maskormenacelogs | what have you got to lose --

Entry tags:

what have you got to lose --

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Damn it," he said, balking at the sight of Gideon's insidious wheelie. The tire clutched at the plank, preventing a swift escape from the very man who attempted to murder him -- twice, now. Gideon was a fine ally abstractly, when they could scheme against Hannibal in the safety of their own respective spaces, but when the two were in the flesh? Chilton was not so foolish as to underestimate Abel Gideon, even with the evident disability hampering the serial killer.

"You're going to ruin the railing!"

The plank moaned against the clutch of the ship, coarse wood scrapping against its gleaming, polished brethren. Chilton winced at the wheezing material. It was a rental.

"Just -- get in, then, just get in."

It was true, that Gideon and Chilton both were survivors, and it was true that the safest immediate place was secluded to where Hannibal couldn't get at them -- but Chilton appreciated how the former surgeon was practically sharkbait to the other former surgeon. The risk rising was distressful.

Edited 2014-07-26 18:55 (UTC)

Smirking victoriously -- however fleeting the feeling may have been -- Gideon gripped the controls of his chair and pushed himself up the ramp with only a mild degree of difficulty; it was a steep climb but not a long one, and with momentum alongside his upper body strength he made it onto the boat without much trouble.

Still, once aboard he exhaled out a breath, slow and controlled, and took a moment to admire the ship's design.

"So how long have you had this, then?" It was asked casually, as if he were commenting on the weather. "Planning an escape?"

"Excursion. I'm planning an excursion," said Chilton, his sneer accompanying the returned rhetoric. "Despite your clearly prevalent belief, I am not always scheming my hours away."

Sometimes he enjoyed showing off his hours, for example, and basking in the warm glow and appraised self-image. Chilton dropped his shoulders, rolling his eyes upwards -- a visual that was lost behind his sunglasses. It was a minor loss, and one that bode little meaning within the grander context; Gideon was already familiar with Chilton's theatrics, and how often his showboating proved to be overcompensation for his insecurities.

"I began renting it once I received my promotion." Chilton glanced at Gideon, grinning broadly. His eyes lingered on the missing leg. "Did you never dabble in seafaring adventures, Abel? What with your lucrative surgical career, long ago as that was."

"A permanent excursion? I can imagine very few who would complain."

Gideon was not one to spare the tongue, especially where Chilton was concerned, but it also made for adequate conversational diversions, however brief they were. Gideon did not want to talk about himself even now, but he knew also that Chilton was capable of detecting that -- he was infuriating that way.

Fingers curling around the armrests in his chair until his grip was tight enough to leave the knuckles white, Gideon kept his expression more or less impassive up until he allowed for a mild sneer.

"Was known to fish, on occasion. It was either that or golf," he said softly, snidely. "But never had a boat."

He and his wife had once discussed it in their earlier years, for after retirement.

"I'm quite relieved that your accident didn't cripple your humor."

Chilton straightened his spine, puffing out his chest. The test of dominance between them never seemed to find a secure conclusion -- or at least, not from Chilton's point of view. And that point of view was likely the singular one that determined a test of dominance ever existed. Chilton started the ignition on the boat suddenly, zooming with an inordinate amount of thrust for exit dock movement. He had done that on purpose, and it showed in his smirk.

"Never had a boat? Pity! I guess you never had time to build up your sealegs, then!" Shouted Chilton over the roar of the motor. He had a reservoir of Gideon-specific jokes.

"It--" Although Gideon didn't have a chance to get the rest of his sentence out; the sudden thrust of the motor and the boat moving forward caused the wheels on his chair to slide backwards, threatening to take him with. He managed with some effort to jam the breaks on the chair in time before he rolled all the way to the other side of the deck, but he had to wait until the movement of the boat evened out before he could move himself forward again.

"You did that on purpose," he muttered disdainfully, his arm throbbing with soreness at the shoulder already. "I should point out that to rent won't impress anyone, Frederick. Especially not Dr. Lecter."

"If my goal was to impress Hannibal, don't you think I would be a little more direct?"

His voice pitched a few higher notes, marking that indignation acutely. The insinuation that Abel served was a bitter one; Chilton remembered well the little chitty chat that he and Hannibal Lecter had shared together, that one day in BSHCI. Had Chilton anticipated being discussed in such raw terms, he would have exhibited a tendency towards more boundaries between the Chesapeake Ripper and his Chesapeake Ripoff.

But Gideon knew him better than Chilton was willing to admit.

"We're simply going to exhaust ourselves, if we keep going at the other's throat," said the man who had started the bickering. "Especially since our mutual concern is Hannibal Lecter himself."

It was somewhat liberating, to be able to say that aloud. Chilton glanced back at the coastal line, his boat now gently gliding through the waves.

"We have Danger, I suppose, if he ever plans to provoke us directly. But you know Lecter doesn't employ only one method of attack."

"Well who can really tell with you?" But Gideon knew better indeed. Impressing Hannibal may not have been a priority any longer, but he didn't doubt Chilton would still be making efforts to appease Hannibal should their paths cross... and they would.

That aside, Chilton cut right to the point and it was one Gideon could agree with. He shrugged his shoulders slowly, tilting his head forward in an extremely subdued nod as his eyes flickered out over the water. Just in case, just in case.

"We did have an agreement," he said, acknowledging their truce in as mild of terms as he could. "Although I would say Danger may be too risky an implement should she be compromised."

By Lecter himself, was the insinuation.

"Do you think I would compromise her?"

It was not what Gideon had intended for him to interpret, but Chilton naturally flung himself into that unspoken territory. Perhaps it was because he had seen Danger's fury, perhaps because he knew Danger would never ally (or even alloy) herself with Hannibal Lecter now that she was aware. Perhaps it was because Chilton was not poisoned with a psychological bout of encroaching paranoia.

"Because, if anything, she is fundamentally rejecting the prior authority that I've had over her."

It was confessional; Chilton had allowed Danger to dominate him, he had buckled under his own growing attraction to her steely persona, and the consequence reverberated. She had installed cameras, security equipment, surveillance into his bedroom, his house. She extended her dominance beyond the agreed realms, as Chilton considered it.

He pulled on the ship's wheel, taking an arcing left out to sea.

"Didn't say that, did I?" Gideon responded cooly, voice quiet and icy, his eyes resting on Chilton without budging. Indeed, Gideon had not been opening conversation to discuss Danger at further length, but then, Chilton would do what he would. At any rate, it wasn't much of a surprise.

Though what Chilton went on to confess was tempting to pursue -- it was bait, but good bait; relevant to Gideon's own curiosities. He pressed his lips together, gripping his hands tightly to his armrests as he continued to watch Chilton with a steely, wary gaze.

"Is that so?" He finally went on to add. "Then perhaps you already have."

"She's more than a mouthful, Abel."

It wasn't just ambling conversation, not when Danger was involved. She was a high stakes prize for the both of them -- or that is how Chilton contextualized the matter, anyway. If they were intended to share her attention, her affection -- Chilton eased the motor of the yacht, clenching his jaw tightly. Clamping it. He looked over at his bound guest, staring at him.

Chilton was aware that Danger spared little affection towards his own person.

"What is she, to you, exactly?"

He inquired bluntly, with a nearly monotone delivery. Highly unusual for a man of Chilton's flamboyance.

"What do you see, when you look Danger in the eyes?"

The air between them, thick with the scent of salt and sea, felt heavier then, but Gideon wasn't deterred. He remained where he was, eyes still fixed on Chilton the same way they had been.

He thought about Danger. What is she, to you, exactly? Could he answer that question? If he would was a separate matter, but could he? "Not so much into labels, Frederick," he began. Which was true, although not really the issue. "Danger and I have yet to find a need."

He tilted his chin outward, just a touch smugly as his eyes slightly narrowed. Quite honestly, and a bit flatly, he added: "I don't see anything."

"You're without a label, together," he said, the sarcasm thick against his tongue. "You two are something so novel, there is yet a name to be conceived for it?"

Chilton would have harped on about that, too, swept by his indulgent tangent -- but he thought about what else Gideon had said. That he didn't see anything, while looking into Danger's eyes. The statement could be interpreted in a multitude of ways, of course, and it was more likely that Gideon chose to speak literally (she was more often than not a robot, after all), but Chilton seized upon that opportunity.

"She might misinterpret the relations you two have," he mused, aloud and grandly. "If you don't see any future, in her gaze."

"No need to be jealous," Gideon said curtly, not confirming nor refuting Chilton's analysis of Gideon's assertion. That hadn't been exactly as he'd intended his meaning, but he was happy to let Chilton think that. Better than admitting that he simply didn't know how best to define their strange arrangement.

His lips curled slightly, revealing a thatch of teeth in the humorless smirk that formed.

"Never said we would have a future. In fact..." Gideon turned his gaze out over the water, a little contemplatively. His eyes seemed distant in a way his memories could only ever wish to be. "I've made it very clear I'm not the sort of person interested in forming relationships. At least not the kind you're suggesting."

"As I am well aware," replied Chilton. He knew, of course -- he was the man who drove home such concepts within the nascent days of Gideon's adolescent dissociative identity disorder. He arced the boat in a gentle crescent, bringing it broadside to the land they had left.

"But does Danger realize your true form? She appears to be overly fond of you."

Jealousy pinched his cheeks into that sour smile. Danger was unquestionably more fond of Gideon's warmth, frozen as that was, than Chilton's own temperature.

"I've not been misrepresenting myself," Gideon replied, returning his eyes to rest on Chilton as his expression once again neutralized itself. His head tilted again, casually inclining to one side. "And," he continued, in a confident tone. "Can't be held responsible for conclusions someone may form independent of myself. Not a mind reader. Not that I need humor your paranoia any longer, either."

His lips tightened.

"So how much sailing experience do you have?"

"We lived by the Chesapeake Bay," the psychiatrist replied, and spoke in such an acerbic tone as if to mask the fact that his answer was something short of an informative answer. In truth, Chilton had applied to a couple area country clubs -- the more academic-dominated ones, the kind that bred Georgetown scholars -- and was (as he would phrase it) "still waiting upon reply".

No replies would come. Both clubs had nautical outlets. Chilton enjoyed the image of sailing more than the actual effort of it, so he had tried his hand only enough to get licensed.

Abel Gideon, he thought ruefully, was probably a member of three clubs, at least.

"Does she not take you at face value, then? Is it because she's caught wise, and realized how untrustworthy you are? How uncooperative?"

Edited 2014-09-11 15:25 (UTC)

In fact, Abel Gideon was not, at least, an attending member, though he used to have an ID card or two stowed in his wallet. Medicine was a game of prestige, but Gideon had never buckled to the social responsibilities. Country clubs bored him, a man with refined but still relatively simple tastes, although his wife had found them a fascinating study.

Funny, those things that still did linger in his mind. Gideon's lips tightened further, his eyes somehow growing even colder.

"Can't say," was his flippant response. "She doesn't seem to have any problem with the way I am."

The evident nonchalance that Gideon wielded so easily forced a snarl out of Chilton. It was agonizing, to watch his former patient adapt to the constant existential crises that Chilton himself had provoked upon the man. Two years of dedicated work and two separate occasions of traumatic revenge suffered, and all for what? Hannibal's undesired cannibalistic attention? A constant, unbridled fear of prophesied humiliation? Nothing?

Gideon might not know precisely who he was, but knowing who he was not nevertheless provided a springboard. He was working a long process of elimination.

"Physician, heal thyself," muttered Chilton.

Gideon was not a romantic. He was not prone to jealousy. He was not an extrovert. He did not need people, not like Chilton did. Gideon was a man at ease with his loneliness, now that his ability to trust was forever compromised.

"Should we leave Will Graham to him?"

Abrupt change of topic, mostly to distract Chilton from this train of thought. There was no need to clarify the him.

More seriously, Gideon's expression darkened, his gaze distancing somewhere far, far forward. He was still right there with Chilton on the yacht -- himself, his thoughts, his consciousness -- but he certainly looked as if he were traveling someplace far off to field his thoughts.

He tilted his chin upward, his head slightly to one side. He of course did know exactly who the him in this context was, and made no comment on the change of subject. It was, he felt, a relevant one. Significant for discussion.

"I think," he began slowly. "That we've protected Will Graham as far as he can be protected. And should he cast such help aside, then anything further will be on his head and his alone."

That was a yes.

"So that no further consequence may come down on ours."

He took a breath.

"I'm steering us back," he said. The finality in his tone broke something unusual -- this was not up for debate, this crystallized syllabic control. And Chilton recognized that, how he had control in their immediate movements, if not the grander scheme.

They would leave Will Graham to his own fate. It was for the best. It was, truthfully, for their best interest. Simply not being perceived as a threat wasn't enough, they needed to defend themselves with a human sacrifice.

And both Gideon and Chilton could agree on Will Graham. There, in that idea, was another flicker of power. They could make this decision, they could take this path.

"It's going to work out," he said -- more to himself than his passenger. That realization of his audience didn't hit until Chilton had docked his rented yacht once more to its landing.

"Very well," Gideon said, glancing out over the water again as the sides of his mouth quirked up in an aimless smirk. There was no particular cause for it except that he could sense very clearly that Chilton had broken out of his more neutral tone into one of less veiled discomfort, which amused Gideon on the faintest level.

Well, discomfort was an improper term. There was resolve there in Chilton's voice, but Gideon could sense apprehension about working together beneath it. It was only natural it would be there.

"Staying a step ahead of the competition shouldn't be too hard," he continued, as the boat docked. "Just requires a bit of vigilance."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

what have you got to lose --

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject