infomodder | IC contact [Mask or Menace]

[He's definitely heard it before, and he's not at all pleased with what happened after. That was one hell of a mess, and no matter what intentions might have been in place when this new mess started, if Frederick Chilton is declaring Abel Gideon to be gone gone, gone in the way he could come back, Will's going to take him at his word for it. That he's not playing some game. That this isn't a test.

That he's genuinely upset and Will Graham is the only person he can think of where this sort of discussion doesn't lead to an immediate 911 call and asking him to stay where he is.

Aha.]

I do believe you. [Not whispered, not hollow, void of any of those theatrics from Bedelia that Chilton might have heard. He does, at least, sound sincere.] But wherever Gideon's gone from—is it clean?

[Gideon coming back and accusing Chilton would be a nightmare in and of itself, sure. But if he came back and did as much without any trace evidence it ever happened...well, it could look suspicious, if certain people did some snooping. But what looks really, really suspicious? Fingerprints and hair and shoe prints and disturbances that match a cane and whatever else pointed, without a doubt, in the direction of Frederick Chilton.]

If he's ported out, as well. [After dying, Chilton almost says, before his mouth goes dry.] His body will dematerialize. Within hours. Everything about him, except -- except his wheelchair. [After all, Gideon hadn't been ported in with one, now had he? After he had tried to torture Chilton to death in Heropa.

Chilton was armed with motive, he realized, and another cold wave flooded his frontal cortex. The parallel with Bedelia, overheard long ago through illegal means, left him nothing but chills.]

I wouldn't know.

[He didn't look back. He just ran. After those horns forcefully impaled Gideon, after the blood splattered. After the sluicing sound of opened flesh and shattered bone.]

I have everything.

[Everything he brought with him -- except two bullets, both shot through a wall, and two new casings amidst a forgotten sea of older casings. Everything but his fingerprints on the door handle, the hair and skin cells naturally discarded. All of those things came to mind.

But he wouldn't say that, not over the phone.

He had his Beretta Pico, that's what he meant. He had the gun. But the murder weapon was a pointed elk head, and still simmering in its last triumph against man.]

[Oh great, the wheelchair. That's not extremely damning or anything. Will thinks for a second, but asking for the name of wherever it happened, much less directions, was probably a bad idea. Not over anything that could leave a trace, technologically or otherwise. And he is not about to call Skye to request she wipe it, not for this. This is Baltimore business, no need to put anyone outside of them at risk. No need to involve anyone else.

They can take care of themselves, with a loose definition of care.]

All right. [The lock clicks back, door opens, Chilton's done a good job of motivating Will. Holing up in the master bathroom and having a conversation was way too good to be true. Though he does a good job at keeping aggravation out of his voice, the rushing might work against him actually coming across as steady and calm about it all.] Are you at the house in Heropa now, Frederick? I'd like to come over and see everything myself.

[A dresser drawer gets pulled open, the sound of cloth flapping. This isn't a request. Will Graham is getting dressed and prepared to head wherever the hell Chilton says he is, dog going back out to the hunt. Chilton might not want to look back, that's fine.

Will can do that for him.]

I -- I am. [He had no where else to hide, no other corner to curl against.] That is where I am.

[The rush of this whirled a frenzy in his mind; he heard the movements, the squeak of wooden drawers, the whisper of cloth. Will Graham was on his way. Will Graham, the martyr-knight. Coming to save the day.

Chilton slowly sat on the corner of his bed, his knees curbing like melted plastic.]

I'll be here.

Good. [Please stay there goes unsaid, but Chilton has no reason to run from Will Graham, does he? Not yet. Hopefully it can stay that way.] I'll be over in ten minutes.

[That's that, then. Another promise and he hangs up.

He does the FBI's dirty work for them. Good summary there. No FBI around, not that he was involved with, who else would he do dirty work for, if not the others from Baltimore? Old jeans, a plaid shirt that's clearly faded, shoes that aren't in the best condition—he purposefully picks a wardrobe that can be completely discarded without any real loss behind it but doesn't shout anything strange. He just looks like a regular guy who loves plaid and doesn't have anyone doing his shopping. This isn't the first time Will Graham's come through the front door, and he will definitely be stopping by Abigail Hobbs' room on his way out. He won't utter her name as a reason for why he's there, intends to blame it on the cat should any housemates be out and about and inquire. Came back over because she was acting up, they had forgotten her favorite plaything, and she was now wreaking havoc on the house at large. Will simply got up and walked from one part of Heropa to another, he wouldn't be long.

He could not serve as a proper alibi for Frederick Chilton, not with this. Staying too long, no matter what path they decided on, wasn't the wisest course of action, as far as Will was concerned.

Abigail's door opens first, if her housemate is listening in, waiting. Opens long enough to sound like someone's gone in before the door shuts, and then nothing. Quiet footsteps lead to one room he's been curious about, the three knocks he delivers to the door perhaps louder for the former silence.]

Frederick?

[Perhaps Will sounded more like a friend now, than ever before, when he managed to say his name with absolutely no bite. Worried, hopeful, soft, not at all like the bitter Fredericks he so often had to deal with when he had Will, however briefly, caged and clamped and collared.]

[He hadn't left. He had barely moved from the corner of his neatly tucked bed, the only indication of his gradual migration were the wrinkles left behind. Chilton was standing before his bookshelf, his face in his hand.

He jerks into motion, when Will knocked -- and then his name came, affirmation of his honored guest. Chilton blinked, unused to the gentler tone his name took, from Will's mouth.

First time for everything.]

Come in. Lock -- lock it behind you.

[He hadn't began to pack yet. But it was on his mind.]

I think I ought to leave. Heropa. Don't you?

[A gentler tone and no issue with obedience, not this time around. He turns the lock as soon as he's told to, gives the room a cursory glance, and slides his hands into his pockets, slowly meandering in. Away from the door so that he can't be overheard without any help but not seeking to puncture personal space, not if he can help it. Will doesn't look at him, specifically, until the question hits, and then one eyebrow lifts just enough to be noticeable. Is that rhetorical? If it's meant to be rhetorical, how can Will change that? Hrm. He shakes his head, clearly disagreeing with the idea, taking a second to gather his words.]

I think you ought to find an alibi, and you can do that in Heropa. [Delivered in as even-tempered a tone he can manage, advice instead of demand.] Leaving looks suspicious.

[He knew Will was right, he understood that logic. But all Chilton could concern himself with was his practice, his reputation, the skin cells that had abandoned him when he pressed Gideon on about Hannibal Lecter.

Hannibal Lecter. Even here, even now, that man haunted him. He haunted all of them.]

The call I placed to you eliminates you as my alibi.

[Chilton's shoulders sank, and his pressed his palm to his right cheek. His chest rose and dropped quickly -- the prelude to hyperventilation.]

I cannot use you.

[Words he loathed to say in any context. But beneath the skin of brittle words, he was asking: what alibit?]

[He takes a measured step closer, focus moving from face to chest to clothing, not at all hiding his fixation on Chilton's shoes. He couldn't be used as an alibi, but he could certainly be used to make one. One that used people outside of Baltimore, of course, hoping that Chilton doesn't usually avoid any and all interaction with the others in his house to the point where him moving around would be seen as strange.]

Make yourself visible in the house. When I leave, go to the kitchen. Get a drink, a snack, something. [Still staring at his feet, though, ignoring any similarities to certain conversations about working in the shadows.] Pass by the windows. Take a shower. Keep the lights on. If you're here, you can't be anywhere else.

[Abigail's been holed up in the guest room at April and Will's place. Otherwise, he'd add something about how Chilton can't use her, either. But with her out of the equation, he just swims right along.]

You'll need to get rid of the shoes you wore tonight. And clean your cane, if you had it with you.

[if—somebody's well aware of how unnecessary that third leg is, and draws attention to it by drawing absolutely no attention to it at all. Those words don't hold any additional weight, Will doesn't raise his eyebrows, doesn't indicate he's known about it and finds it sad or despicable or clever. They're just discussing facts.]

[He stiffens at the if -- Chilton had been using his cane only decoratively, and inconsistently, but Will Graham was the first person to assert something about it. It was a quiet assertion. Polite. Indirect. And yet, Chilton still stiffened; while no subjective judgement was delivered in conjunction, the psychiatrist thought he could feel it.

Projection, most likely.

But even that minute detail laid bare how much Chilton needed Will Graham right now. While he was in no condition to pinprick at these details, Will was.]

I didn't. Have it with me. Consider the shoes gone.

[Chilton trembled, and then took a step towards his bed again, intending to sit. His knee gave a little ways -- practically stumbling to it. He met the mattress with a turned him, and a twisted hiss of frustration.]

I didn't want this to be the next consequence. I was only talking to him, talking to him about Hannibal.

[Will's lips twitch, a hint of a smile, approval. That makes it easier, if anyone goes snooping. There are no marks from a cane, no sign that one has been in this place recently, how could it have been poor Doctor Chilton? A shady, deceitful argument, one marinated to work in his favor. That vanishes whenever his footing gives away, Will reminded of Peter in spite of who he's seeing. Rather than reach out to offer physical support, he pulls back, turns away to give Chilton some privacy, and is glad for it when the name Hannibal hits the air.

However relaxed his posture might be, for Will Graham, there's definitely a stiffening in his shoulders. The dreaded H-word. If there's one topic of conversation destined to lead to danger, he'd be at the top of the list. Joining that name with the mentions of consequences makes it impossible for Will not to tense. How long can Will Graham avoid talking about Hannibal Lecter when he's prompted and not stuck in a hospital bed? Forever, if possible. He's doing the same old wandering routine he'd done in Hannibal's office, though. Some things don't ever change.]

I believe you. [Words that Will would have appreciated hearing more than once, starved for any recognition that he was innocent, that the world around them all was still in danger, offered up lightly and without hesitation or bitterness. Which might contrast starkly with his next question.] Did you want me to go back over it [the scene of the crime] and take out anything that could lead to you, or leave it alone?

[A bloody rag has been stuffed right into the FBI bloodhound's nose. Good manners dictate he ask how Chilton wants him to proceed, if he wants him to proceed at all, once the rag gets blown out and the leash taken off his collar. That doesn't mean Will has to follow the preferences stated if he deems them in poor taste, of course, but it's always polite to at least present choices.]

[Nerves, Chilton told himself once the humiliation settled. It was only nerves. The shaking of his hands, the weakness in his knees -- who wouldn't be nervous? Physical signs of a manifested anxiety were hardly groundbreaking. This isn't abnormal.]

If... You could. Take a look.

[His heart palpitations squirmed, then eased to a relatively normal pace. The idea of Will Graham hunting for him, protecting him? Irony that did not escape Chilton, and nor did the subtler implication: Will Graham had inducted Chilton into the pack. In a meaningful manner, not merely in terms of shared historical value. While this might have happened much earlier, only now did Chilton fully embrace the depth of what that entailed. Will Graham's empathetic nature eclipsed their mutual (and past) conflict.

Perhaps because of that mutual (and past) acquaintance. Chilton, despite his weakened bodily slip, did not miss how Will reacted to Hannibal's name.]

You're probably my best shot.

[Words from a man who thought he could control how Will hunted.]

[If he could—Will ceases his wandering, might come across as abrupt, as if Chilton's words have stopped him in his tracks. But he seems focused on a certain book slotted in Chilton's shelves a second later, so perhaps not. Any sort of distracted-yet-still-present-and-listening appearance he might be aiming for is ripped away by the vote of confidence, has him turning to look Chilton straight on. His face, no longer shying away from eye contact, not wanting Chilton to think Will's getting some sort of giddiness off his nervous stumble.]

I'll need some details, and then you can consider it done. [More mirror than man, huh. He might have said "I'll need the details I can't piece together on my own" but that opens doors best left closed, that Will's doing it to step into Chilton's shoes, that Will secretly wants to see Gideon in such a state or watch his body quickly decay, that Chilton doesn't need to tell him anything because he's capable of figuring it all out on his own. He might be very good at that, but he generally has more time, time to be wrong, time to miss things, time for tests to be run. Now? Not so much.] An address, if I'm looking for anything outside of fingerprints, shoe prints or impressions... [A half-assed shrug of his good shoulder follows, like they could be discussing a topic as mundane as the weather, and then he leans against the wall by the bookshelf. He's not sitting but he's still, a willing captive audience. Help me hunt to the best of my ability. The devil might be in the details, but Will's no stranger to trying a bit of deference to get those details.] ...just a basic rundown would be good enough.

[Welcome to the pack. Unlike the strays he takes in, Chilton will probably be expected to return this favor later on. It might not be worded as such, might never come up in that exact manner, might not even scratch the surface of equality in terms of trading this for that, but. It'll be completely obvious, whether Will intends it to be or not. Chilton has shown he gets it; even if he's yet to go through that particular talk of you did not run and patsies, doesn't matter. He still understands plenty, double-edged sword that understanding is.]

The taxidermy and hunting goods store -- it was foreclosed. Recently. The off-skirts of downtown Heropa. Carthage Company. [Chilton clenched and unclenched his left hand while his right sat under his thigh. Obscuring his adrenaline backlash with motion would help, he thought.] It was called Carthage Company. 1981 La Marsa Avenue.

[Chilton isn't thinking of the implications right now, as his fight or flight mechanism gears to a calmer pace -- now that it is done, now that Will was taking care of it. He wasn't considering that this would leave him indebted to Will Graham, that he would owe the man who helped him cover up an accidental murder. He wasn't considering how this left him exposed and vulnerable, how he would have to treat Will as an approximate equal. He didn't consider the blackmail potential. He didn't obsess about Will thinking like him in order to clean up his dirty business.

All of that would flood his cortex the moment Will left for the scene of the crime. But now, in this frozen minute, Chilton was only desperate and grateful.]

I shot over his head, into a wall. That wall, I suppose it was rotted through, it held a mounted elk head. That became... Dislodged. And it plummeted, into Abel Gideon.

[He exhaled, his gaze dripping to the floor.]

It's only two bullets. Two sets of casings. I used a Beretta Pico registered to my name.

[This gets worse and worse the longer Chilton talks. A store that offered taxidermy. An elk head, meaning there would be antlers, not that Chilton had knowledge of that feathered stag, the nightmares and hallucinations about antlers. And then he goes and drops the figurative bomb that no, Will can't just take care of hair and prints and the usual. A gun registered in his name, bullets stuck in the wall.

Jesus Christ, it was going to be a long night. But hey! If Gideon managed to dematerialize completely in the time it took Will to see everything through, maybe he could take the wheelchair, too. Because that wouldn't look suspicious at all, wheeling that bloody thing down the road. He's just holding it for a friend, he might be back, he'll need the chair if he comes back. God. He says only two, and Will's face screws up. Yeah, easier to say when he's not the one who's taking care of it, but Will doesn't vocalize that. Chilton was already showing enough physical unease, it wouldn't be sporting for Will to rattle him further.

Should've given Chilton those gun lessons for Christmas, he thinks. Hindsight is 20/20 and all.]

Got it. [This could be worse, it really could. It could also be better, but he'll take what he can get, here and now. That's is a good enough rundown; Will pushes off the wall and makes his way across the room, steps controlled and quiet.] I'd suggest you give your Beretta Pico a thorough cleaning tonight. If anything's leftover to connect you to the Carthage Company, it won't be found there.

[There's hunting for trophy or food, and then there's obliterating entire acres of game while throwing Greek fire at any signs declaring the closed state of hunting season; Will's intent to do the latter. He reaches for the lock on the door, stops to make sure they're done, again completely unconcerned about leaving his prints on the knob—in Will's opinion, hiding any evidence he was ever here to the point it seemed he'd never once stepped foot in Frederick Chilton's room might alert suspicions. People from the same world could visit each other, couldn't they?]

Is that everything?

Edited 2015-03-02 00:35 (UTC)

That's all. [Folks. Thank god he didn't say that bit aloud -- it was slipped into his mental narrative like a hangman's noose, all smiles at the gallows. Looney Tunes. That's where his exasperated, gnawing at hysterical, mind went. Looney Tunes.]

And, Will?

[Chilton sat up, properly, meeting Will with the same eye contact that the other man had granted him. Every miniscule detail of this harrowing exchange would be analyzed, and the thematic context of Will coming to his rescue would be dissected thoroughly. This would rupture whatever distance they previously had.]

... Thank you.

[Chilton might have found himself at a loss had he gone that far, but Will wouldn't ever be able to hold it against him, wouldn't remind him of it. He'd gotten into the head of a serial killer and thought up Sesame Street, of all things, as a method to express disapproval and disgust at a ruined design. They were all finely tuned with lunacy, in their own ways. What else was there to do at the gallows other than smile when one's fate was already sealed?

Unless Abigail Hobbs was in line next to him, of course, then there was no room for smiling. Here and now, Abigail's safely tucked away and not for the same motivations or purposes Hannibal held her with, and Will does smile when he hears those very, very polite words. It pays to be polite, and it pays to hold eye contact once he gets it.]

You're welcome. [There goes the lock, Will opening it just enough to get a peek out the door, to make sure no one else is down the hallway. Coast clear, he swings it only as much as he needs to slip through, unusually friendly smile vanishing as that distance closes.] You have a good night, Frederick. I'll talk to you later.

[He can hold Will to that as much as he had the last time, as much as he's holding him to his word about cleaning up this antler-laden mess. He's going to do a thorough job, but not until he stops by Abigail Hobbs' room, fetches a silly cat toy, and makes himself both audible and visible to the house at large again. Plenty for Frederick Chilton to analyze and dissect, and Will wouldn't expect anything less.]

IC contact [Mask or Menace]

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action y/n? https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rsPa8QgGGkc

y and for a moment i thought that would be mmm whatcha say and i was like oH NO

that might be reason enough to slot the notif straight to spam

but it only meant well

just like imogen heap when she shared that song with the world

well of course she did

walked right into that one didn't i

all for a good cause

mmm so you say

;)

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