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 ]

Comments

mmm so you say

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[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.]

;)

[slightlyoffchilt]

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.

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[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?

[slightlyoffchilt]

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.

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[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.]