[open] the most interesting man in the world.

[crotesque]

Who: Will Graham + You
Where: By the river.
When: Summer afternoon.
Summary: Fluff log for meeting people and talking.
Rating: G+

Will is a creature of habit. He likes routine, he likes doing the same things over and over again. He likes to be methodical, practiced. It's a comfort when he's reeling from horrible visions the rest of the time, when he's bombarded with the irrationalities of the world. It's difficult to keep to his habits here, however. He didn't realize how deeply he'd rooted down into that house in Wolf Trap until his roots were pulled up.

So today is a day for habit. He's got a dog a this side, a happy looking shepherd with perky ears and a bandaged paw. He also has a cheap folding chair sinking into the wet earth along the river, a plastic cooler full of beer sweating in the sun. And a fishing pole. Maybe it's a little hot for fishing, but overall he doesn't particularly mind. The sound of the water is enough, and occasionally he lets his hand loll down to the side to ruffle the dog's ears.

Comments

[crotesque]

For all of his ability to brood mysteriously, Will is a fairly down to earth man. He's happiest on the beach cracking open crabs or cleaning shrimp, preferably those he's caught himself. It's only when he's pulled away from that simplicity that things begin to get difficult for him... His mind begins to warp in on itself, harassed by the atrocities of the world around him.

Right now he's trying not to think about that, still procrastinating over this idea of magic and monsters. He's justified it, that he can have a day (or a few more) to just sink into nothingness. No cases. No Jack. No doctors. Not even Alana, because for all her comfort she was still a thorn.

"I'll have to set you up with a reel." Which would be a nice project, something simple to keep him occupied for a little bit.

He looks up with an amused expression when John criticizes his beer, pulled out of lazy thoughts about what kind of equipment to choose for a novice Brit.

"We don't know any better," he opines wryly. He turns the drink in his hand around, examining the label. "Although this one is Mexican."

[warmgun]

John's more preoccupied than he'd like to be by thoughts of faerie folk and powers that shouldn't have any place in the world.

He wasn't Sherlock. He didn't demand that everything fit into a perfect picture of logic and sense. War wasn't sensible. He'd cut that need out in his first week in Afghanistan. Still, John was a man of science and medicine, a skeptic of the supernatural. How could it really be possible? How could he possibly be a part of that?

Even kicking back by the river, joking with Will, he's got half an eye toward the water, expecting to see some sort of phantasm. He tries to buckle down and shake the disturbed musings as he replies, "Ah, well. It's a shame what a little row over tea and taxes can lead to down the line: New country, terrible imports."

The mention of the reel draws his attention over to the rod. "I've seen those shows where they do fly-fishing," and a multitude of other day-time shows he wouldn't like to admit to watching with Mrs. Hudson while being painfully unemployed. "Your set-up looks a bit simpler."

[crotesque]

"My fly-fishing lures were left back in Wolf Trap," Will murmurs absentmindedly. He's really trying not to think about home too much. "I suppose I'll need to do some work before I buy a new setup."

And they know what work that will be, here in El Sera. And Will still hasn't quite pushed himself into accepting it. He's made no attempts to 'transform,' even if the M1911 is still holstered in the waistband of his jeans at all. It makes him nervous, that constant weight, wondering what would happen if he really needed it to protect someone. Could handle another state of mind, added on to the layers already trying to pull him out of himself?

He really doesn't want to know, and he slumps down in his folding chair, head falling back to stare at the sky.

"So why don't you tell me about it."

He can't avoid it forever, and apparently John already has some experience with the phenomenon. Maybe a briefing would soothe something of his agitation.

[warmgun]

It takes John a long moment to figure out what Will is on about. Dealing with Sherlock has taught him not to entirely dismiss any thread of a conversation or face the younger man's scorn, but he hadn't expected to need it here. John takes another drink of beer and reclines in the grass.

"I'm not sure it's the same for everyone," he replies. "There was a bloke I met with dragon wings when he was..." A vague gesture serves just as well to illustrate the point. "Apart from the costuming department taking their tips from a BBC period drama, though, it was- I don't know. Empowering isn't the right word. It turned my service pistol into an assault rifle, which was handy." The most ridiculous assault rifle known to man, but Will doesn't need to know that. "But I was doing all right with a flamethrower for a bit there."

He pauses to take another drink because this was beginning to sound utterly fantastic in the 'not good' kind of way. Ella, his therapist, would have a field day with all of this if he ever scheduled another appointment.

Once John mulls it over a bit more, he settles on, "It was odd. It let me kill those things easier, though, so I wasn't about to complain. Have you done anything at all with it?"

[crotesque]

That may be a similarity between the two detectives, a necessity of their profession even: the need to keep a constant running monitor of all things at all times. Although, to Will's credit, he recognizes the lack of sequitur. It simply didn't matter much to him because he was going ahead and biting the bullet.

He listens to John's description with a slightly pained look on his face, reaching out to pat the dog's head as some kind of relief from the nonsense.

"No, I haven't," Will just goes ahead and admits, but the fact that he's asking at all means that he's pushing himself towards it. He can't resist the call to duty and he imagines that it's going to be his downfall one of these days. "But I'm... sure it's my pistol."

He takes it from the holster in the back of his jeans. He clears it before he sets it out on his leg. M1911, FBI issue.



(ooc; ...my boy's a vet, so I get some second hand gun knowledge... John probably has a Glock 17, if you hadn't looked up something yourself.)

[warmgun]

(ooc: John actually uses his gun quite a bit in his canon, so I'm going with that one here. I think a Glock 17 is probably more technically accurate, but whatcha gonna do with the BBC props department?)

John breathes in sharply when Will just pulls out his gun. They aren't exactly common in England and flashing one in public is a good way to get every person in the near vicinity to call the police. He looks around at the path to make sure they aren't being watched before leaning in closer, trying to shield the weapon from view. There's not much he can do for the passersby on the opposite shore, but hopefully they won't being eying the two men and the dog too closely.

"Nice," he offers once these minimal precautions are taken. John's a bit more surreptitious as he draws the electric blue magazine clip for his Sig Sauer P226 from his pocket and shows it briefly to Will. "Whatever it is happens when I load this thing into mine. Bit of a shock when I ran out of bullets the first round. You think yours is the gun whole, though?" He tries to envision how Will might activate that. Just... wanting it?