what have you got to lose --

[slightlyoffchilt]

WHO: Chilton and OPEN!
WHERE: All Around Heropa.
WHEN: July 8th to July 30th -- just indicate what day in the header please!
WHAT: This thus includes: psychiatric sessions, dinner reservations, coffee gallivanting, whimsical meetings of any any sort.
WARNINGS: Will update if necessary.



The sweltered gasps of summer whispered heavily onto his cotton button-ups and tailored blazers. Inspiring as the warmth and light might be (what better way to flesh out the contours of darkness?), Chilton struggled with his composure in the heat. And the heat flickered in more than mere temperatured conception; there was the metaphorical heat of sparring individuals, his own psychiatrist's history of violence and Borderline Personality Disorder, the cannibalistic ghouls of his past (and future) swaying back into his (endangered?) life. The stress was remarkable, plastering itself in the crooks of his neck, in the curve of his spine. There were fleeting fantasies, when he wondered if Christine had the right idea: escape Heropa for something more remote, something more brisk. But of course, that proposition was contrary to everything he had worked for -- Frederick Chilton was now an Attending Psychiatrist at his hospital, with a fascinating flow of imPort minds to analyze. This was a system he had wanted, the structure he craved. The brief hiatus from work he had taken lasted only three days, and even that was wholly in response to Karla Sofen's physical aggression (and consequential revelation). A minor setback. But with newer patients like Billy Kaplan (General Anxiety), Tommy Shepard (Anti-Social Personality Disorder), Erwin and Levi (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder), and now Godot (... in which the jury's still out), there was a cemented allure to remaining within Heropa's embrace. Not to mention his longer-standing patients, the individuals who suffered the verge of identity crises (his favorite crisis), like Doctor Connors and Kanaya. Not to mention his project with Danger, a situation that sparked new height of unethical relations. And certainly, his promised patients, the ones he was only starting to sink his fingers into their synapses...

There was no true impulse to abandon any of that. He savored every atom of that foundation.

The sun implored blistering antics against his back, and he weathered the heat graciously.

Comments

[slightlyoffchilt]

Unshaven. Of course.

Chilton's first thought encapsulated into three words, as he opened the door to invite Will Graham into his residence. He had not given his remaining housemates any head's up, of course -- and that would include one Abigail Hobbs. But it was a quiet Sunday, and he could account neither for her or for Troy Barnes. The house was silent. Nill was gone. Kate Kane had pronounced her effort to evacuate Heropa long ago. Hans's old room was nothing but a redecorated lounge, now.

That's where Chilton had led Will, up to Hans's old room. Everything that could possibly have remembered its prior inhabitant, any morsel of familiarity about the Prince had long since been scrubbed from existence. Squiggly chairs and modern, minimalistic edges now graced where royal blood had walked. Chilton didn't offer anything, not immediately, when he closed the door behind them; no promises of water (bottled, or otherwise), no nutritional distractions. He was keeping his options opened, for the tone -- this did not have to be a hospitable visit.

"I'm glad you could make it."

Those were his first words addressed to Will Graham, as if there was some nascent skepticism he carried about Will's fortitude, or his statistical survival, that Chilton carried beneath that gruesome scar Gideon had long ago carved.

He had chosen the lounge because it was not infiltrated by the surveillance devices that Danger had installed, unlike the kitchen, the living room, or Chilton's own bedroom. Conversation had a better chance of remaining private.

"I was hoping we could, ah, discuss a few mutual acquaintances," he began, his gaze glancing to the side. "Starting with one Hannibal Lecter."

[infomodder]

It was no secret that Abigail Hobbs meant something to Will Graham, so when he followed, he made no attempt to hide that he was looking at the house for reasons other than finding something to compliment. No matter what sort of expensive wallpaper or paint jobs might have been done to it, that wasn't a priority, wasn't what he was looking for. The smallest sign of her would be spotted, filed away, and any voices in his head whispering how easy he could find her perhaps having something to do with how he'd sniffed out her father's madness like a bloodhound were ignored, had been ignored since he saw her face on the communicator. There could have been art that belonged in the Louvre hung up all over the place and he wouldn't have paid it more attention than he paid anything else that was also not pointing straight back to her.

Chilton wasn't much of an obvious focus once he'd been led through the door, though Will doubted his scrutiny would have been taken kindly, considering the main thing that flitted through his head was how he handled the cane and whether or not it was still a necessity at this point in time.

He'd read and watched along a few times, talked to him once, but the loss of Hans didn't hit him in any real way, so while he knew full well that it was once his room and Chilton didn't like him much and whatever was Hans about it must have been long gone, he couldn't bring himself to look into it. He had brought himself to look how to sit in various types of chairs, but after being met with designs meant to help with back pain for workers stuck in cubicles, he gave up. However Chilton sat, he'd watch, perhaps mimic, and be done with it.

If he noticed the additional surveillance scattered throughout the house, he didn't say anything about it, didn't mention it when they came into a room completely barren of wires and cameras hiding in places most people wouldn't think to look. He strode right on in, hand extend to run over one of those strangely designed chairs. Chilton's gladness about his being able to make it (what, did he think he'd go into hiding?) was met with widened eyes and a slow, exaggerated nod. Sure you are. It was polite without being insulting, didn't deserve Will making a snappy, defensive, juvenile comeback in return.

"Starting with the mutual acquaintance you insulted and then lied to?" Which could honestly be said about Abigail Hobbs as well, but the lies weren't anything Will had to digest quickly and work to follow as if they were truth. He drummed his knuckles against the armrest, looking at Chilton straight on, longer than a few seconds, for the first time since he'd opened the door. His voice was definite, didn't want to deal with Chilton arguing that he had no idea what he Will was talking about. This visit didn't have to be entirely hospitable, no, but he'd rather it not end up as an argument that was more insulting to the intelligence of both parties in the room than anything else. "Put me in the position to lie to as well?" Whether or not Will had lied wasn't being stated, but he wagered that Chilton would know he had. He'd leave out the conversation with Gideon for the time being, leave his name unspoken. "I think discussing Hannibal Lecter would be the best starting point for us, Frederick."

If they could it end it before they got to Abigail Hobbs, that would be preferable. He remained standing, not to keep his height, not to look intimidating, not to give Chilton the honor as host to ask him to sit first, no. He had no idea how to approach sitting in these bizarre, wavy excuses for chairs without it looking completely wrong, and he had no problems letting Chilton take the lead in this one regard. Sit across from him and still, Chilton would have no idea what it was Will was hiding.

The few things that mattered, Abigail Hobbs and Nicholas Boyle and her being the lure, could not be pulled out of him even under threat of death. So what if Chilton knew about a lonely childhood or missing mother? So what if he ended up with details surrounding showing up at Hannibal Lecter's home without warning, or at his office door without being aware he'd just driven for hours? None of that meant anything.

Couldn't mean anything to someone still operating under those wonderfully manufactured scales.

[slightlyoffchilt]

Chilton wrinkled his nose at the accusation -- not out of distaste, or even for the sake of a loose claim to innocence. It was because imPorts proved numerically limited, and that fact alone vastly extended the overlap of what could qualify as mutual acquaintance -- and Chilton, for his own part, so often insulted and lied. Raising his chin half an inch higher, Chilton angled his nose so that he could look down at Will; the adjustment took a few precious seconds.

The context that the accusation was born into had clarified what individual was being discussed, true, and Chilton couldn't have known that even Will conceived of additional possibilities to fit that description -- but the psychiatrist would have found the matter intriguing, if he could pry into Will's brain, like some unfortunately empowered telepath. Would he find much of a mirror, lodged between empathetic neural surges? Will Graham and Frederick Chilton both had a grasp on the latter's moral incongruities, after all.

But Will continued, with a halfway rhetorical. That drew Chilton's attention quite sharply.

"You don't need to take his side," he hissed. Hackles on the rise. Chilton glanced over his own shoulder, a motion that suggested internal theatrics. He had yet to assume a seated position. "You don't need to play heroic defender here."

Roles, that's what he was suggesting -- and hot off the heels of his archetype address to the Network at large. They were both playing a role, right now, and some part of Chilton feared that even this detail culminated as some ministration of Hannibal's grand plan. How much has been anticipated, already? How much had Hannibal discovered? What had the man standing across from him, right now, revealed to the cannibalistic murderer?

Will could think what he'd like, but the reality was this: Chilton was playing a defensive game, and he did not much enjoy rounding defense. He was afraid that pressing against Hannibal's guard dog (assuming that, indeed, Will Graham was without doubts) would induce severe backlash. How would one describe Will in metaphor, if not rabid? Hannibal practically injected the virus himself.

But Chilton wasn't going to illuminate the disease -- only the symptom. He was afraid what Will would do if he tried, he was afraid of his insight getting back to Hannibal. He was afraid of fatal consequence. It was terrifying enough, that the Chesapeake Ripper likely already understood that Chilton knew something -- and, really, it would be even worse if Chilton once more forged the very sword he would fall upon.

Careful, calculated defense.

"Have you been talking with him much? Have you been keeping him company? Dining with him?"

Chilton had scoured the newspaper every morning, for reports of missing locals. But even this quiet precaution was insulting, wasn't it? As if Hannibal would allow his feast to be found if he didn't want the infamy. And Chilton had every reason to believe indeed, the man did not.

"I need. To know. If he has spoken to you with regards to -- to the Chesapeake Ripper," said Chilton. His boldest move yet.

[infomodder]

Chilton physically, openly looking down his nose at Will earned him no reaction. He had roamed the halls of the FBI as part of it but not good enough to carry the coveted title others he worked with had to their name, taught students who were hoping to get it for themselves, and while he may have been the keenest hound in the entire pack, he still wasn't quite right. Wasn't on an even keel. He was well aware that there were some who wondered what his deal was, why he was there if he couldn't perform like everyone else, who looked down their nose at him for it—just not to his face, not to Jack Crawford, not where either of them could see it, not unless they were higher along the food chain and would face no retribution for it. To have that made obvious, completely unabashed and without any attempt to hide it? It was still rude, of course, but different, refreshing, and he couldn't put any effort into acting like it bothered him.

The mirror that reflected the best and the worst without any effort, more suited to a fun house than a hallway, clothing store, or private bedroom. Not really something he was inclined to share.

Hissing, hackles raised, on the defense, the approach had all immediate juvenile comebacks washed away. He hadn't meant to play defender, had no intentions of taking up metaphorical armor as some sort of squire, and the insinuation left him visibly puzzled, eyebrows knitting together. The room might not have been bathed in every sort of light imaginable, but Chilton was doing a damn good job of putting numerous lights on him whether he realized it or not. Stuck in a strange world, he'd made a fine place for himself without much of any influence from home, and who had come along? Will Graham, FBI consultant darling was one thing, a dog who could have his snout muzzled for the price of what the hell is the wrong with me? and remain on the edge of the picture, only a threat if he had reason to be. But then came Hannibal Lecter, psychiatric darling, revered and accomplished in every single way, the first person anyone with a problem should and would go to, anyone who had the honor of home address, home phone, being able to walk into his office after hours without it being too inappropriate—was that it? Even Abigail had worked in some damage using the mere name of Alana Bloom. Will must have been something of Hannibal's sloppy seconds, leftovers that didn't fit into Chilton's microwave and had a habit of metaphorically exploding all over the clean sides as opposed to warming up nicely, of behaving. A patient who had gutted him and a patient who had been a pain in the ass was one thing. The presence of someone in his career and seen as better—that was something else entirely.

Will's confusion and simultaneous looking at him in a new light kept up during the questioning, every ounce of his attention focused on Chilton and nothing else. Tense as it was, the mention of the Ripper charged it further, and he gave up standing there like an idiot and swung a leg over to sit like one, more suited to the back of a horse or a parked motorcycle than a chair. But to lean back would be too close to implying he was comfortable, and he sure as hell was not.

"We have breakfast at least once a week," he started with, words weighed and slow, tasting each of them as they came out. "We haven't talked about the Ripper." Said like someone who didn't believe there was a threat from the Ripper here. Hannibal being the Ripper, if that was the implication (wasn't it), was going ignored. The idea that Chilton was bringing it up because he was the Ripper himself was so absurd it didn't even strike him. Abel Gideon had never been the Ripper. Freddie Lounds took pictures, didn't craft them herself. Abigail Hobbs had the wonderful alibi of being in high school. "I'm not taking sides, Frederick." It could be argued he already had when he took a hold of Chilton's lie and Gideon's discomfort and veered the conversation with Hannibal accordingly. "I'm not your enemy and I'm not Doctor Lecter's heroic defender. He can take care of himself." It was Abigail that Will would turn into the most frothing of rabid guard dogs over, would go up to bat in the way that he shouted at Jack Crawford, sunk his teeth into SHE'S INNOCENT and didn't let go. "And I don't tell him every single that's said or happens to me, so you can drop your ears."

He ended sounding more disappointed than confused, looking from Chilton to the door. If there had been a drink involved, now would have been the time he took one and knocked it back. Leaving that dog reference open to interpretation (telling him to stop being aggressive or to stop being afraid?) might have been a little unfair, since Will doubted Chilton had much experience with dogs, but he wasn't about to expound.

Life wasn't fair.

Life in the Chesapeake Bay area didn't know that the word existed.

[slightlyoffchilt]

"I would sooner accuse Doctor Bloom of being your heroic defender, if anyone is playing that role."

It was meant to agonize, to cauterize, his words like a firebrand cut knife. He knew how Bloom had considered Will Graham as guilty -- he knew that he had saw the logic of Hannibal as the true Ripper before Bloom did, if indeed she ever did. He knew Will Graham understood that this was meant to sting the way a warning bite stings; sharp, pinpricked, painful but not bleeding.

A reminder of the world neither were privy to any longer.

Chilton drummed his fingers along the arm of his chair, scowling momentarily. Will Graham's promise that he wasn't leaking every detail to Hannibal wasn't particularly comforting, but it was better than nothing. It was better than the alternative. Still, Will proved flighty on the details, and Chilton knew it would be nothing short of a ragged fight, if he sought to gnash away hints. His ears wouldn't even twitch downward, as it was -- the adrenaline of fear and anticipation (panic and aggression filtered through a sneer) kept his veins vibrant.

"But I'm not here to discuss Doctor Bloom," he ushered. Another sort of doctor fogged his mind. "Is Hannibal treating you?"

That was the next domino of succession; was Hannibal inserting his fingers once more into that still-trusting brain of Will's? Was this going to be a problem? Chilton was prepared to ally with Freddie Lounds and Abel Gideon both, if it meant cajoling Will into some anesthetic compromise -- Chilton couldn't ignore the tingles down his spine, when he thought about what Hannibal could do with Will, in Heropa or De Chima, or whatever took their mutual fancy.

"Because I could sign you off as healthy, if you require the documentation."

He put his cards to toilet: a royal flush. Desperation was exposed with this uncanny offer.

[infomodder]

The bite stung, effective in having his lips draw into a thin line and looking back, Chilton once again his sole focus. Aggression without the panic, a rabid dog who knew that no matter what he did, he was not allowed to bite as he might like, because bad dogs did not meet good ends once they proved how nasty and vicious they could be. It was all there, that specific brand of hostility Freddie had spoken of and he'd never known it worded quite that way, Will sitting perfectly still but with skin nearing the crawling point.

He had heard worse, he reminded himself, a constant when it came to any interaction with or about Frederick Chilton. He'd been through worse and been unable to leave during it, which needed to be kept in mind, was part of what had him so verbally quiet. A sort of Chilton-specific count to ten without the deep breathing only...everything else seemed to be bristling. He didn't know when he put one hand up on an armrest, but if he had been gripping a living creature that way, it would have caused it pain.

"I work in a bait shop." Immediate and desperate to be definite, Will just about barked the moment the unexpected offer hit the table. Perhaps his job now seemed too low, too ill-fitting someone with his talents, but he would take it and hold onto it come hell or high water. He couldn't do that, however, if hell or high water came with a certain style of death to it. "Stay on call in case boat motors malfunction down at one of the marinas or elsewhere. I can breathe underwater now. Sometimes that's helpful." No need to spend time and effort dragging a stalled boat back in as long as there was access to such a handy pet—saved money, saved resources, got Will a few nice connections. No, he wasn't running in elite circles here and didn't intend to. But certain members of the elite did appreciate a marina, a yacht, a good boat, didn't they. "I don't need documentation. Doctor Lecter is not treating me. There's no reason for me to undergo treatment. We're just—"

The briefest pause in what would have otherwise been close to word vomit. He couldn't argue that he had never treated him because it wasn't official, couldn't use the word friend, couldn't quite his finger on what they were and how to spin it in front of Chilton. As abruptly as he'd started, he switched topics, tempted to get up, to pace, even if Chilton would take it as a sort of victory and Will being incapable of admitting it in some way.

"—is this part of some power that has to be done in person, Frederick?"

It was uncanny, as so much had been since he and Gideon's arrival back. He could stuff it and save it for later digestion, could growl instead of anything else. It would be easier to do that if they could get onto another topic as opposed to rot in the topic that was Will Graham's head being declared healthy by anyone. Hannibal had done it and things went downhill for just about everyone.

Abigail Hobbs was proof of that, proof that Chilton might have seen more than Will. Seen more of that proof in ways other than living with her.

[slightlyoffchilt]

"Your audience is necessary."

It was the colder of replies, something vague and quiet. He didn't comment on Will's defiance -- the address of his bait shop, the status of his well-behaved months past. It didn't matter to him that Will Graham had been thus cured of his brain infection, and that his usual abnormal status quo had been calibrated once more for some time now. The very fact that Hannibal Lecter lurked within this world negated the pattern that Will had established -- as long as that virus of a man was mingling amidst polite company, Will would always be open to infection. That was Chilton's concern, though his sentiment was hardly born out of humane affection. Chilton recognized Will Graham as the strongest defense against Hannibal, and if he and Freddie Lounds (and even Abel Gideon) were to survive, they had to ensure Will Graham's success as a protective tower.

Lightning struck at the highest sky points first, after all. Those that stood the tallest.

Chilton saw himself as Hannibal's counterargument, if in fact the former surgeon could and would ensnare Graham once more. Legally. Hannibal had framed for murder once, and thus he could surely do it again. But it wouldn't serve Chilton to simply and explicitly expound upon his precise reasoning -- again, he felt more secure with Will halfway obscured in shadow. Information was a weapon, and Chilton would not fall upon his own sword.

So the pretense was a show of power. This was pennies to the dollar on the knowledge trade, and Chilton was happy to misdirect when necessary. It was a logical investment.

"See, outside? I have an excellent view of the street."

How lucky that there were no basements in Florida. Chilton would have undoubtedly had been regulated to one by the other housemates, and then his demonstration would have suffered.

He pointed to a car, a pretty red convertible. And, upon making a fist, the car turned on -- and revved, angrily, loudly. Then it pulled out of the lot and made its way over to their side of the street.

"The obvious joke aside," he said. "You should tell me, if you require a quick getaway."

[infomodder]

Will had no idea what to expect when it came to powers, had heard and seen enough to suggest that he would never be fully prepared. He had been witness to one Karla Sofen seeming to just vanish, to disappear, to turn into nothing rather than deal with an excitable dog. Handy, the way she had done it giving off the vibe that it was completely normal for her. He could fix a broken glass just by touching it as easily as he could see at night, Freddie Lounds could turn things to leopard print, and his roommate was a talking wolf—he had long ago decided that trying to figure out what people would be given here was a waste of time and had given Chilton the benefit of the doubt that this power display didn't involve being able to set something on fire with the snap of his fingers.

That protective tower followed along, so happily obscured in shadow as he was, looked out at the street, and reached a hand up to his front pocket where, ah, no glasses. He hadn't brought them with him, but it was such a familiar gesture he couldn't stop it, got a frown out of him when he realized he'd come unprepared.

But then there was the sound of a car coming to life, which took all his attention. He couldn't properly see it where he was, even as it came closer. It wasn't enough, and the mention of a joke was what had Will getting up, carefully moving to better see out that window. Chilton might have noted the way he kept out of his line of sight, uncertain if that would break focus, if that would result in the car either shutting off entirely or going off course, potentially dangerous when it didn't have to be.

"Reminds me of your car back home." As much as it could, at any rate. Will had nothing to add on Chilton's choice of car, had added something to Jack Crawford (fear had made him rude) when they left the first time and was hoping it hadn't been repeated. All joking was going ignored, because none of them were in any way pretty. None of them reflected well on either of them, so mum was the word and Will leaned a hand against the wall, peering, his tone of voice far less icy and bitter. Almost companionable, tolerable, two guys talking about cars. "You control all of it? Headlights, radio, the trunk?"

The display of power prevented talk turning back to Will's bill of health, so he would give Chilton the opportunity to show everything he could do. His interest in this was undeniable, however—he'd been a poor boy who grew up without access to the most basic of Saturday morning cartoons, had never had the option to just turn on the TV and get lost in worlds where this wasn't so strange. No matter how deep his problems with Chilton ran, it was impossible not to pick up on the fact of that matter that part of Will, a childish part, found the ability to drive cars in a way that made it seem no one was behind the wheel extremely cool. Something buried inside the unshaven mess still had the ability to find joy in an otherwise bleak world, a part of him that might end up completely obliterated by a virus he had yet to put up his own protective towers against.

"Wouldn't want a quick getaway without Steve Miller playing."

Chilton could show off. Will wouldn't hold it against him. Not with this, not if the look on his face was anything to go by.