Barty Crouch Jr. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
liquidsky) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
asgardeventide2014-07-02 06:24 am
liquidsky) wrote in asgardeventide2014-07-02 06:24 am
text; welcome back, me
[After spending quite a bit of time reading through the network and enjoying the sensation of having a soul, Barty Crouch jr has decided it's time to post to the network. Get it over with, so to say.]
I am back.
[Suitably dramatic? Suitably dramatic.]
Also: Thank you, Will. We should talk.
[It might come across as a veiled threat. It very probably isn't.]
I am back.
[Suitably dramatic? Suitably dramatic.]
Also: Thank you, Will. We should talk.
[It might come across as a veiled threat. It very probably isn't.]
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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.]
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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.]
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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?]
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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.
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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.]
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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.
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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.
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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.]
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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?]
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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.]
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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.]
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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.
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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.]
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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.]
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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.]
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[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.
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The last person who really, really wanted my company, he. [How to explain this as accurately and briefly as possible while still getting across the horror of the situation? Eyebrows (not so unassuming) furrowed as he worried his own lip before he decided to just be as bold and blunt as possible.] He framed me for five murders, some involving cannibalism, one of a young woman I had helped to save from becoming her father's next victim. He watched my boss shoot me, visited me in a hospital for the criminally insane saying he was there as my friend, didn't like it when I said we weren't friends...gave my department a lot more work to do, killed one of my coworkers and left her on display after he'd taken her kidneys and had them for dinner. Send someone to kill him, had enough. Doesn't work. Visits me again. We argue. Sort of. Then he figures out I'm not good company if I'm stuck in a cell and we just can't kill and cook and eat people together if I'm behind bars, so. Plants new evidence to spring me and make sure he's got me cinched away as a friend by...framing my doctor there for all his crimes and tugging me back to his office. He made himself interesting when I said he wasn't before, so now we had to be friends.
[It's all said very blithely, but the subject matter should make it obvious that his tone is more defense as opposed to him not caring. Not caring about the young woman, his (their, actually) coworker...no, he either says casually or he doesn't say it at all. The moment he leans forward and gestures with his hands like he's trying to pull something out of thin air is the moment when that stag seems to come back to life, looking from Will to Barty.]
Throw people off like that or...?
[Lecter's completely insane in a way that defies labels, past, present, or future.
Barty? Not so much.
That's a compliment.]
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So he just finally turns to look at Will again. He can't offer a shadow to do any touching for him, so there is just the hint of a movement, his hand twitching, really, before he abandons it and bites down on his lip, searching for words. Not something that happens that often. Finally he just shakes his head and leans back, eyes closing as he breathes out slowly.]
Not like that, darling, no.
[He smiles, even with closed eyes, so how genuine it is is quite up for interpretation.
He'll take that compliment.]
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Will's attention turns back to his shadow, face staring at it like he's looking at a memory, not something real. A photograph, one that he's had burned into his brain. The stag melts into a dark puddle, replaced by a stag's head, antlers growing like vines, a woman's body sliding on top of it. Impaled, naked, on display for the world to see. Her legs dangle over the antlers, her hair pulled up so her head can lean back over the snout without anything fall out of place. He attempts to make the ravens that flocked on her body, but it leaves the image off and doesn't get it across, so he lets them go, leans back against the bench itself, one ankle still crossed over his knee like this is perfectly normal conversation.
It is...with his coworkers. Sort of.]
This was his first present to me. Cassie Boyle. Never met her. Just turned eighteen. Out of high school, going to college. Thought she had a future. Found her in a field on a stag's head. Body had attracted ravens. Had to run them off to investigate. He'd cut her open and pulled her lungs out while she still used them. Ate them later, no doubt. Might've eaten them myself without knowing it.
[Stag head. Ravens. Feathered stag. Made more sense now, didn't it? Made sense to Will, still staring right at his shadow and nothing else.]
Putting her on display like kabuki was how he started our friendship. Know what happens when you buck the company of someone who does that to get yours? Throw it back? Just guess.
[Buck. Stag. Aha. Yes, there's that darker humor.]
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He watches the show Will puts up with his shadow, listens to the story. He's seen gruesome things in his life and he has done a few. He has been in Will's head and that had at least prepared him after a fashion. He's not shocked, not really, but he doesn't take any pleasure in the tale either.]
I reckon he wouldn't stand for it. Keep stalking you.
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Barty's guess gets a bitter bark of laughter, Will interlacing his fingers as he slouches back, legs spread like he's perfectly comfortable while his shadow seems to be the opposite. He's trying to make others, but they don't transfer very well. So there's a mess of bodies and antlers and fire and what looks like trees before the shadow seems to give up and go back to its usual form, the stag shaking his head out like he's just gone for a long swim.]
Yeah, that's—that's part of it. So. Play the game until...something happened. Dunno what. But something did happen. He figured me out. Didn't like it. Went over... [He looks down at his stomach, wiggling a finger in its direction.] ...told me that with a knife. Right across. Like connect the dots. [Sort of...] Unless you're gonna try to play that game again, then I think I'm good to go with your abnormal ways of getting what you want, using company for instance.
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Not really my style. [It's all he says at first, his thoughts on his father's last moments before he shakes his head and lifts a hand to comb all five fingers through his hair. He doesn't exactly care how messy it looks.] Do you think you survive? I'd apologize for being insensitive, but for one thing I'm talking to you and for another I'm losing my soul.