asgardeventide | text; welcome back, me

That's quite alright, I can deal with being lost.

But meet me. Throwing a fit is more effective in person.

Don't worry. Already threw my fit. Didn't need you to do it. If you can deal with being lost, you don't need to meet me. Our old spot's a little tainted by now. Wouldn't know where else to find you. Or did you think I'd tell you to get on over to my place?

[...it's possible he would because he's not so sure how to deal with Fawkes.]

I can deal with a lot of things, but that doesn't mean I want to.

I could tell you where to meet me. There are untainted spots. I don't presume being able to foresee all you might or might not tell me.

[Deal with it.]

That's nice, but you know what? There are two people in this equation. That's you and that's me. If I don't want to? I'm not going to. Give me a reason other than "I don't want to deal with being lost" and I'll decide if I want to find another spot that we can work towards not tainting. Not a dog, Barty. Don't come when you call.

I can't recall treating you like a dog at any point.

[...occasional hair petting aside.]

I want to talk to you and you know that I don't like being alone. I also want to see how close to alright you are.

If you left, I'd break in too.

No one ever does. Got a place in mind or should I pick? I honestly could care less if you came over, but I've got three other people to think about and they might not like it so much so how about the park in Baldr? I'm sure I could find you if we left it that broad.

[Any reason would have been fine. He wasn't expecting Barty to go quite that far. He could have said he was out of sugar and needed an extra batch, that's all Will would need. Feels a bit unfair now.

Could find him because he's got a big damn dog with a big damn nose that's rooted around some of Barty's stuff. Or good eyes.]

Yes.

[And now he does leave it at that, because he only has about three feelings and he has to recover them. More importantly, he might have had reasons for that public display, but he still values his privacy, due to obvious reasons.]

Give me an hour. Need to get cleaned up. Hate to ask if I can play with your shadow like this.

["Cleaned up" might mean something nice and fancy to people who aren't used to Will. Will who just needs to shower and shave because he hasn't shaved in a few days. Just need to pull out some pants that aren't furry, or brush out the ones that are. He's not going to be neat. He's just not going to be a mess.]

I'll bring your shit, too.

[But he can still keep his heart.]

[He doesn't respond again - that's quite enough of him out there, thank you very much - but instead heads straight for the park.

He has already managed to get a change of clothes and a shower himself and that's all the cleaning up he needed and all he can do at the moment. So he ends up sitting on a park bench, keeping an eye out for the few people that would recognize him on sight and waiting for Will.

Another rendezvous.]

[It takes him roughly (ruffly?) an hour, not that he lingers in the shower or takes forever to shave, no, no. He wasn't prepared for this. He hadn't even considered Barty would come back. He hadn't wanted to deal with a particular roommate on the issue longer than he had to, either. More time to collect himself mentally than to collect himself physically. That's easy. He's grateful for Asgard's magic because he knows full well that back home? He'd be dead or laying in a hospital for quite some. Vulnerable. At the mercy of machine and man alike. Not a good feeling after everything he'd been through, vulnerability.

He's as nice as he gets when he's not resuming his therapy, hair tousled and dry only thanks to the heat outside. Jeans, a plaid shirt that's made thicker than it needs to be but sits just right over a stomach that he wants to stay hidden, what does Will care if he's a little heated under the collar? He's always run hot. Right now, he's trying to keep that broiling to the outside. Choosing somewhere shadier gives his own shadow length, lets that small, feathered stag have more room to grow. It's not so suspicious, is it? Hel's chosen need shade. They're already suspicious enough as it is, so what if they're toying with shadows in the park?

That he purposefully went out of his way to come up from behind Barty as opposed to meeting him face-to-face doesn't need to be commented on. They both know it wasn't an accident. It's not done to spook; in fact, it's more consideration than anything else. If anyone wanted to follow him, it would be easier to spot him (sans shadow, with shadow) walking across a long stretch of park and, well, there's Barty Crouch Junior, that's what he looks like.]

Here's your shit. [He's not pleased with this at all, but there's nothing he can do about it, is there? Nothing but deposit (not angrily drop or throw like might be suited to a fit) the bag of "looted" goods on the bench next to Barty before sitting on the far end of it, a little slower than usual. Calculated. Careful, and not because he's worried Barty's going to try anything. Physical, not mental (mostly).] Where are you going to stay now?

[He's not asking to keep tabs or to share. He's asking because, despite it all, he's a bit worried (not that it shows) about what might happen if Barty ends up on the streets.]

[Barty doesn't start when Will approaches and places the bag next to him. He has expected him to come from behind, but even if that wouldn't have been the case, he's not conditioned to allow weakness to show, not when he can help it. Not unless he wants to.

He reaches into the bag, not to check whether everything is there - there is trust in Will, in some shape or form - but to start taking out knife after knife and putting them back to the various places he keeps the weapons. He doesn't see any need to hide the locations from Will, he's sure he knew already and he has no plans of attacking him. Not like this.

At the question he looks at him, tongue coming out for a moment, lingering at the corner of his mouth and then swiping across his bottom lip in a quick flick. Often it's a calculated move, right now it might actually be a show of nerves.]

There are always empty rooms.

[Empty, lonely, but in the end he's used to it.]

[He doesn't watch. He doesn't need to watch. He knows exactly what Barty will find in that bag, every little thing Will grabbed up when he sniffed his place out, mundane or weapon. In that bag, at the bottom, he'll find a small, paper bag. A sandwich, some nuts, as large an apple as he could find, and a few wrapped chocolates—none of those were in Barty's things, and they both know that much. It's as much as he can really do at the moment, things being what they are and the time limit he had.

People aren't strays. They still get hungry, that's all.]

In the Welcome Halls? [He's looking out as if something going on in the park is anywhere near as interesting as what's going on right now. That little stag of his seems to have started growing a mind of his own, craning his neck up to sniff in the direction of the bag as Barty takes to it. Will doesn't even notice or appear to be putting much focus into his shadow.] Don't have anyone else you might could pull a favor from? My place is full.

[And even if it wasn't, Will couldn't reasonably let Barty live there without telling the others who he was and what he'd done. Will had no fear of him, but that didn't speak to much when Will apparently had so little fear he had been perfectly comfortable being seen in the same bed as Satan and his frothing, beautiful hellhound whenever a nurse stopped by to see if he was hungry.

Pull a favor from. Satan?]

[He holds one of the chocolates for a few seconds. Remedy against the effect of dementors. At least up until losing one's soul. He shakes his head and lets go of it, leaning back and instead looking at the shadow as it moves on its own.

A stag. Not surprising, he has seen it before. For a while he just watches, lifting a shoulder in a half-shrug in reply to the question. He has spent enough time around people from Hel to not be worried about the power, so he's merely intrigued.]

I think anyone I know that hasn't left despises me. In most cases that's mutual.

[More or less. With one exception the right word from his side is probably 'indifference', but either way there is no love lost.]

Being here isn't ideal. But I have no life left anywhere else.

[He frowns, because the words sound more dramatic than he intended them to when he really was just stating facts. Nevertheless he doesn't take them back. He's used to being a tragic example by now.

His gaze falls on the stag again and he holds a hand out, just waiting to see if there will be a reaction.]

You've met the Master.

[The moment he hears the crinkle of the wrapper is when he finally looks over, shifting back so that he can spread his legs out. Casual. Like he's not talking to someone who set him up so he could get away with arson. Like this is all a very normal day in Will Graham's life, nothing out of the ordinary. The one thing Barty might notice out of place that can't be chalked up to physical abuse is the fact of the matter that Will no longer refuses to make eye contact. None of that awkward looking anywhere else but right at the person talking to him. No looking just past an ear, the chin, over the head, down, none of it. Not done to intimidate or dominant—Will's just changed.]

We had lunch. [His sole focus is Barty; that stag of his paws (hoofs?) at the ground, head shaking as he tries to figure out what he's supposed to do. What he's allowed to do. What Will would let him do, what he wants to do, when the thing that plagued him and he saw die is allowed to turn into something affectionate, something kind, the opposite of the evil that birthed it. As soon as Will speaks, the stag puts two hooves on the bench to investigate both Barty and the bag. Whatever happens, that stag won't touch Will at all. The shadow will disappear and go back into place before that stag touches Will.] A while back when Alana Bloom was here. He took an interest in her. I took an interest in him. Have to take care of my people.

[Will did not take care of his people if that joyless smile on his face is anything to go by.]

He wasn't your only friend, was he? [That word, that abominable f-word, sounds foreign in Will's voice. He doesn't use it. He doesn't have anyone to use it with. It's a dirty word. Toxic. Filthy. Tainted. It's okay for things to sound dramatic, to sound tragic. Will can fire right back shamelessly. What's a friendship-like thing if they can't speak in bizarre ways without feeling guilty for it?] You looking for a new friend to live the rest of your life with?

[Possibly the rest of the lives of everyone in Asgard, too.]

[Barty would notice, he probably will, sooner or later, but he's not exactly the best about eye contact himself unless he's making an effort for some reason. For now he watched the shadow stag more than anything, leaving it to its investigation.] He took an interest in Merope at some point. I understand. [He does and he glances at Will for a moment then. None of them very successful with taking care of anyone.]

No.

[Not a friend or not the only. He laughs, a short and joyless thing, but it's pretty much the closest he gets to laughing. Then he just repeats the word in answer to the second question. Can't go looking for something he doesn't believe in.]

No. But one time the Master said that if he could, he'd bring me to his world. [Still a strange concept, that this had ever happened, but he remembers it too well. Perhaps because there have been so very few instances, here or there, where he had any reason to even entertain any illusion of hope. Nothing more, certainly, but still a spark he's seldom felt.] I knew it wouldn't happen, I never thought it would. But I thought about it.

Not much time left now, by the looks of it.

[Not very successful at taking care of anyone. He couldn't even keep his hand around Abigail's throat as they both lay on a wooden floor with their blood pooling around them, his and hers and Jack's and a drop or two of Lecter's, maybe. At least one tear in there, and all Will could try to do was contain it. Spurted between his fingers, shaking and yellow and unable to do much of anything at all. He'd tried, but it didn't feel like it counted when nothing good had come of it. Barty wasn't here to see the blood under his fingernails, over his neck, in his hair, staining parts of him that had yet to be reached by wet cloth.

He didn't need to. Neither of them needed to see each other with bloody hands to know there was blood there, the blood of other people as much as their own, even if for totally different reasons. Or so Will thought. His shadow seemed to think Barty was like-minded enough that he wouldn't be too concerned with a feathered stag rooting around his bag and, finally, putting a hoof up on him. Climb up into his lap if he could, the dog running through Will's veins finally appearing in full force as he finally looked at it as though he hadn't seen it before. Looked from shadow to Barty and lifted his eyebrows, trying to keep his voice gentle as opposed to...cold.]

Why would you want to go? [Will can imagine (whether he likes it or not), and leans back a little further to cement that he's comfortable keeping his ass in one spot for as long as Barty wants him to.] Don't know what it's like. Not really. Might not be like anything his people've said it is. That's a problem, isn't it? Every person here could be lying. About almost everything. Could get dragged back by someone and find yourself wishing you'd gone to...

[It seems a bad thing to smile about, but Will generally smiles in a way that makes it obvious he's not happy. It's just another one of those.]

...you know.

He believed he had a future. [He doesn't finish the thought, because anything along the line of 'I don't.' carrying the echo of 'You don't.' didn't seem like a necessary addition, not when it was so obviously unspoken. Barty looks at the stag, one hand moving as if for a knife, but the movement is abandoned halfway through and he just leans back as well.]

But you're right. You can't know the truth of what anyone tells you.

[Barty looks at Will's face now, expecting the smile there and finding it, surely enough. He could match it, but he doesn't bother, and the expression he ends up wearing might match it better after all, in the end.]

The problem is that I'm not lying to myself. I never got the hang of it.

[Self-aware, in a world where there had been little else but his own self, subdued and controlled as it had been. Sanity... He doesn't believe himself sane, but he knows who he is, where he is, when he is and he knows what will happen next.]

[Will's future is dead in a pool of blood not entirely made of his own or hanging onto life in a hospital, out of it, waking up to see who else made it, if anyone. Confusion and drugs would be preferable to dying, but he would be lying to himself and anyone else if he insisted he'd survive it. He'd been stabbed, shot, doped to the gills, pepper sprayed, but a gutting like that wasn't anywhere as easy to come back from.

He believed he had a future. Barty knew he didn't have much of one. Will didn't know what he had. He knew there was something worth returning to his home for, that there was something in Asgard worth fighting for: possibilities for those who could go back to something, even if he went back to a grave himself.

Mother to daughter. He might talk to them one day.

The mention of lying to himself, of getting the hang of it, has him looking down. He laughs, brief, nostrils flared, more exhaling in quick succession than anything else.]

Glad you don't lie to yourself. Lied to me, though. Didn't you. [Barty might not have stated exactly that he'd done it, but he'd known Will enough to know he'd go up to bat for him. He didn't have to say straight out that he had started the fire to lie. They could get pedantic about it, but he didn't care. That patience was threadbare. He'd shoot it down.] So did you go back and go through what you knew was coming, or did you just...vanish for a bit?

[Lose your soul yet? Perhaps cruel, but that shadow of his seems anything but. There was no backing down when Barty's hand moved, just dark eyes staring up at him with interest. What was there to fear anymore? That stag was getting friendly while Will seemed to be distanced far more than just the other side of a bench.

That tail was all but wagging as the little guy leaped up on the back of it, carefully turning to pay attention to Barty's hair. Almost cold questions, nightmare beast showing something akin to affection. Mixed signals?]

Lie? Close enough. [Never outright, but he's not about to argue now. That game has played out and while he doesn't regret any of it, Will deserves better than him keeping up any pretense.] You know why. [He has nothing to come back to and he has little to hang on to now. Revenge and it had mattered, when nothing else really did. His life had been twisted before ever coming here, but with the certainty of his fate always before him and seeing Snape be heralded as a hero... Not the only one he despised, but close enough. He doesn't know just how much of it all Will really knows and put together by now, but enough, he reckons, enough to make any further explanation obsolete. Apologies have to be fueled by at least a bit of regret and he'd do it all again. Yet...] I should have left you out of it. I believe I would, now. [He's not certain, because his mind takes on a different focus at times. Perhaps that is insanity.]

I think I did go back. [He looks away from even the shadow now, staring at his own hands, although his pupils moved rapidly. He's not exactly used to fear, but he recognizes the feeling well enough. Another way to imprison the mind.] Either I did or nightmares got the better of me. [The smile isn't happy. Why would it be? But it's there.] Just no waking up.

[It sounds childish somehow, but fear is primal and it's simple in the end. Sometimes everyone just wanted safety and comfort and sometimes one knew there wouldn't be any.

He lifts one hand, just about touching the shadow, but not quite, although he's letting it come as close as it wants to.]

[Will knows why. Not the specifics, but he doesn't need to know them to "get" it. He gets it. He got it the moment the message came in. Needed some time to work out how to address it, but he didn't get that much. He looks down, nods, frowns to show he gets it. Knows why. Doesn't need it explained. It also doesn't matter if Barty would leave him out now, because he can't take it back. Hindsight is 20/20.

It's easy to pick up on what Barty's feeling, Will being...well, Will. He'd be able to do it even if he didn't have that thing—he's worked with enough survivors and various people related to killers to recognize the worst emotions people can go through. Named ones (fear, anger, betrayal, hate) and the reasons behind it (that missing husband is now a killer and needs to be caught before he can do more harm, anger for what's happened to the one they love, the one they love turning on them completely and not knowing why or how, possibly not caring why or how and just moving along to pure loathing), the ones that didn't have names yet, the ones that were a medley of various named ones—there were so many things that didn't have words, and Will was good at picking up on every
single
one of them.

He could be a petty little shit and argue about how it doesn't matter. Show his ass. Be immature. No you, no you, no you! Wouldn't help the situation at all, though Will had been looking forward to a tongue-lashing after his whole alibi thing got thrown into his face. He's not sure how to comfort a man who's lost his soul. Someone else might suggest a hug, but Will Graham has had enough hugs to last a lifetime. Possibly enough to end his lifetime.

So while Will's not going to reach out and touch him, Barty can get the next best thing: that little stag pushing his snout straight into Barty's hand, nostrils flaring. Best anyone could get at this point in time, Will's shadow creature making physical contact.]

Apology accepted. [There was no real apology there, not for what Barty did. There was a confession that he might do things differently now and leave Will out of it, which was close enough. Will wasn't the one who would have the biggest problem forgiving Barty, and he certainly wasn't the person that Will would have the biggest problem actually forgiving (fear, anger, betrayal, hate...?).] Gonna have to wake up here. Can't avoid it.

[Can't avoid making sure he has a place to wake up in, either. Perhaps Lecter should have just eaten his heart.]

Got a new roommate. Footing part of her income at the moment. I know Loki's paid housing is...not amazing but. Not expensive. You find anyone to live with or get a job that pays enough, I'll. [He looks off, crossing his ankle over his knee.] Give you the leftovers if you need them when I get back into gear.

[Can't just let the guy
starve for necessities
starve
for anything

Oh, that's not funny at all.]

[He nods at the words. 'Apology accepted.' There might not have been an apology in so many words, but that was because it would have felt empty had he given one. He doesn't really regret what happened, after all, but since then things had shifted and Will's importance has increased. He wouldn't do it again, not now, if the stakes were the same.

Barty turns his hand, strange as it seems, to pet the dog-like stag. He's always liked dogs, really. Maybe it's a comfort, what the creature does, what Will does through it. He can't really allow himself to perceive something as comfort, because that might uncover a need for it and he can't afford needs he has no way of filling.

Instead he just watched the shadow, running his hand over it. Only as Will keeps talking does he turn to look at him, cocking one unassuming eyebrow. With his other hand propped on the bench he shifts his balance a little, just inches closer to Will, leaning his way now.]

Will. [Just his name at first. Some faint amusement in it and perhaps a note of warmth, even if cynicism masks this very well with something that sounds a lot like 'you adorable idiot'.] You're too kind. [Not an empty phrase here. He understands people, always has, in some ways perhaps similarly to Will, in some ways very different. He can understand, so he doesn't doubt Will's sincerity, yet it feels strange. Kindness. Twisted as they are, motives are the same at the core.]

You know about my society. It never did me any good and I never had much money, but there's pride. I'd not accept charity. [He shrugs, continuing right away.] That aside, I hardly require much. Keep your money. Or give it to someone else, more likely.

[Will would never expect Barty to regret it, and he can't honestly expect him to feel true regret for dragging Will into it. Regrets that the connection they had before has been made far more strained because of it, that it will serve to make things more difficult in the future, but other than that? He doesn't expect him to regret a damn thing else relating to Will and his status as an alibi.

As long as he'll let it, that shadow stag will display affection—odd, snorting, head shaking affection that's more on par with a dog getting the hang of a new person's scent and trying to figure out their status with his owner than being overly fond. Getting his hooves wet while Will looked off, growing increasingly more exasperated. The adorable idiot can pick up on that much.]

We're not in your society, Barty. [One arm slung over the back of the bench, still clear of touching his shadow, he kept looking out, eyes moving without anything remarkable to catch and keep his attention.] Which is a fucked society, but so is mine. [They're all fucked. They've all got people in them, and people are the problem.] I understand pride. I do. You're confusing this for charity. I'd be doing it as much for you as I am for me. Charity's bit more about loving other people more than you love yourself.

[Will Graham does not look like a guy who loves anything that isn't a dog and who is on the receiving end of love from anything that, shockingly, also isn't a dog. It's not charity if it does as much for him as it does for Barty.

It'll do a damn lot for him, too, if he could spin it right.]

Society's inherently fucked. Too many people. [He used to have ideals, back in the day, but cynicism had a way of winning out when life continuously failed to provide anything but worst case scenarios. He leans back against the bench and lifts his hand to run through his hair, not much caring how messy or not it looked.]

It's no use, Will. Most of what I'd ever want from you, you'd not be willing or able to give.

[The list isn't even all that long, but conclusive. There are few things Barty wants but significantly fewer that he will receive.]

You know that.

[Money is hardly an issue. He's been paying for three, then two throughout his time in Asgard. He will be just fine. In a manner of speaking.]

Unless you want that charity from me. [By that equation, it fits the bill. It's not as if he has love for himself, all things considered.]

[He has zero arguments on the assessment of society (and he's not bothered that it's his exact same one at all), but his face gradually morphs the longer Barty talks. He's getting a line but there's no hook at the end, with or without bait. Nothing for him to immediately latch onto other than not having anything to latch onto, which is all the bait Will reely needs.

Confusion reigns supreme until he shrugs, lifting up his hands as he waits for an answer that hasn't come, shadow jumping back to the bench and then the ground to stay out of his way.]

You gonna tell me what you'd want? Not psychic. Can't tell you what I'm willing or able to give if you don't tell me what you had in mind.

[He catches sight of his shadow before he looks back at Barty and nods to it—you know what I mean, buddy? Can you believe this guy?—and then Barty's his sole focal point.]

Go ahead.

[He is more than capable of keeping up vague, slightly creepy conversations.

He's tired of it. Really, really, really tired of it.]

Company, for instance.

[He shrugs, looking rather more casual than creepy, on the whole. He worries his lower lip as he looks off at nothing instead of Will, because he doesn't usually look at people directly unless he's pretending that it doesn't bother him. Just like smiling.]

I don't think what I want is that different from what most want. Just my ways of getting there can throw people off.

text; welcome back, me

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