IC contact [Mask or Menace]

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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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[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.]

[slightlyoffchilt]

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.]

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[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.]