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"Gone fishing."

[ so don't leave messages to ruin the after fishing glow !!!

your one stop shop for not leaving him alone ]

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[Missing. It resonates with Chilton in a manner he previously thought he was immune to; not because the psychiatrist felt any personal connection to Abigail Hobbs (beyond considering her to be troublesome, sometimes delightful, and a lens into Will), but rather because of what that countdown entailed. First Alana, Abel, then Freddie, now Abigail.

No, no that wasn't quite honest: Hannibal had been here, too. First Hannibal, at the very beginning. Had he done something? Was this all a patient domino effect? Why was this happening to them?]

I -- [Chilton's eyes dart to the piled clothing in that bag. Missing.]

I doubt she would leave you. Intentionally. Which means if she comes back is... Up for debate.

[If.

But Hannibal had come back, hadn't he? Briefly, and in variant forms. What did that mean? Further proof? Will wasn't looking at him, he was running with his feet planted, spinning. This, his worst possible outcome, Chilton could see it consuming Will Graham. He became a tornado, self-perpetuating. Tormented and denied. In denial.

Chilton walked over to the untouched photo, and extended his hand to touch it.]

[Will's already considered that option, has been around long enough to know some of how this place functions. Chilton's not giving him anything new to mull over (or put off mulling over), makes it easier for him to continue on in that spinning, turning socks inside out before putting them in their couples. Saved for last, her scarf already stowed away in the middle where no one could see it without having to do a little digging.

Frederick Chilton invades and Will makes no move to stop him, acknowledges the new presence only in how he might move around him, if he has to. Let him see, give him less to extrapolate. Work in the light for once, and, oh, it's impossible to hide in any shadow when he catches where Chilton's hand is going. The sound of the frame moving away from its surface hits his ears like an out of tune kettledrum, larger and louder than it has any right to be. In fact, Will's almost certain he imagines it, that there was no noise at all except for what plays in his head. What stops him in his tracks, has him staring at Chilton with the last pair of her socks held limply in front of his stomach. He takes in the picture as though he's never seen it and is afraid he'll never see it again if he dares to look away. This isn't the fear of seeing what sort of reaction such a display might pull out of Chilton, what he might analyze this all to mean. This is pure, unbridled horror over the loss of Abigail Hobbs.]

She has nowhere else to go. [Slips out, thick and terrified, because however much Will might hope that help arrives to that house immediately, there are four people with severe injuries waiting on said help, and while Will might argue and scream for them to see to Abigail first, last he remembers...he wasn't able to do even that. Will tries to keep from vocally choking, stumbles despite himself. It's clear that where he might be unable to keep himself from thinking about it, he's kept himself from saying it.] It's only been a few days. She'll be back.

[How many times has the psychiatrist in the room heard the delusional put forth their delusions in an effort to make it true, knowing that's not how it works? Will Graham is adding onto that number without being trapped at the BSHCI.]

None of them have come back yet, Will. Not for any solid length of time.

[His tongue is like a scalpel, slicing into the psychodramatic fog flooding the room. Chilton's thumb rubs over the glass of the frame, over Abigail's head, and rests there to her face. To witness Will Graham in this disarray was delectable. The distress didn't exhibit in his voice or his expression, and the fact that he could dissociate those emotional displays so thoroughly was interesting in itself. But his movement, his frantic saving, his scouring the room -- that was what Chilton breathed in.

And now this denial, so rationally spoken aloud. She'll be back.

Chilton moved to show Will the picture, with his thumb still covering Abigail's head.]

None of this will help you. Materially.

[The psychiatrist's way of a pun, almost a joke -- but at Will's expense? He couldn't bring himself to believe that, not in the wake of Will Graham's invaluable use concerning Gideon. But as grateful as Chilton was for Will's help, he couldn't divorce himself from his own impulses. Here was Will Graham, practically dissected with the coming of grief. Practically loosening the screws, just as Chilton waltzed in.]

Perhaps you should come with me? We can discuss this matter.

[That's the ticket, that right there. Of course Abigail would be the ticket, had been her father's golden ticket, unfortunately hadn't been able to escape it. Sharp tongue doesn't get him quite as much as removing Abigail, Will turning unusually still when he spots where Chilton's thumb has covered. He dares to show it in full view, Will stuck in place. Unmoving but tense, not the calm before the storm. Anything calm has dissipated, jaw clenched tight. The first time he's been completely halted, quiet, and focused on Chilton ends up with him looking on the verge of lashing out. Snatching the picture, leaving an impression of his fist in Chilton's face...

...a few impressions of his fist in Chilton's still-whole face...

He won't. Thinks Chilton knows as much at this point, is that part of why this is so delightful to him? Because he can poke and prod and Will won't react in ways that might have Abel Gideon tipping his hat from the great beyond? If he had a hand to tip it with, that is.]

Are you aiming for discussion— [He breaks that immovable, coiled stance, tosses the socks at the top of the bag and flips over some clothing that didn't quite make it all the way in, the hem of some jeans, a bra strap. It's natural, fluid, from ready to bite with frothing, rabid fangs to quietly taking care of the mess at hand.] —or telling me what's best for me, according to you?

[That's never gone horribly wrong before. For anyone. Ever.]

I'm all you have now.

[Which wasn't precisely true; Will had April, Will had friends and acquaintances beyond Chilton's scope, well beyond the psychiatrist's spheres of influence. But while the wording held vague parameters, the sentiment was forceful. Doctor Frederick Chilton was all that Will had from their Baltimore. Doctor Frederick Chilton was Will's only connection to the same world that birthed and raised Abigail Hobbs. Without Chilton in his physical manifestation, his fleshy being, Will only had his memories.

And Will's memory had proven to be somewhat porous at times, hadn't it?]

And considering that I am all you have now, surely you see the wisdom in what I know to be best for you.

[Chilton shoved the photo at Will, having made his point. The tactic of Abigail's erasure was a calculated risk, but Chilton knew the gains were weighted against whatever painful risks Will would conjure.]

[Will absorbs the words, stays with jaw set and giving off the vibe that he is nothing but irritated. That hard exterior starts to crumble, bit by bit, as soon as the picture comes back into play. He looks at it again, doesn't spend time weighing outcomes and risks and options, simply frowns. Lets his face twist up with grief, sorrow, misery. An honest emotional response, no working up to fake tears in order to win help or comfort or anything else. It's raw, what Chilton might imagine Will would have shown the first time around, if he hadn't been arrested and surrounded by FBI, everyone trying to figure out how it had come to this, how he'd murdered her. Raw and genuine and unabashedly on display for an audience of one.]

She liked you, you know. [A quiet peace offering, coupled with an overwhelming meek nature to him. When he reaches out to take the frame, he's slow and careful. Not that he thinks Chilton would be spooked by any quick movements, not these days, but Will doesn't bow his head or have a tail to tuck between his legs; this is the next best thing. If Chilton hands it over, throws the bloodhound a bone, Will would give it a brief glance before putting it on top of the pile of clothes in that bag (very gently, of course). If he doesn't, Will won't snatch it. But either way, the whole humbled, sad visage stays in place, victory to Chilton (for the moment), and Will finally follows down the path already laid out.] Lead the way?

[While he risks giving Chilton some big head about it all, following his lead, Will honestly doesn't mind. It's always nice to have a physical reminder that people aren't afraid to turn their backs on him, literally, because he's a cannibalistic serial killer who can't be trusted. They both win there, no harm no ~~fowl~~ foul.]

[Chilton does not resist Will's movement for the photograph, and he makes no kinetic mention of it; he stands still, watching Will with unblinking eyes. His state of disbelief wasn't unpredictable -- for so, so long Chilton had felt that Will Graham was unattainable as a studied subject, and then the man was practically ruined by Hannibal's mechanisms. But perhaps Hannibal and Chilton both had underestimated Will's resilience; he had forged a new life in this dimension, from Heropa to De Chima. He had found new strays and reclaimed old ones. He had touched hope, only for the rest of Pandora's Box to tremble back into his life.

And here he was, standing with Chilton in this room that was no longer Abigail's. Asking Chilton to lead the way.]

Oh, Will. [I thought you'd never ask.] I will make sure you don't suffer that same loss.

[It was an absurd promise, something that was less up to Chilton and dictated more by the whims of fate -- but Chilton, bathed in that warm golden glow of triumph, said it. And he thought he meant it.]

[Is that false pity, or thinly veiled triumph? Oh, Will. He doesn't know how to take that, exactly, and it shows. A flicker of confusion over a grieving face trying desperately to keep together his threadbare suit, though this confusion comes void of any suspicion or bitterness. He won't ask after what that Oh, Will really means. Better that way. He might get bullshit as an answer, and it's easier for both of them if he doesn't press for that.

He promised Abigail the same, a promise without the "promise" part being spoken but a promise nonetheless. He wouldn't leave her, never, and soon after? The Porter decided to remind him that promises were so easily broken when it came to people, regardless of their intent. Chilton was the first of them to make a trip to Baltimore and find himself back here, surely he knows the risks. Surely he knows that Will is completely aware how empty those words are. Surely he knows that despite being unable to control when and who is lost, someone offering reassurance they'll stay in spite of it is still so, so, so nice to hear. Especially when it's Will, who Chilton has openly discussed using isolation as a measure of safety. Unattainable as a study subject, yes. But in other ways, not at all. Not as much as he might "happily" pretend otherwise.]

I'll remember that. [A poor joke delivered fully aware of its poor taste, the half smile on his face an attempt to prove he could discuss the matters of Abigail Hobbs just fine. He could be just fine. Look at him, fixing the sleeve bunched at his elbow and generally fitting in with the rest of the human race, he's doing just great.] You got any of that booze like you used to keep in your office around?

[Brandy? Whiskey? Cognac? Scotch? Something fine and expensive and far more cultured? It's probable that Will knows full well what was resting in Chilton's fancy decanters, but he's not the epitome of refinement, never has been. So it's booze he defaults to as he physically falls in line, ready to be led, hoping there's something stronger than water for him to drink at the end of it all, and by God will he drink. There is no need to go on a murderous spree for Will Graham's attention. Just make him a few empty promises and put a glass of something alcoholic in his hand, and that dog will be happier than a pig in slop and follow without nipping heels. Here and now, he's only got Chilton to raise his hackles for, to watch from the corner in his sad dog bed, to bark at on the occasion it's necessary someone speak up. Here and now, the only person he has to latch onto in that dogged fashion is Frederick Chilton. The only one who might recognize it for what it is, at least, who knows him regardless of how much Will dislikes being known.

Here and now, Will does just that, simultaneously latching onto a somewhat comfortable familiarity to combat the roller coaster of losing Abigail Hobbs. Again.]

Oh -- in fact.

[The desperation (or, as Chilton would prefer to classify it, the camaraderie on sudden display was as surprising as it was delightful. Chilton didn't take his eyes immediately away from Will, having the urge to note down all the nearly imperceptible hints at whatever narrative was flowing through the man's mind. The grief was palpable, yes, but Chilton was more interested in Will's own reaction to that grief. The continuation of his own company. The asking to stay.]

Do you like cognac? [Rhetorical question, since it's what he was offering. Chilton stepped out and strolled over to his cabinet, on the far side of the room down the way. It wasn't an ideal placement, having a liquor cabinet in one's room, but Chilton really couldn't trust... Well, Abigail with the access otherwise. The way one altered behavior because of the behavior of interpersonal relationships had always been a fascinating angle of study.

He expected Will to follow. Two tumblers, a few shots each. It was almost civilized, this fresh-cut grieving process.]

[Follow Will did, though anything truly desperate was kept out it. He doesn't follow too closely, he doesn't physically mope in the way he shuffles like he's ready to collapse to the floor. An outsider could just as easily view it as two people, one obviously sad about something or other, going off to talk in private. No big deal, there, right?]

I like just about everything. [He does stop and look at Chilton for a split second as he gently takes that tumbler, curious how a man with one kidney might need to play the drinking game. Or not play the drinking game, as it were. But Will can't talk too much, there, having left the hospital near Heropa and immediately gone back to business as if he hadn't taken a knife to the gut. If Chilton wants to drink, by God, let him. Will's not a doctor, what the hell soapbox does he have to stand on? None. He'll reveal that a bit more, looking down at the drink as he swirls it.] April's work isn't lucrative and I only get anything really good by fixing boat motors in my spare time for people who can afford those sort of gifts. Like is a bit feeble for how much I'll enjoy this cognac, thank you.

[Desperation for a good strong drink, even, he was desperate for a lot, right now. And as long as Chilton was willing to provide, it seemed that Will was quite content to stay. A bit of respite and companionship with someone who knew details, who wouldn't blurt out questions about why he was even so shaken up about Abigail Hobbs was rare and precious and something he couldn't lose. He'd have to alter his general behavior with Frederick Chilton more than usual—which meant that, if he indicated a place for Will to sit, rather than meander around like he didn't know any better and wasn't doing it on purpose, he'd just plop himself down. Something that might be considered a victory, but carried its own danger. Will had eventually graduated to sitting in Hannibal's own office chair because he'd made it so much of another home away from home for him. He could be caged, and arguably go through his own sort of domestication, but this dog Will Graham would still get up on the couch or bed or wherever else meant for humans without hesitation. It's inevitable.]

So I'm to be your exclusive tender.

[That was a bit of a pun -- bartender, perhaps, but tender as in caretaker? Also an intentional sort of meaning. However, Chilton wouldn't dig into Will's open wound in this conversation; that would be too obvious, too clumsy. Chilton's subtlety game had evolved since Hannibal's lecturing, and the former Chief of Staff now appreciated what the gestures of trust could win him.

He had Will. He had Will in an exclusive, psychiatric sense. Now was not the setting for a battlefield; it was but a wake. They would drink to memory and loss and agony, and that experience would bind them. Then later, in quiet moments that didn't resound with echoes, he would prod and poke those wounds.

Chilton was an opportunist. Every tragedy was an opportunity to someone.]

Edited 2015-04-05 18:59 (UTC)

[If Will picks up on this as some set up for later, to win his trust with a moment of silence, a what? Balm to a burn to make him more inclined to come back to Chilton later on? He doesn't show it. The sad fact of the matter was that as soon as Will realized Abigail was gone, perhaps truly gone, he knew that meant there were two of them, and all his Baltimore loyalties would eventually shift. The protectiveness over Abigail, the worry he had for Freddie, the odd kinship he shared with Abel Gideon would all have to go somewhere. There was only Frederick Chilton to shoulder the terrible burden of Will Graham's focus.

Chilton would have to do something very, very extreme to risk losing Will. And even then, it was just risk. Possible that he'd come back with his ears perked up not too long after. Did he know that?]

If you want. [He doesn't have it in him to protest or fight, currently. He doesn't want to. He has good booze in hand, takes a hearty swig of it, drinks to this unholy idea of tenderness instead of finding it repulsive, why would he have anything to complain about?] Just don't frame me as a serial killer and try to convince me and everyone else that it's true and we'll be fine.

[Jack shooting him? Best friend. Alana refusing to listen to him about not being a serial killer? She's great. Freddie writing all that shit about him despite knowing otherwise? Gotta love her. Hannibal's the only one he's got really big issues with. Friendship with Will Graham: just don't be Hannibal Lecter, and we'll be like peas in a pod.

He can't use Craig's List to find another Matthew Brown, after all.]

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