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infomodder) wrote2016-04-14 08:35 pm
infomodder) wrote2016-04-14 08:35 pm
Entry tags:
IC contact [Mask or Menace]
"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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[Chilton could easily see motivation for imPort murderers, or governmental agents. Either likely had access to the Network -- maybe.]
Edgeworth and Saul, both dead ends. [Pun intended. Though perhaps a tasteless pun, given that maybe Saul was murdered, too. Maybe the killer was taking his time with THAT body.] Typical of the lawyer profession.
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I'm sure she'd understand that sentiment. [Freddie Lounds' approval when it comes to life decisions, whether or not she's even in the same universe, clearly matter.] If you get wind of something other than a dead end, I want to know. I'll do the same for you. We'll keep it away from anywhere too public or easy to find. How does that sound to you?
[Because Baltimore works best when they're working in the shadows anyway.
.....................sometimes...............]
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Gideon is still missing. [Halfway coded, just in case someone WAS watching their phones.] All the more reason to keep it between us.
[Almost like a blood pact.]
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Then we're in agreement. See you this weekend.
[And then, perhaps, a week later, he'll see him when Will realizes that Abigail is not coming back and promptly storms to her old house to take everything she had ever touched. When he grabs up pictures and books and cards and presents and her pillowcase and sheets in a grief-stricken frenzy, ignoring the words Packing up all that's yours as he packs up all that's hers. That's not unhealthy at all, nope.]
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Chilton would have assumed she was just lollygagging like a teenager somewhere, he doesn't even know. Do you want to action this out?]
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Chilton's not wrong to assume that Abigail is lollygagging like a teenager somewhere, and Will wouldn't ever be able to hold that idea against him. Will has the vibrant memory, however, of Abigail telling him she wouldn't run off without letting him know. Of course, that much had been specific to Minnesota, but he felt like the underlying message was that she wouldn't just vanish anywhere. She'd told him before she ran off to Minnesota the first time, after all.
Abigail left and returned once, he reminds himself as soon as he realizes she's not around, which is almost immediately. He keeps April's three month rule in mind. It's possible Abigail can make another appearance from beyond the grave, as whole as she'll ever be, except in dreams, gets kept in mind as well. But what if she returns from moments after, like she had in the first place? What if she finds herself stumbling into a hospital again, what if that repeats? Can the Porter do that, that level of absolute cruelty? Abigail will need somewhere safe and sound after the hospital, if that's the case. There is no more Freddie Lounds for her to rely on. There is no more Abel Gideon, who reminds her of herself. There's just him and, as Abigail had ended up referring to him, Dr. Chilton. When he first sets off for her house, he doesn't take the time into consideration. It's later in the evening, Tuesday, Will looking like he just rolled out of bed. Box under his arm, he's just going to get the essentials. Her pillow. The rest of her clothes. Everything that related to the cat. When she reappears, he'll have all her stuff set up in the guest room. It'll be her room until she feels comfortable moving out.
That was, at least, his intention. Shortly after he starts picking out the basics, spending his time ignoring that framed picture of Abigail and him in the shop, all smiles the likes they'd never been able to afford in Baltimore, intentions get thrown out the window. He pulls out whatever boxes and bags she's stored in her closet and starts to pack up everything. Prison cell tosses are rarely this thorough. Which means that, whether or not Will realizes it, he's no longer being quiet, easy to miss. Anyone nearby could hear what sounded like someone in serious moving mode making a bit of racket in Abigail's room. Abigail's room, which he didn't think to lock when he walked in. Abigail's room, which isn't too far from a certain doctor's. He's solely focused on getting all things Abigail Hobbs packed away and that much would show to anyone who cracked said unlocked door open for a peek because Will?
Won't even hear it, he's so wrapped up in the task at hand. Has to be. If he stops what he's doing and pays attention to one thing, specifically, over another (the gifts she got from friends, from him, the note where he finally told her he loved her), he risks losing all momentum and being found in a much worse state than "frantically tearing up Abigail Hobbs' room."]
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A minute ticked by.
It was coming from Abigail's room. Chilton had often criticized what he termed as the girl's harem, her endless sequence of male companions -- romantic or otherwise. But this noise was surely not theirs; they were sneaks who fileted with Chilton's wine collection.
Two minutes. Chilton poked out his head, glancing in the direction. He ought to be continuing he low profile, he should be considering his conversation with Power Girl. This wasn't his engagement.
Two minutes and a half.]
What are you doing?
[Asked Doctor Chilton, when he peered into Abigail's forlorn room. He shouldn't have been surprised to see Will.]
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Abigail's missing. [He manages to say it as though they're discussing something as mundane as the weather, but the fervency of the situation is impossible to miss, almost pouring off of him. Quite literally, even, beads of sweat gathered around his hairline.] I'm taking all her stuff to my place for when she comes back. She likes it there. It'll—it'll be good to have all her things in. One room. Not two.
[Her things including all within this room other than the room itself, apparently. He's clearly going to strip it to the bare essentials, nothing Abigail left behind. And that picture of Will and Abigail is still untouched, more noticeable when Will's already removed everything else around it and it sits there, staring out, portrait of a life that neither of them would ever know elsewhere. Despite how busy Will is, physically speaking, it's also quite noticeable that he's purposefully avoided so much as a glance in Chilton's direction. He's not about to give him any bodily cues that welcome an analysis of the scene in front of him, just like he's not about to shut the door in his face or give any cues that scream Chilton needs to get the hell out of Dodge. Back in Wolf Trap, he might have. Here? Not so much. This is Baltimore business, after all, and they're currently down to two.]
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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.]
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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.]
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[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.
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...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.]
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[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.]
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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
fowlfoul.]no subject
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.]
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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.]
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[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.]
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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.]
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[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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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.]