[Poor Chilton. How could he not be depressed? His pet project gone awry and nearly killing him, leaving him in a compromised state, bodily. Had Abel wanted him dead, he could have certainly done as much. Maybe it crossed Chilton's mind that Abel had wanted him in such a terrible state, and why would he do that? Certainly not because Chilton did anything wrong, because that would be admitting fault, and he couldn't really see the man giving that sort of thing up easily. Or at all.
Which would only serve to make him more depressed, alone in a hospital room with an IV bag providing him what he needed. He could only imagine the scars on his stomach were still fresh and large, hadn't had enough time to start to fade or lessen just yet. So there was that, every shower or time changing, those lines looking him straight in the face.
He wondered, briefly, if Chilton slept with a shirt on. Had he slept with one on before, found himself too hideous, and changing to covering up at night? Did he awake in sweats nightly, sweats that made him have to change, and did he refuse to go back to bed shirtless because of how hideously marred he was?
The poor dear, and here was Hannibal, capable of helping in every regard. Poor Chilton indeed.]
She just sees me now, and we're both quite private about it. I wouldn't say she's come out of retirement, more...having an old patient for a chat every once and while, completely off the books and unknown to anyone else.
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[Poor Chilton. How could he not be depressed? His pet project gone awry and nearly killing him, leaving him in a compromised state, bodily. Had Abel wanted him dead, he could have certainly done as much. Maybe it crossed Chilton's mind that Abel had wanted him in such a terrible state, and why would he do that? Certainly not because Chilton did anything wrong, because that would be admitting fault, and he couldn't really see the man giving that sort of thing up easily. Or at all.
Which would only serve to make him more depressed, alone in a hospital room with an IV bag providing him what he needed. He could only imagine the scars on his stomach were still fresh and large, hadn't had enough time to start to fade or lessen just yet. So there was that, every shower or time changing, those lines looking him straight in the face.
He wondered, briefly, if Chilton slept with a shirt on. Had he slept with one on before, found himself too hideous, and changing to covering up at night? Did he awake in sweats nightly, sweats that made him have to change, and did he refuse to go back to bed shirtless because of how hideously marred he was?
The poor dear, and here was Hannibal, capable of helping in every regard. Poor Chilton indeed.]
She just sees me now, and we're both quite private about it. I wouldn't say she's come out of retirement, more...having an old patient for a chat every once and while, completely off the books and unknown to anyone else.