« He doesn’t expect to actually strike up a conversation with the man, but as Grantaire was scrutinizing his classroom with some level of interest, it isn’t very surprising. Half-standing, half-leaning against the frame of the door, his unkempt mess of curls bounce when he shakes his head. »
I know who you are, Professor.
« His lips quirk at the corners into a small smile. He wonders if he should let the other know that he doesn’t even go to the school. The strap to his backpack slips from his shoulder as soon as he shifts on his feet, and he quickly drags it back up, stands up straighter to adjust the other strap resting across his chest as well: his violin case. Both of which he’s quite frankly tired of toting around. »
I’m not your student, but I’m curious about the class—and you. Mostly you. I’ve heard things. Curiosity got the best of me, and here we are.
A student of some sort--and...a musician? Will's eyes rolled upward and he removed his glasses and busy himself with cleaning them. "Ah, cheap talk. That brings a lot of people here..." There was disdain in his tone. It got quite tiring, really, having to prove to every single person he met that he was worthy of wandering about in public with the rest of humanity. That he wasn't completely unstable, no matter what crap Freddie Lounds decided to post about him on TattleCrime.
"If you're here to see me do something crazy or unstable, I'm afraid you're going to be sorely disappointed, Mr.--...." Will left the air open for the young man to introduce himself. Not that he'd likely do much but stare blankly, or find reasons not to look at him for as long as possible.
The profiler continued to pack away his things. He had other lectures to teach, and crime scenes to look over. Dogs to walk. Plenty of things he could be doing with his time. Being scrutinized by someone that couldn't have been more than 25--a boy, to Will--was very low on that list of things and he frankly hadn't the patience.













