maskormenacelogs | Mankind's behavin' like some serial killers

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Mankind's behavin' like some serial killers

WHO: Frederick Chilton (Doctor) & Will Graham
WHERE: Harvard
WHEN: Last Saturday
WHAT: Coming face-to-face with consequences for being an absolute douchebag.
WARNINGS: Discussion of murder, cannibalism, organ theft, unhealthy relationships, Harvard's pretentiousness in general.

Will arrives early, if for no reason other than he hasn't got a clue about where anything is. Of course he doesn't. Perhaps that was part of it, to put him out of his element. To make it so he had absolutely no solid footing. To put him off guard, either to pull his defenses right up or make it difficult for him to put those defenses up. He wasn't sure.

He had, however, gone through with the suggestion. He wore a finely made replica of the suit he'd been sent (the man's, though there had been some temptation to go for the woman's), right down to the damn pocket square and watch with chain. A serial killer made this for him; he finds that less of a bother than the tight feeling he has in it. This is not his choice of wear. He ends up thinking of it as a design not his own and finds it shockingly easy to wear without looking ready to crawl out of his skin. No need to, he's in someone else's, including a hair cut, beard neatly shaven. He's so presentable it's damn near sickening. Hannibal is rolling in his watery grave.

Twice he's asked where a room is. Once he's asked for a professor's office. Finally he turns his visitor's pass facing out. That is, at least, a familiar accessory. He's been permitted temporary passes more than anything else. All in all, he's clean cut in ways he hasn't been in ages, looking more Will Graham headed to an Important Event than anything else. He hopes that sends a signal first off, that as soon as Chilton lays eyes on him he knows how damn seriously Will is taking this whole...thing. This whole piled up mess of offal and gore. That he is in no way treating it like a same ol' same ol', just another day at the office.

He takes care to make himself visible. Whether it's situating himself in an easily seen corner or keeping a slow approach when he spots Chilton, the end result is the same: Will makes it obvious he realizes who's ground he's on and makes no move to reverse that, even a small one. There will be no sneaking up today. No hiding in the shadow waiting to strike. There is only a cautious, slightly hopeful, definitely far more classy than usual Will Graham following the rules he's been given and walking very, very lightly on thin ice. He even leaves first words, whatever they may be, in Chilton's court.

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"So you came."

Frederick Chilton, Harvard alum, speaking with a peppered surprise in his skeptical drawl. It was something of a mixed message; had Chilton truly subscribed to a minimal likelihood of Will Graham's presence, he wouldn't have made the trip himself -- would he have? And yet there had been something of a dare embedded into the edge of his invitation. Perhaps that was what had convinced Will to meet Chilton's demands, perhaps he hoped to turn this skeptic into a believer.

"And you came appropriately dressed," he said, giving a nod at Will's wardrobe. No fishery plaid to be found, this was a precise rendition of Chilton's suggestion. Idly, the doctor wondered who had helped Will along to the right tailor; it went without saying that someone had, after all. Another connection, another friend.

"Any trouble coming in?" Chilton turned heel, without any other signal, walking down the dark wood hall. "I found it reassuring. Familiar. I pursued my medical doctorate here, you know."

I have a fancy degree and you do not. First implied knife made to thrust this afternoon.

Surprise. Eyebrows knit together, mouth slightly opened. It's a brief display, gone as quickly as it came, but he gave Chilton surprise in response to his greeting. Had he really thought it possible Will was further being a son of a bitch, had he some swirling ideas that not only was Will Graham the worst, he was also completely rude? How low he had fallen. Somehow, being considered absolutely broken or an intelligent psychopath was preferable to the deadly sin of rudeness.

Chilton turned, catching Will off guard. Any confusion passed quickly and Will stuffed his hands in his pockets, following along with raised eyebrows. Interested body language. This was a far cry from their initial walk. There was no Jack Crawford for him to hide behind, no obvious signs that Will Graham would rather be anywhere else, with anyone else. It had been a long time since then but Will was reminded anyway. Reminded, too, how lucky they were Jack hadn't shown up to give them hell for what they'd gotten up to in another world without his supervision.

"Not here here." Will wasn't going barb-for-barb. His words held an unusual levity, barely felt nips instead of anything truly biting. He was taking this seriously, yes, and knew he was in hot water, but that had never turned him into a limp noodle yes man. Chilton had a right to wipe his feet and feisty knives on Will for what he'd done, didn't mean he had to act a doormat. "Pretty much the same as back home? Have to take your word for it. Never been."

You have a fancy degree and I do not. He accepted, unflinching, finally looking around as they walked instead of keeping his focus on Chilton. Perhaps this was a punishment he had to walk through in order to start rebuilding a bridge. That was fine. Much more preferable to having his world dwindled down to one cannibalistic loser who still wanted him to say please. Chilton hadn't seemed too pleased Will left and didn't make an effort to reach out to him. He had been a bad friend; with Dorian's help, he'd been a worse friend. So if this punishment was simply holding him to the sticking post until he acted like an actual Goddamn friend, listened, learned beyond files and book covers and profiling, well. Wasn't really a punishment, was it? That was just being friendly.

"It is practically the same Harvard, save for the warm bodies."

Thistle words from a needled tongue, Chilton kept his retort brisk and aggressive. He was not here to forgive and forget; this endeavor, he had convinced himself, was more of an observational experiment. Will Graham had agreed to arrive, and then he had made good on his gentleman's agreement -- Phase One. Chilton straightened his spine, thinking upon his next few moves. This wasn't so much a game of chess, given that Will had already surrendered to Chilton's rules.

But then, what has this game become?

"You want an opportunity to explain yourself, don't you?"

A reasonable assumption, thought Chilton. Will Graham had been motivated to make this trip, to wear those clothes while he journeyed. Therefore Graham's motivations were raw, rough, and likely highly emotional -- the ideal breeding ground for self-expressive conversations.

"I can give you that."

Chilton established that power dynamic quickly. Without even mulling over the situation with his smug smirk, he gestured towards the doors leading outside.

He wanted to answer. Eyebrows lifted, lips parted, immediate signs that he was ready and damn near biting to answer. Ultimately, he didn't. But the signs of that desire had already passed over his face; he bit his tongue, swallowed instead of spit, and looking down instead. As close to something properly shameful or apologetic as Chilton was going to get. At least for the moment. Who knew if someone roaming these halls had an odd life when it came to imPorts, stories about them, pictures...

Desire to speak gave way to wariness, looking from the doors to Chilton as though he wasn't quite sure about stepping through them. Like Chilton had arranged something hideous on the other side. Or the other side of campus. An impromptu lecture on the criminally insane, or an unpleasant class about organs in the medical sector. Perhaps not; perhaps reminders of woeful surgical skills weren't on the menu today. Finally, Will nodded, moving forward to open the door. He'd been screwing with Chilton for months, the least polite thing he could do was hold the Goddamn door open for him. With a little less sophistication than someone who belonged at Harvard, naturally. Knob turned, back to the door to push it open. How quaint.

"What is my this you would like in return for your that?"

Pure curiosity, however muted he was about it. He couldn't imagine Chilton sincerely asking for anything beyond his skills or flexibility to partake of, and thus the curiosity. Would it be something fairly mundane but useful, something fairly horrible but useful, a simple favor for later? Would Chilton tell him outright or make him wait? Whatever this new game was, Will wasn't backing away from it. With Hannibal, he always wanted the same thing out of Will. This? He had some ideas what Chilton might want, but that was the fun of it: there were options. This was new. Fresh. It had the potential to be thrilling as much as it did migraine-inducing.

"Explaining yourself needs a price now?"

Yet another divide illuminated; Chilton didn't expect excuses to come with a cost, it was an opportunity freely given to friends -- even perhaps-former-friends. It soon dawned on him, however, that he wouldn't be afford the same luxury, had their positions been reversed. Perhaps that was why April had taken months and months to even hear Chilton out regarding Will's murder, because she had only come to him when she needed something in return.

Emotional support in the wake of Will's exportation. That, too, was freely given.

"Or do you believe that simply listening to you entails unprompted forgiveness? Because I am not promising that."

Chilton had Dorian's perspective, Dorian's condemnation of Will Graham. It was all uneven. He hadn't yet collected Will's own testimony -- and wasn't it fair to allow for both? Wasn't it practically required? The doctor hadn't sought out Dorian, of course, he had come to Chilton without any apparent agitation. That proved to be a catalyst, the fusion of hydrogen isotopes, the reason as to why Chilton then contacted Will Graham.

A chain reaction.

"No, no. I believe that everything I do—or don't do—where it concerns you, even indirectly, carries a price tag." Grumbled, Will looked down, his walk far too casual. Far too casual for the hoarseness in his voice, a man rubbed raw and vulnerable, metaphorical skin peeled back. "An unspoken, ever-present agreement. Always there, like a fly on the wall. You might feel the same. I feel it with...everyone. From home."

His nose wrinkled. He shook his head. All the signs of displeasure radiating of of him, so intensely felt he couldn't hide it. This was more open than he had wanted to admit aloud, but it was this or, what? Failed communication forevermore? Both were hells, but one was preferable in the long run. Barely. His walk grew more casual by contrast; if a rock passed their way, he might just kick it.

"Hannibal told me. No. He warned me, once, to not let rage and frustration, nor forgiveness, keep me from thinking. I didn't listen then!" His voice grew louder, briefly, teeth flashing. Seemed someone was a little bitter about all the missed warnings, hidden and open. "Got a couple more scars to wear because I wouldn't listen. Wouldn't think. Couldn't listen. Or think."

Was that Hannibal's fault for being a murderous ass with a horrible understanding of love, or Will's fault for not adapting fast enough and falling in line? Looking at Will, listening to him, it could have gone either way, could have been a shared blame placed around instead of on one or the other. Quite the field day for a highly trained psychiatrist to run around on, Will at the moment.

"That's how I felt when Dorian said he got the idea from you. Said he'd picked me to get at you. Enraged. Frustrated. Betrayed." Spat, the word foul and harsh, ejected away quickly to prevent any further exposure. "Didn't think then, either. Couldn't. Wouldn't spare the time to think. We had a fresh heart, and I knew. I knew who I wanted to send it to more than anyone else. Then it wasn't about you. Was about...having a chance to cut Dorian open."

He looked down again, frowning. Not one of those displeased with everything in the world frowns. Something more tied to regret, personal reasons to frown rather than general. Personal reasons that nearly make it out. His lips part again, but something causes him to bite back. He's already said so much, more than he had wanted. No need to put final nails in the coffin right off the bat, was there? At least he had the decency to seem disgusted with himself.

"I see," said Chilton. But he saw only resentfully, belligerently, unable to feel easy with the hurt implied by Will's eternal price tag. Even the balm clarified that it was Will serving as the common denominator, and not simply Chilton, even that couldn't subside the entire burn. But Chilton didn't have time to dwell in his own self-pity, not when Hannibal's name finally surfaced.

Hannibal, Hannibal, Hannibal. His was the head of the snake eating its own tail.

"Dorian misunderstood." That much was clear, at this point, but whether it had been an intentional misunderstanding or a purely ignorant one was still up for debate. "I released him as a patient -- had he mentioned that? No? Did you think to inquire? I dissolved our contract. Not all narcissistic personality disorders take to therapy, Will, some are just corrosive. Some are very good at fooling the inept or the gullible."

Chilton meant both Will and April, but he would not clarify the individual diagnosis.

"I shouldn't give you a second chance," he said, turning abruptly on his heel and heading away at an angle. Disgust painted his words, cement ground beneath his shoes. He had every intent to leave. But Chilton didn't get even three paces away before he stopped still in his tracks, unable to abandon Will Graham. Unable to cut him dry, at last, finally, forever. Because in the raw truth of it, Chilton was just as addicted to Will as those he called Graham's cronies.

And he still didn't want to believe that.

"It wasn't even about me, you said." He turned around to face Will. "You were just using me to get back at Dorian for what he had convinced you of, it wasn't even about me."

The day was crisp and bright. Serene. The sort of day that Chilton had began to associate with agony.

Will kept silent, falling in line abreast Chilton. Despite questions asked, he hadn't the same urge to spit out answers. They didn't feel like real questions. It felt more as though Chilton hadn't gotten everything off his chest, not properly, not to Will, and he was taking the chance. Or maybe that was Will's hope. At least they'd gotten past the name-calling stage of his anger. Did it count as name-calling when many were truth? A mystery for another day.

Until Chilton left, Will acted as a faithful shadow. He could recognize abandonment when he saw it. When he heard it. Felt it. Abandonment, attempted abandonment. Nothing new to him. Or Chilton, too, he imagined. The man had been around people before and after Hannibal Lecter, and his office had never been littered with friendly pictures. After Hannibal Lecter, well. It was more difficult to make connections. They all had their share of scars and burns.

Will stopped, hands in his pockets, and watched Chilton's back. He made no move to follow. He'd be there when the man turned around, face trained into the usual mix of grim and neutral. He gave no indication if he expected Chilton to keep going or to come right back. Either way might be seen as some manipulation and God knew he didn't need that. He did, however, move to cross the gap, stride slow and deliberate. Today was a fantastic day for walking headfirst into agonizing situations.

"No, you shouldn't. You shouldn't give me that. I shouldn't want you to. April nearly divorced me over all this." Flat, the flattest of anything he'd said. He hoped the lack of emphasis would help drive that point home, even if it really hit Chilton later. He hadn't been gunning to correct anything in text, and he wasn't gunning to flip the topic to that at all, but a little nudge felt appropriate. Of course all this was Will's actions, but she'd never have found out how she did if he hadn't blabbed to Rincewind. The circle was vicious, wasn't it? Will stopped close enough to lower his voice without obliterating personal space.

"But I do want another chance. I can do without forgiveness."

He didn't deserve it. And despite knowing Chilton wouldn't gut him and leave him on the floor like so much waste, he didn't want it.

"I wonder if she should have."

It was said to wound, yes, just as much as it was spoken like a medical prognosis. I wonder if she should have for her own health and her own sanity. I wonder if she should have before you hurt someone she actually cared about. I wonder.

He didn't chew on that bullet, he didn't bite at it only to spit it back out. Chilton fired his shot and let it be, unwilling to dress the wound just as he was unwilling to salt it. Chilton closed his eyes, as if willing himself to take a step, to drift away -- but again, he could not. Will Graham would always have an unspeakable magnetic pull, and Chilton would always fall prey to collide with it. Just like everyone else.

"You're going to do it again," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. Chilton didn't make eye contact as he spoke. "Not this, not precisely. But something -- something like it. This isn't going to stop, is it? Trauma and degradation and blood."

Will Graham's attention came with a fee.

"It is as if you get to redefine how we see survival. You alone."

That bullet whistled through an already present hole, destroying what healing had begun to take place. Before and after April had come to ask him about Rincewind's sudden departure, he'd had the same thought. It's an old, eternal sort of wound; the hurt akin to digging fingers into a sore spot instead of rending it open. A familiar hurt, the hurt he's come to accept (and deserve) from his fellows who orbited Baltimore once upon a time. There was a comfort to be found in that sting.

Violence was an easily understood language, after all. Physically and mentally.

"Trauma and degradation and blood has nothing to do with me, Frederick." Said lightly, in direct contract to any whispered concerns. He had been wandering the streets as a poodle when he was paid attention and carried along for the ride by some sort of nut; there was no getting away. They both had a magnetic pull to the less than stable. "I don't have to do anything. That would find both of us regardless of where we were and who was involved."

He took a small step back, looking toward a nearby bench, eyebrow raised.

"We have matching scars and more that don't align. We see survival through a similar lens. Why redefine something that's done us so well?"

Dry, dry, dry.

"Done us -- I'm sorry, done us so well? Has it?"

Chilton stared at Will Graham's face, that pretty and unmarred piece of flesh. Matching scars, above the belt and below the chin, they shared torn torsos. And when Chilton had spoken those words to Will, when he had been practically pleading for empathy and camaraderie in (what he perceived as) their mutual cause, he had uttered them in doubled vanity.

His words had not swayed Will's heart, and his tongue referred to only one set of scarring, too embarrassed to show Will how much more he might resembled Mason Verger.

But that was years ago. Those were feelings anchored to another world entirely.

Finger and thumb motioning quickly, jerking practically into his eye as he took out his contact. His other hand reached into his mouth, hurriedly clinching the clasp to the dental retainer that forged half his upper set of teeth and supported his collapsed cheekbone. Keeping both cosmetic prosthetics cradled in his hands, he looked straight at Will, the sag of skin and the milky eye of his left side almost obscuring the emotion Chilton radiated.

Almost. But he still had half a face to pass as human.

"Has it done me well?"

An eyebrow lifted; the other joined in the moment he realized what exactly Chilton was doing. No stopping it now. Perhaps this was long overdue. Confusion vanished and there Will stood, a man watching another man disrobe. Best to keep things as normal as possible, like looking across the locker room, or...confusion returned, momentarily written all over his face. He knew it couldn't be possible, but the Chilton who asked him that was not simply without teeth and sight and taut skin. He was without most of his skin, charred from head to toe, words oddly spoken for lack of lips. A few blinks cleared his vision right up, found Will Graham seemingly taken aback by the sight before him. Which was true; just wasn't the same sight anyone else would be having.

"You're still alive." Barely. Horribly. On the plus side, he hadn't fed his face to Will Graham's dogs and hadn't been paralyzed while Will watched and didn't step in, so. There were pros to consider. "I'm only alive because I'm here. And even that isn't protection."

From crazies on a rampage, but Will had no intention of saying the name or making his point more clear. Didn't need to. He looked down at Chilton's hands, one of his own moving to yank out that pocket square. His intentions should have been obvious, too, though he wouldn't be so fast Chilton couldn't avoid or stop the covered hand reaching out to take hold of that dental retainer. He wouldn't want a closer look if it came at the cost of Chilton's choice in the matter being taken.

"You've done well in this world."

Better than Will, in some regards.

"The quality exclusive to this world," he said, intoning the implication aloud. A way of acknowledging how difficult Baltimore could be, how vicious and cruel and tender and wretched. Chilton only flinched at Will's oncoming motion, but he did not deny it. He did not contract away as Will took from him his mouthpiece, he did not blink. Chilton had already felt so exposed, so vulnerable and torn, that this additional examination didn't feel so alien to him.

He had grown a tolerance.

"One might wonder of the intent living has, in our original world. Baltimore, in contrast to this, is a purgatory."

And Hannibal is the devil waltzing through it as he pleases, unbound by the same rules as any other tormented soul might be. It was a cruel joke that their city wasn't even Hannibal's throne; it was just his playground of ash. His little toy to make suffer. And what was Will's role in that, Chilton still wondered, what was his greater design? Who determined the context of his demise? Who really had?

"I'll need that back," said Chilton, with a nod to the dental retainer. He still considered it to be part of him.

Examination indeed. Once passed over, Will lifted it to the light and turned it about with the cloth as protection, lips parted as he gave it the sort of thorough first investigation Chilton might have associated with something more criminal. He'd never seen any of the behind the scenes features. He'd never asked after the process. Was it any wonder Will had been eager and willing to imagine the Chilton who visited him in the hospital as someone else? One didn't expect those shot in the damn face to return looking so whole. Add in the pain, pain killers, regular killers...

"A purgatory spent waiting for our turn on the cutting board. Living like so much cattle."

Bleak as always, any humor in his voice mild and more expected on the gallows than on a lovely day, even Will Graham looked borderline tired of the whole cannibalistic undercurrent that lapped at their ankles. He held the retainer back out, expertly pinched between two fingers and cloth. There were no Will Graham cooties (at least, not immediate, perhaps from putting the pocket square in place earlier) to infest poor ol' Frederick Chilton.

"Have you ever been?" He pocketed his hands again, taking another step back and looking away. No real destination in mind but plenty cue that if Chilton wanted to continue his lead, Will was content to follow. "To the Baltimore here, this Baltimore. I've been a little shy about going back. Abigail went to where her house should be. Said it was a cemetery here."

He had more reason to avoid it then. Just imagining all the terribly ill fitting things that their most notorious spots back home could have been here was enough to give him pause. And curiosity, but mostly pause.

"Exactly." Chilton wrinkled his nose, staring at the ground beneath their feet. Embittered. "So living there is only arguably better than dying there."

And yet, Chilton would still want to survive. Even after what would happen to him, a real torture that would pale his currently wounded ego, even then he would want to survive. Outliving was its own little addiction. Chilton snatched his dental retainer back, but relented from fitting it back into his face just yet -- a part of him ached to clean it first, regardless of the care that Will had tended it with.

"No," he said, a brisk word implying a lot more than factually neglecting this world's Baltimore. It was a rejection of the place, and from that rejection bore the seed of fear. "Only parts of Virginia. I haven't really been to Maryland at all."

But the news about Abigail's old house hadn't jolted him -- or rather, if it had, his face didn't exhibit any shock. It was a little difficult to, all things considered, which gave Chilton the advantage of a default poker face. Small blessings, perhaps.

"And what do you think you will find? Instead of Hannibal's home?"

That was what he thought this had been about, all along. Hannibal's echo still reverberating over Will, making him susceptible to second rate acts like Dorian. They had not repented enough to escape purgatory, he thought. And while he couldn't be sure about Will, Chilton was convinced of this: nothing came across as more dubious than a heretic repenting.

It was almost as if he accepted his own suffering in small, quiet moments.

A slaughterhouse. An all you can eat buffet. Denny's. A dog pound. A landfill. All manner of sarcastic answer flooded to his tongue. None made it out.

"Emptiness." Loneliness in its most obvious physical sense. "An ironclad reminder this, all of this," he looked up, "isn't what I knew. Isn't home even as it's the only home I have. Places attached to a whole lifetime of memories are nowhere to be found, including his house. I don't belong here. None of us do."

Because whatever was in its place was not what it should be. Just like his office, Baltimore State Home for the Criminally Insane, his old home in Wolf Trap, his once home with Molly and their son, Chilton's own home...none of it existed here. So why did he? Why did any of them? What was the point without Hannibal somewhere in the shadows planning his next move, his next attempt to drag them around and down? Existential questions were best left ignored, like visiting spots sure to bring about emotions. At least, he wouldn't go alone. Not without reason. Chilton and he had that in common, it seemed. They might not have the same mindset but they both were sure as hell avoiding particular spots. Suffering in small, quiet moments was one thing. Going out of their way to suffer in huge, loud moments? No thanks.

The default poker face was new; Will couldn't help showing it some additional attention, looking at Chilton more instead of anywhere else possible. That was part of Baltimore as well. Folks left behind with holes in their bodies, their minds, their hearts. Some were just more obvious than others. Will could hide his forehead beneath wild curls. Chilton? He had to go through a different process entirely. To see a glimpse behind that process because Chilton was giving him that and not because he'd been horrifically maimed and abused wasn't meant to be ignored.

"Do we belong anywhere? Really? I had thought our place in the universe was indisputable, once. Until it became clear that our universe was but some plaything of Hannibal's."

The sort of rationalization that one cannot simply undo. Terror and trauma like fingers grasping the existential crisis of your own impotence -- it was the second serving of horror that Hannibal served with his agitating smirk. The infinite jest told in knowing winks and cruel wordplay.

"But he isn't here," said Chilton. It was rebuke for both himself and Will Graham. "He may never be again. This world is ours, yours and mine, and I thought that fact alone had meant something. Does it not?"

Will you do it again?

"Have I misunderstood your meaning all this while?"

His hand moved upwards, to cover his misshapen side of his face. Are we not family of a sort?

Hm. Would it be a less kind meaning or the fact Chilton misunderstood that he'd find the worst outcome? Will wondered that, but he wouldn't ask. They'd seemed to have started repairing the bridge and he didn't mean to cut down anything frail.

"I wouldn't have." His nose wrinkled; this was quite a bitter pill to swallow, to spit out. "This wouldn't have happened if that fact...if you...didn't mean something."

Which wasn't necessarily good, not with them, not if this was the end result. Beloved people and those in the opposite category could meet similar ends in Baltimore. Will wore scars that came from supposed love as much as he did scars that came from those who found him a nuisance. If Chilton hadn't meant something, he wouldn't have bothered to get involved with the whole White business. If he hadn't meant anything, Will could have cut him loose after that, or after Dorian's corpse Blue Apron gift. But he hadn't. He couldn't. As much of a pull as Will himself had, Chilton had a pull as well. He was from their world, and some days that meant everything.

He didn't wear apology or shame on his face, just a grim sort of distaste. His own words, his own confession, left a too-sour taste behind. What a yucky mess. Under-cooked and seasoned with too much salt. Maybe there was a little bit of Hannibal around.

For all his fancy degrees and cognitive accolades from Harvard, Chilton was still a fool when it came to his personal emotions. The moment Will uttered that Chilton meant something, the doctor's defensive icy sneer thawed. Forgiveness had not yet reached his lips, but his attention was commanded; Will Graham said that Frederick Chilton meant something to him, and Chilton wanted that to be true. He wanted that to be savored, remembered. He cherished the words.

The sort of warmth he craved. What he was willing to bargain for.

"Is that going to hold true?" Chilton practically pleaded for reassurance. "If he comes here again, or -- or someone else from our world, Jack Crawford or Doctor Bloom. Is my importance to you--" Chilton licked at the words. "Something that's simply conditional?"

Conditions. Whether behavioral or situational, the subject was tricky.

"I -- I think I should be able to know that, at least."

They'd both carried a gnawing loneliness, hadn't they? With different reasons for a lack of close companionship, perhaps, but the end result was similar. Had been similar. Without Hannibal around, Will didn't have to worry so much about everyone he looked at for more than five seconds ending up in a bowl. He'd done well in this world, too, in some regards.

"I wouldn't worry about Jack or Alana if I were you." Will, on the other hand, might be due for another bullet. Or possibly being ratted out as Chilton's matchmaker. He'd spent all those years he hadn't been talking to Chilton also not talking to Jack or Alana, and he had plenty of reason to have continued that path if things hadn't ended with a splash. "And Hannibal, he's..."

A heavy, weary sigh came out alongside a near roll of the eyes, hand going up to ruin his hair further by running over it. What a complicated pain in the ass that Hannibal was.

"I like my life here." A terrible confession, having something to be happy about, and one Will treated as such. But Chilton had exposed himself, more or less. Revealing rawness in return was only polite. "You're part of my life here. I couldn't have a life outside of him if he ever came back. I don't..." He stopped, blinked. "I don't want him."

Traitorous talk, no wonder he needed a moment to find his voice again.

"I find that hard to believe," said Chilton. He slipped his hands into his trouser pockets, pressing the palms against his own thighs. "Because you seem to continuously find bits of him in other people."

Dorian Gray. Yuri Petrov. The former was self-explanatory, he was the reason why Will and Chilton took in this Harvard yard on this unusually brisk day. And the latter -- well. Yuri had been in contact with Chilton, and their conversations always had fluttered back to Will Graham. There was an elegance, and a danger, inherent to Petrov; he lack the same motivation behind his destruction as Hannibal had, but he could destroy nevertheless. He could destroy with spectacle.

"Hannibal poisoned you, Will. Not to a point of paralysis -- you are, quite obviously, still capable of social interaction independent of him. But there is something..."

Wrong. With you.

"Irrevocable. About you."

An exhale followed the word; it was as if Chilton had held it inside of him for months now.

"Just tell me if I should always be looking over my shoulder when your other relationships come into play. I do not want to still be a chess piece on your board, Will, some pawn played between you and your Hannibal proxy." He said, blind to the fact that he nevertheless will have been yet again.

How new for them, unburdening on beautiful days drenched in sunlight. Seemed all confessions, all whispers of confession, bare bones hints of true feelings were always rendered in shadow. Like if any of Baltimore's finest dared speak truths for all the world to hear, an immediate punishment would follow. Jail time. Cut ties. Turned into a fitting entree. But here they were, expressing disagreement and having an actual productive conversation in broad daylight. How far they've come.

"Hannibal Lecter's damaged goods."

Quiet, thoughtful, almost amused. Chilton might be tiptoeing, making a valiant effort at politeness, but Will was there to cut that down. It wasn't rude if he was talking about himself. And he wasn't really saying anything new, either. Facts weren't rude. Facts were what they were, nothing else.

"No. No, that isn't necessary." His face screwed up, no amusement this time. "That's no way to live."

He frowned, looking down. He hadn't tossed them both over a cliff because he wanted people to live in fear...but he'd already seen to it that the rest of Frederick Chilton's days were spent in some sort of pain even without the whole fear aspect. Things were different here, obviously. Just the two of them. There wasn't a need for an eternal Baltimore bogeyman lurking, pressing down, hiding beneath their beds and in their closets and showers...Will could see the beauty of being a perpetual threat. He simply didn't want that. For himself or Chilton, for anyone involved. He didn't want it more than he wanted to enjoy as normal a life as he'd ever be able to achieve.

"I certainly never said it was any way to live, but nevertheless." It seemed clear as day to Doctor Chilton that the concern was indeed a necessity; he didn't quite believe Will's answer of no. Damaged goods or not, the threat was sunken in Will Graham's very shadow, always lurking, forever whispering. It was only a matter of time.

"I like. What I have here." The doctor folded his arms over his chest, looking away from Will's penetrative eyes. "You have no justification in any future attempts to ruin that. However angry you are about Walter White, however much you do not believe me when I say I never wanted you harmed by him. I do not deserve that."

The safe word fail safe had failed. It should have been evidence enough that Frederick Chilton and Will Graham had communicative issues. He had once believed that they were something akin to brothers -- blood brothers, even. Perhaps an unwilling set, perhaps woven in parallel only because of Hannibal Lecter's mechanisms, but Chilton had truly believed that the sentiment was mutual. He should have accepted Will's disdain upon visiting him in the hospital, he should have questioned Will's own interest in his role involving Alana Bloom's plan.

Chilton had never truly inquired about the outcome to that plan, he had been imported right at the gist of it. He had faith in his perceived friends.

Just as he had faith now.

"So just consider that." Dorian Gray was more of a blood brother to Will than Chilton was, despite their mutual trauma. Despite their mutual city. "Next time you do your... Thing. Consider the people you will hurt."

Eyes still downcast, lips twisting into a slight frown, he took on a suitably admonished appearance. The sort where he was listening and understood, not where he was listening and aggravated with just how wrong Chilton's take on the whole situation was. A second more and Chilton would be dealing with a mopey-eyed mutt...

"I believe you." He looked back up, frown vanishing. And he hoped that wouldn't change. That there would be no future events to set something similar in motion again. That they could both like their lives instead of living in constant, pressing dread. How weird they'd have to come to a completely different world to get some relief. "Doubt there'll be a next time. Not like this one."

Because he'd always find someone off to have a connection of sorts with. He couldn't say there would be no next time with Gabriel Gray waiting in the wings. Even if Will didn't go much farther than simply figuring him out a bit more, didn't matter. He was still doing his thing. And with Yuri around...

"Do Ivy League schools have cafeterias? I'm about starved." Asked as he looked around, squinting. This was too much sun at one time in the presence of Frederick Chilton. They needed to scurry back to dim, inside lighting sooner rather than later. "My treat."

Chilton doubted the dining facilities were appropriate for non-alumni like Will, and decided to politely steer them both towards a café better suited to their needs. He didn't address Will's treat; Chilton assumed he would, in fact, be paying his own way. He would insist. There was no room for debt, no, not now.

"Do not tell Raina," he said. He assumed he did not have to spell out his emotional context, how he had forgiven Will for the brunt of the trust broken. "She isn't worried about Dorian Gray -- she knows he's useless. Pathetic. She knows I find him unattractive in every way imaginable, she has nothing to fear from him. If anything, I believe she found stringing him along somewhat amusing. He had lacked the foresight to realize I would tell her, quite the massive mistake on his part."

Chilton brought Dorian up as a contrast. There was nothing to consider in Dorian, and much more to consider with Will Graham. Everyone involved understood that, and they understood the implications that followed.

But he didn't want to spell it out. A clandestine friendship was better than none at all, wasn't it? And Raina was not wrong to fret about Will Graham's relationship with her boyfriend, she was never wrong.

"Let's go."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Mankind's behavin' like some serial killers

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