wιll graнaм (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
glumshoe) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
entrancelogs2014-08-24 02:06 pm
glumshoe) wrote in entrancelogs2014-08-24 02:06 pm
[ open ] up bright and early for their daily races
Who: Will Graham (notyourteacup) and YOU!
Where: the field near to the forest's edge
When: usually early afternoon from 8/24 to the next few days
Rating: PG for guns
Summary: Nothing makes Will feel like he's out of control more than something else pulling his body's strings. The angels & demons may be gone, but Will's sense of violation isn't.
The Story:
It might not even have been a worthwhile venture. With talk of werewolves and angels and superheroes, there was a real press on the psyche to make yourself useful, armor up, don't be baseline. It wasn't something he or others could have changed, of course, barring mechanical minds like Stark's and maybe the hearts to match coming not too far behind. Will felt too exposed to open air again. All the vengeance and doublespeak he'd cloaked himself in Wonderland couldn't keep strings from looping around his limbs and throat, a doll driven around for chaos and amusement.
How could progress be undone so quickly on a whim? Will tried to answer that with the easy pull of a trigger, kick back against his bad shoulder, and the unsatisfying, soft sink of bullets into hay bales leaned against a dilapidated split-rail fence.
Over the course of the next several days, the targets on the bales were torn to shreds and replaced regularly, almost mechanically since Will didn't have anyone to surface anything else for outside of his usual insomniac exhaustion. To the observer, his stance suggested formal training, and for the intrepid adventurer looking to learn self-defense, a former cop wasn't a bad choice. He wasn't the best shot, but he knew where to put it and how. Neither was he closed to suggestion.
There were all sorts of reasons not to bother him, but perhaps there were more to do otherwise.
notyourteacup) and YOU!Where: the field near to the forest's edge
When: usually early afternoon from 8/24 to the next few days
Rating: PG for guns
Summary: Nothing makes Will feel like he's out of control more than something else pulling his body's strings. The angels & demons may be gone, but Will's sense of violation isn't.
The Story:
It might not even have been a worthwhile venture. With talk of werewolves and angels and superheroes, there was a real press on the psyche to make yourself useful, armor up, don't be baseline. It wasn't something he or others could have changed, of course, barring mechanical minds like Stark's and maybe the hearts to match coming not too far behind. Will felt too exposed to open air again. All the vengeance and doublespeak he'd cloaked himself in Wonderland couldn't keep strings from looping around his limbs and throat, a doll driven around for chaos and amusement.
How could progress be undone so quickly on a whim? Will tried to answer that with the easy pull of a trigger, kick back against his bad shoulder, and the unsatisfying, soft sink of bullets into hay bales leaned against a dilapidated split-rail fence.
Over the course of the next several days, the targets on the bales were torn to shreds and replaced regularly, almost mechanically since Will didn't have anyone to surface anything else for outside of his usual insomniac exhaustion. To the observer, his stance suggested formal training, and for the intrepid adventurer looking to learn self-defense, a former cop wasn't a bad choice. He wasn't the best shot, but he knew where to put it and how. Neither was he closed to suggestion.
There were all sorts of reasons not to bother him, but perhaps there were more to do otherwise.
no subject
And Will teased about Natasha's "bodyguard" job, but (hilariously, like jazz) it's the boats that she doesn't rock that pulls the lens of Will's analysis just a fraction further into focus. He smiles thinly.
"Not a very good one, unfortunately."
no subject
She shoots him a sideways glance at his self-depreciating humor, a wry little smile playing about the corner of her lips. "You don't exactly strike me as the bad sort, either."
no subject
He thinks that maybe if he were a better sort as she says or could fix misguided perceptions, he wouldn't find himself cast in the role of the moodkiller this often.
"You speak with some expertise; does that mean you're going to tell me your real job, or should I keep coming up with new ones?"
no subject