Will? Got away with it, too. Who cares about FBI brutality (or insanity, in this case) when the one they took out had left the trail Abel Gideon did?] Thought the patient was dead and Frederick was fighting for his life. Got here and that was not the case.

[For either of them.]

Now he's—he's far ahead of me. Dragged back to Baltimore, dumped off here again. That happened just before you— [He stops talking abruptly, looks off, eyebrows knitting together. Calculating.] —that was, that was the day before you made yourself known. He had that, he came back. One day before...Luke Cage’s Thunderbolts team, as you introduced yourself.

[He's not mocking her when he says it, doesn't raise his voice to sound feminine. It's still his voice, but those four words? They aren't the way he'd say it. The tone, the timbre, it's all Karla's, all the exact way she'd said before.]

I figured that was why he had the cane.