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WHO: Frederick Chilton and Kate Bishop
WHERE: A BURGER JOINT. No, really.
WHEN: Thursday evening
WHAT: Making Chilton eat real meat. Also an evening of mutual respect (or so Chilton wishes) also called a date only not so much.
WARNINGS: None.

There were a number of temptations in place for this evening's arrangement. Although several things told Kate that she would be better off canceling this arrangement, she decided to ignore those warning signs. If Chilton knew better, he would not spend the evening trying to apply psychiatric practices to their conversations. For the most part, she noticed that he skipped doing that with her. Certainly, he did seem to be interested in her, and she did grant him some genuine degree there, but his treatment of other people did not leave her thinking of him with much high regard.

The truth was, she couldn't really write someone off simply because he was unpleasant. But she also didn't appreciate the idea that decency could be granted sparingly, to individuals that someone liked but not the greater populace. Then again, that could have been that terminally good part of her. Actually, Kate knew that was the case. She wondered if she could nudge Chilton into believing his error there.

Well, no one could fault her for trying, right?

All the same, she waited that evening for him to arrive. Her outfit was much simpler than it would have been if she had any kind of budget, but it was nice enough: a typical pair of black dress pants, shoes that looked expensive but weren't, and a form-fitting sleeveless top. It was good for a March in Florida, at least. She also had on a silver necklace that hung loosely. It was simple, and nowhere near what she'd normally wear ... but Kate will take it.

Plus, it fit her plans for the evening: a more casual venue, especially after her dinner earlier in the week. Also, it would serve to see how Chilton would handle that.

Her choice was somewhere to have burgers and cheap drinks, and that was where they were, already having their food ordered. "I actually feel my age," she said unnecessarily, half-wondering how he'd respond. Of course, much of this was to see how he'd respond.

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Frederick Chilton arrived in a suit and tie. According to the pleasure of his own taste, his navy blue blazer and dress slacks bore a deeper resemblance to black; he wore the cousin of an unsettling Van Gogh. The look wasn't quite balanced with the lighter blue cotton button-up, and the navy-and-dark-gold stripped tie knotted around his neck. His ensemble was quickly acquired, soon after the first two weeks of his employment. One of the many perks of Registration, he reasoned.

When Kate spoke, Chilton threw her a sidelong glance. While seated before her, face to face in a cheaply vinyl-padded booth, she had caught him with words while he glanced around at the rest of the clientele -- judging quietly. Most were, predictably, young people. Vinyl-padded establishments attracted those with a sense of irony, or limited cash funds.

"Do you?" He asked in rhetorical, his eyebrows pitching higher. "What age do you normally feel like?"

He didn't inquire what was her age, because despite his habit of cruelty and sarcasm, he wasn't about to be so rude to Kate Bishop. She was right to think he played favorites, and he liked her company. Besides, if she could drink legally, she was at least twenty-one; that was good enough for Doctor Frederick Chilton.

"I, uh," he said, following up. "I suppose I thought we'd be heading somewhere else."

That was the form his apology took, to explain his attire. Chilton dreaded the idea of packet-born ketchup spilling anywhere along his clothing, though he suspected he'd be the only one upset.

Edited 2014-03-16 16:29 (UTC)

"Older, but it's an illusion," she replied easily enough. "Back home, I go to benefits and business meetings with my father's business. Even if I'm the youngest in the room, it's hard not to feel like I'm on the same level." Level, rather than age, because she knows age, in so many ways, was a thing that was pertinent to how someone felt. Kate had recently had her own age-related anxieties, as she found herself as a burgeoning adult grouped with individuals who were much younger.

What was her place with them? Where did she fit in? Would her age come to work against her?

But the others had alleviated those concerns, so she was (in some ways thankfully) back to feeling younger most of the time. Settings could change that, like she alluded to in her reply.

"And I did something nicer earlier this week." Some part of her appreciated that he was overdressed, because she knew that he would have dressed that way regardless. He struck her as the type of man who did. "You don't mind, do you?" she asked a beat later. She wasn't terribly concerned. And it wasn't as if Kate was a particularly cruel individual, but she wondered how many dots he would connect, and how he would respond to said connected dots.

It was a test, really. Kate didn't believe in playing games with people, but she wasn't sure how to respond to him or take him in most contexts.

"Not at all," he replied, his smile manufactured in its poise. He understood the game afoot -- after all, the man was an educated psychiatrist, and one who managed to grasp a rather celebrated job (from a psychiatrist's perspective) back in Baltimore. While the likes of Will Graham would elude his analysis, Chilton was nevertheless skilled in his trade.

This was the sort of dancing he had plenty of experience in.

"Surely your nicer thing proved something of a different nature -- after all, like you said, it's pleasant for you to feel your age once more." He smiled as he spoke, before sipping on the cheap red wine he had ordered. The insinuation was subtle, but present: surely Kate could feel more at ease, more natural, around him.

"So I take it that it's been a fine week?"

The game was up, which she recognized the moment that he twisted two things against her: the attempt to make him jealous and the whole arrangement for the evening. There was a part of her that knew that there was a limitation of his willingness to flatter her and go along with her, but she wasn't sure she would reach it so soon. Then again, that also meant that she wasn't giving him a lot of credit; Kate would have to go back to the drawing board on that.

Instead of forcing the issue, tapped her fingers on the table in front of her. A conversation spacer, and she had a feeling he'd be able to see her trying to figure out a new way to approach the situation.

She ultimately decided to go with being natural. With being herself. No more game, because sometimes that sort of thing could work in her favor, but there was a point when someone's behavior started to make them into the bad guy. That was one thing Kate Bishop refused to be at any point.

"It's been great. Productive," she said, punctuating the second point with a nod. "I completed my assignment. At least, to a degree ... dealing with events isn't the same as mapping out a park." Kate had ideas for what could happen in the park. But that was different.

"How has your week been? Have you found any patients?" See, she even sounded genuinely interested, in part because she was nosy (on this subject, at least).

He took a deep breath, holding the oxygen within his lungs almost possessively. Chilton noted her pauses, her changes of pace -- it was impossible for him to turn off the observation, even if he desired to do so. This was how the man interacted with people: he analyzed. He thought he had yet to find a mind that was wholly impenetrable (unbeknownst to him, of course, Chilton could only know his dear friend Hannibal by the shadows thrown against a cave wall, another canvas entirely. The analysis could be accurate enough, but the source manipulated him). And while retraining his own behavior involved acknowledging his wealth of personality flaws (for the sake of, what, being pleasant?), Chilton found it much easier to decode interpersonal relationships through code.

And right now, Kate seemed to have moved from Vigenère to Morse. Chilton needed the breath to recalibrate, to adjust against this direction. Perhaps in another, lesser person he'd find the movement agitating (or take it personally, as he sometimes did, however irrationally) -- but Kate Bishop was simply delightful. She seemed acute and engaging, and he felt warm within her presence. That was enough for him to rationalize honesty, even transparency.

"Some have come to me, yes," he replied. His nostril flared; the wine was absorbing heat. "I've set up appointments with two, possibly three individuals. Others have called in, though not within a structured capacity."

The tone in his voice suggested mild displeasure. His habit more often wore him.

"But I can adapt to this sort of consignment affair, if it enables better outreach. Most of the people who exchanged words with me on the topic seemed to maintain some preconceptions of psychiatric help -- for better or worse."

It was the ones who didn't have experience who would prove more responsive to opportunity, he figured.

"There is one who, ah. I'm very interested in." Chilton lowered his voice, leaning closer to Kate, his mouth forming the careful words of a conspirator. "You saw him, I believe. With the museum. The one who calls himself Lucifer."

The one whom Chilton has struck golden a deal with.

On an average day, Kate was someone who was aware of herself, and aware of the minor reactions she had to any little thing. It was something she couldn't help, and it was definitely the result of growing up and dissecting herself. She was still in that phase. While she was still the type to jump into a gunfight without thinking twice—that was only natural—she started to look at her own reactions to the world. It was only natural as a sensible conclusion to the way she approached the world.

But just the same, his confessional moment was met with a disbelieving sound escaping from her throat. Some part of her wished they were still playing a game; if they were, that little piece of information could be met with a careful question to pry more information out of him. She could pretend to be uncaring.

Instead, she just looked concerned.

"I know this is ironic coming from me," she began. "But you're not one for self preservation, are you?" Kate knew it wasn't the most tactful of questions, but it didn't feel like it was misplaced.

He stared at her, for a moment -- the complexity of emotions rivaling for attention within his mind, each surging for the stage: indignation, caution, the warmth that came along when someone might appear to care. The avalanche building soon evaporated under the solar flare of incoming food.

Their waiter (if one could deem the burger jockey even that much) dropped off their dinner without sparing too many words. Chilton's inward focus snapped, shattering outwards once more.

"I look at him only with professional interest," he said, his attention absorbed onto the burger that he began to cut with his knife and fork. "Clearly he is an unhinged individual, and it's only a matter of time before some authority asserts control over him."

And I want to be there, is what almost whispers past his lips. He wanted to be there at that crystalline moment, he wanted to psychoanalyze Lucifer.

The fact of the matter was that he had proved her point: he didn't have a single self-preserving bone in his body if he wasn't thinking this through clearly. She tugged up a fry and munched on it while she watched him, trying to figure out the correct words. It was a purposeful lull in conversation, and Kate herself looked at Chilton with a mixture of confusion, contempt, and pity. More than anything, it was apparent to her that he was a man who was way in over his head. She could hand the dimension jumps, the sudden powers when she desired none, and everything in-between; Kate had been practically raised for this moment.

But he was not. That was the important part.

"Frederick," she finally said slowly. "I hate to be the bearer of what should've been obvious, but there was someone named Gabriel, there was someone named Lucifer." There was a pause, as she wanted him to digest this. "Where I come from, you start not to doubt the writing on the wall. And the writing says you just told me that you want to offer psychiatry to the devil."

She wanted to be sure he understood that. Very sure, because even if he treated people like they were subjects, like they were means to an obvious end, she wasn't going to let him do what was similar to jumping off a cliff just because he had a weird fascination with psychopathy.

Which was another problem altogether.

He quirked an eyebrow, tilting his chin to a cutting angle outward -- just enough so that his eyes fell lidded to a degree. The expression was one guarded, suspicion soon igniting after that brief ember glow of considering what expressed care might entail. The combustion, it seemed, was unsuitable to Chilton's tastes.

"Here's a little therapist trick, Kate, free of charge: patronizing isn't going to prove persuasive," he said, with a roll of his eyes. His thumb and index pinched at the neck of his stemware, the red wine rippling from the subtle strength of fingertips. Chilton understood the risks inherent -- it was simply that his own ambition gripped his spine. It's wasn't that the man lacked self-preservation: he would readily sacrifice others to save his own skin, or bend whichever way the more violent gales blew. It was that there were, indeed, a few things that Chilton valued more than a compliant, comfortable life. That much would have likely been evident, given his chosen career choice. But he had neglected to detail his life at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, outside of its appropriate name. The decision was a cautious one.

In the given context, he was sure that Kate simply didn't understand him, or that she had ignored the evidence implied. Chilton kept company with homicidal and unhinged individuals more than he did neurotypical ones -- in fact, for all his talk of dimensionally displaced trauma infecting the imPort populace, it was the aggressive need to adapt to that inversion that sunk into his subconscious, that motivated him to accelerate his manipulative processes over particular patients at hand. His daily hours of weeding through relatively healthy, common minds was what scrubbed at his bones, rather than the sharp twist of incredibly unlikely events and previously unseen science. He found those things stimulating, if only because they provoked his observed borderline case studies.

That being said -- he glanced at her again, chewing on his bottom lip. Some neurotypical minds could still nourish something, some saddled pang that he could feel, but wouldn't articulate. Psychopaths thrilled him, absolutely, but perhaps he could learn to enjoy more normal processes.

"It's none of your business, anyway," he said with a forgiving smile.

He had been the one to bring up the matter.

Edited 2014-03-27 05:30 (UTC)

In just a few words, Chilton had managed to hit a couple points for her that happened to frustrate her. First, he implied that her concern had been purely patronizing; perhaps it had been to some degree, but he was the one acting as if he could offer psychiatry to Satan. The mere idea of it was ludicrous, and she narrowed her eyes at him.

When he pressed on to say that it was none of her business, her eyes narrowed and she had to count to ten to keep from saying the first thing that came to mind. Kate knew that lashing out wasn't necessarily the right reaction. But she did not tolerate the idea that somehow she didn't know what she was talking about, especially when she was giving him the opportunity to be a better person.

Nothing about her appearance hid her frustration, though. Her eyebrows narrowed and something about her features became more pointed. Her chin jut out as she looked at him and mulled over the different options in her head. Each sounded (contextually) worse than the next.

But sometimes worse was correct.

"I'm a superhero, Chilton," she reminded him. "Hawkeye. I try to keep guys like you from standing on train tracks waiting for speeding trains." She paused. "Or being tied to them in the first place. You have seen those Looney Tunes skits, right?"

He noted the assumption of his surname -- a quickly quirked eyebrow ensued, before Chilton offered a shrug in response. It was a distancing technique, just as the inverse could be a manipulative technique (as Chilton often sought using first names when talking with his company, to provoke a sense of familiarity). Kate's frustration in response to his own wasn't uninteresting, but it was far more convenient when this sort of emotional pinballing could be observed in minds exterior to his own. Chilton had never really been a patient to himself, nor was he inclined to undergo such a potential existential crisis.

It was, perhaps, both interesting and uncomfortable.

"Or being tied to them in the first place," he repeated, his words honeyed with a slow, gentle drawl. "Am I your damsel in distress, Kate? A grown man whose lurid psychiatric career involves working with some of the most malicious minds of his world?"

He tilted his head towards his right shoulder, inviting a scathing retort, an acidic response. As it was so rare for anyone to express concern for his well-being, no matter the tone it took, he defaulted onto his usual response to fresh stimuli: skepticism. Nothing outside his own mind, his own logic, could be trusted.

"You are indeed a hero," he said. "And a dedicated one at that. But you're not going to control my professional decisions, Kate."

The use of her first name (instead of a paternal Ms. Bishop) was conscious.

Chilton took another stab at his burger, his interest more aligned with forcing steel into cooked meat rather than eating it. It was an idle distraction, something to ground him in familiar territory; had he more utensils, he would have recreated his favorite Ripper murder, albeit on this tiny hamburger in lieu of the body of a dead hunter. A man who had been identified as an archer.

He looked back at Kate, his brow furrowed.

"Shouldn't you be more worried about catching him anyway? Lucifer, I mean."

"Answer this," she pressed on, voice flat and tense, but so flat that the tension seemed to be bubbling over. Kate watched him stab his burger, slice into it and act as if he didn't belong there. The fact that he didn't belong there transitioned from amusing to frustrating. That frustration was in part because of this conversation. "Your patients. You are a master of ceremony with them, aren't you? If they act out, you can step in and sedate them. If they're dangerous, there's something distancing you from them. Is this all correct?"

Of course, her questions were leading. She knew they were the type of things where she thought she had the answer. Kate wanted to be right, especially since he first tried to tell her she was controlling his professional decisions, and then proceeded to tell her how she should be handling the situation.

Kate was a hero, but she could juggle different aspects of it. Keeping certain psychiatrists off the tracks like she said? That was definitely one of them.

She resisted asking him how he intended to contain Lucifer. That would have been taking her point too far, and she knew that he'd understand her point.

It wasn't her intention, but the wording pleased him -- he shrugged, turning to hide his smile, enjoying the title master of ceremony. It wasn't inaccurate, to say the least, as Chilton maintained a sort of theatrical air in the whirlwind of his power. Nevertheless, Kate's point punctured; he knew what she was getting at, and he deadset his gaze to dissuade her from continuation. It was a good thing for Chilton, that his expressions were usually quite fluid anyway.

"I have indeed enjoyed experience with several lethal personalities disorders, and while they weren't equipped in the same way as imPorts might be -- supernaturally invoked or not -- it wouldn't do well to underestimate their more human prowess." He sliced a triangle from his burger, forking it steadily. While Chilton brought it to his lips, he kept his eyes on Kate.

"Steel bars are halfway protective, halfway exhibition. As for Lucifer -- I trust Danger's security technique, having worked with her previously. She can be quite, ah, captivating."

He didn't doubt that Homeland Security would beseech near-omniscient Danger for aid, with regards to their naughtier selections of imPorts.

The idea struck her suddenly that he would see Loki's behavior as a disorder, too. While Kate was not one to make excuses for Loki of all people, she knew that circumstances would not lead it to be a matter of a disorder. Certain ... procedures did not apply to individuals like Loki. They definitely did not apply to Lucifer. She didn't need to have a chat with the latter to believe that.

"I didn't know you knew Danger," she told him absently. It was easier to remark upon that, but something in her features—her clearly displeased expression, above all other things—made it clear that that wasn't really what she was getting at. She wondered if he had approached Danger for assistance when he decided to take on such high profile individuals.

Kate suddenly thought it was likely, but expected him to explain his involvement with Danger.

"I'm not the one guilt of underestimation here," she continued, having mulled over her words carefully. "But I wouldn't want to patronize you more to make you see that."

He took note of her displeasure, tilting his head a few degrees, his eyes still on her. Chilton, doctorate recipient, was trained to analyze the emotional details that most people missed: twitches in the face, subtle drops of tone, seconds of hesitance. He logged that information, those millisecond details, and returned with a coated smile.

"I wasn't aware that you knew Danger," he replied. Her interest implied some meaningful interpersonal connection, though details on that extent would have to wait. It was more her indication that she wasn't pleased with his involvement, his relationship with Danger that struck up a subverted conversation.

"She and I were colleagues. Both of us worked for Norman Osborn."

There was more to that, of course, the information itself somewhat dated. But it was all nevertheless true; and there was no way that Chilton would discuss his psychological and sexual advancement with Danger so openly, that was information much too personal for a casual acquaintance. Not even Abel Gideon was privy.

Chilton kept his attention on Kate.

"Did I hurt your feelings, with my assertion? It wasn't my aim to do so," he lied. "I imagine that you're one who has been made to be quite tired of patronization, regardless of the source."

The familiar hint of displeasure reached her features when he mentioned Norman Osborn. This time left her wondering why Danger would work for Osborn. It told her more about the potential of timelines when Kate otherwise was not in a position to ask. Similar worlds did not breed familiarity, especially in the circles that Kate typically frequented. Moments like these made her wonder what David would have to say on all this. He would certainly have insight.

"It's more that it was irritating," she offered. Kate wasn't going to clarify her relationship with Danger yet. She needed to school her features so that she wouldn't look bashful. Kate could worry about his well being, but that didn't mean that she would welcome him knowing more about what she got on to otherwise. Some part of her told her to be more careful about that right now. She wasn't certain where his annoying tendencies would lead him. "But I can forgive you if you don't do it again." Which was a bartering tool. She would care about him doing stupid things. He would have to accept it if he didn't want to see her hurt.

It was only after that that she paused, took a sip, and schooled her features to deliver the neutral statement about Danger. "And Danger and I share a world. We don't run in the same circles, but I met her here because of Loki." Kate knew she seemed almost too neutral in her delivery, but she cared little for that. He could assume whatever he wanted of that arrangement, but didn't need to know about what enjoyment she could draw from it.

He recognized the negotiation, while drawing his lips to the side of his face in an expression born from a thoughtful pout. Kate's playfulness about the topic (wielding forgiveness like a sword wrapped in silk) engaged his interest; while other men might have found it charming, falling in line with their own expectation, Chilton deconstructed the tactic as a defense mechanism. There was something there to prod, and he knew it because Kate didn't want him there.

"I think that's a fair agreement," he said. 'Do it again' surely comprises of 'while openly talking to Kate Bishop at the time'. Chilton would keep his notes more private. He glanced at his burger again, processing Kate's testament concerning Danger -- from the same world was deducible, obviously, through Norman Osborn. While Chilton had heard rumors and whispers of parallels to these parallel worlds (how unnerving the concept), he had yet to see any empirical data on theories. They remained only theories, and he worked with assumptions propagated from that much.

"From my understanding, Danger's acquaintances tended to encircled a particular breed of human." Chilton found 'mutant' to be a word he was wary of using. It hinted at socioeconomic politics he was not yet versed upon."

His tone mirrored her much too neutral one; it was like a game declared. The fact that the connection between Kate and Danger manifested through such a chaotic variable made Chilton uneasy, but he wasn't about to exhibit such symptoms.

"Does Loki enjoy her company?"

"You know, I was too busy berating him for being thoughtless to ask." The fact of the matter was that Kate had a feeling that Danger made a bigger impression on her than she did Loki, but she hadn't thought to ask. With Loki, there were certain elements of being considerate of his need for her to take baby steps. She didn't like taking them. Of course she didn't, but he acted as if every decent act he made was the act of a martyr.

It was annoying. But it was, incidentally, how things happened to be with him.

"But they were roommates and he moved," she added. "I think he moved. It's hard to keep up with him." Frustration was evident in her tone, albeit mild frustration. It seemed that she knew what she was getting into, at least.

One of Danger's roommates. Both his eyebrows rose, the concept manifesting skeptical speculation. It wasn't that Danger didn't like people, but she definitely adhered to her preference of type. Someone as "thoughtless" as Loki (easily read as "selfish" and "probably manipulative") wouldn't glide into Danger's good graces.

She never brought up her roommates, during their therapy sessions. Chilton was under the impression that she spent more time at work than she did at home. Such was an affinity easily accomplished with her unique set of abilities.

"Don't you find it concerning? His, ah, whimsical nature?"

As Kate's nature was one more controlling, in contrast. She seemed to like her variables accessible.

"It's not the whimsy that's the problem," Kate pointed out. It was everything else. Loki had history inherent in being Loki. But he didn't deal with that or cope with it in a way that was productive, and she took issue with that. The fact of the matter was that he struggled with being good, and Kate found that ridiculous. Finding it to be so torturous to the point of melodramatic displays had been frustrating to watch, and she missed having America around to call him on it.

At least she was able to take it up herself.

"Whimsy is part of who he is. Chaos god." She even shrugged at the admission, taking a sip of her beer at the same time. "I even like that about him."

Edited (crawling in my skinnnnn) 2014-05-03 06:01 (UTC)

"You like that about him," he mused. "Perhaps because it's an honest label? One he wears readily, warning attached and all."

The implication was clear: you could always depend on the predictability of chaos. Not what chaos would entail, of course, not what it consisted of, but the very fact that it would manifest. There's a comfort, knowing you had to be always on your toes.

He offered a somewhat bitter smile.

"You do keep interesting company, Kate Bishop. I'll grant you that."

Glancing around the room again, his gaze was less anticipatory, less eager to savor the details of those ready to be read. The locals of Heropa, human as they might be, were nevertheless apparently more neurotypical than the average sampling in his own Baltimore. This wasn't the predictability he desired.

Edited 2014-05-04 22:51 (UTC)

"You've find some of my friends boring," she said. The implication wasn't entirely there within her words, but it was still present: none of them were truly here. Billy was, to be certain, but Billy had Wanda as his mother. If someone were truly curious about that whole predicament, they could explore it with Billy. Of course, Kate had a feeling that Billy would still be nothing to a man like Chilton. Or she hoped.

"But everyone's got some of those around." It was added with a glance toward him. Kate didn't mean that to include him, but she wondered idly if he'd scramble to seem interesting or brush it off altogether.

"Perhaps I was only complimenting myself, then," he replied. It wasn't spoken without a smile, however, as if he were fully aware of the context -- self-congratulatory, perhaps, but also stout in self-confidence. His ego hardly required the approval of a young woman, especially not one so neurotypical.

The individuals like Christine, like Danger? Those were minds he had fought for (and fought against) to their depths.

As he shrugged, his smirk evaporating halfway, he leaned back and beamed an obscuring stare. This was as far as their friendship would go, he predicted, the occasional smirk and barb, the quiet smile now and again, a moment of peace. Pleasant company as she was, Kate was not one to seek (or perhaps even realize) Chilton's own depth. And he, in turn, was shielded from hers.

"Shall we?"

He inquired it lightly, asking if she was ready to depart -- and, thus, part.

"We might as well," she agreed, grabbing her own purse and slipping out from her half of the booth. This evening had offered her some information on him. Perhaps they would not be closer, but he was a man with dangerous interests. They weren't necessarily dangerous to others insofar as she could perceive; no, that was almost a certainty. Almost. What worried her was that Frederick Chilton seemed to be a danger to himself.

If anything, that was the biggest impression of him, and she idly wondered why he was that way. But this wasn't the time to ask.

With purpose, she began to lead them to the door to pay—it was that undignified of a restaurant—and then (presumably) out.

Edited (oh right people pay for meals in the real world) 2014-05-09 00:44 (UTC)

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