Work Text:
The siren lights looked a bit Christmasy to his slumbering brain. It was obscenely late. He had gotten the phone call at 2 a.m., the trip had taken what felt like an hour, through the lulling gray bands of desolate roads. It was very late, or very early, and he was too old for all of it now.
Why had he thought of Christmas? Jack pressed his wrinkle-burrowed forehead to the cold window. He had been to an endless number of crime scenes. Why this thought, why tonight?
“We’re here,” the driver announced quietly as he pulled up.
Beverly was already at the scene. Hair rumpled and unwashed, hatred spilled all over her exsanguinated face, a hole in her shirt where a button should have kept it together. Beverly was not a morning person, at least not the 3 a.m. type.
“Jack!”
She looked scared, too. Jack studied the jittery way she was moving, her tensed lower lids forming nets of wrinkles on those dark bags under her eyes, elegant eyebrows gravitating towards each other to form a frown. She used to look so young when she had started working for him. Young and fresh, with that specific, satisfying post-FBI-academy crunch. Beverly had been young and she had never been afraid.
As had he been once.
“Another family, Jack.”
He knew. And the secluded, illusionary world of comfort inside the car seemed like a haven to him now. When he got out, the knees gave a familiar squeal. Poor joints. Old joints.
She staggered after him, coffee in one hand, phone in the other.
“All wiped out, just like the other five. Jack. Jack?”
“Yes,” he hissed. The knees were unforgiving of this nighttime adventure.
The thought of retirement made its uneasy, meek appearance and was immediately washed down, just as always, by contempt. No time to show weakness.
“Jack. Look up.”
He did. The small white crescent in the dark wintery sky seemed to be looking down on all of them, indifferent and so far away. Jack’s blood turned cold for just one second. He should have known. He should have connected the dots long before that, he should have done something.
Beverly tried to catch up to his panic-stricken stride.
“But this can be good too, right? He’s breaking the pattern, he’s becoming reckless. He’ll make a mistake, Jack.”
He turned to her suddenly, with purpose, making her retreat inadvertently, and for a split second he could see everything inside those small dark eyes. It made his stomach lurch.
“The monster he has become,” he accentuated, feeling every word weigh and drop from the tip of his tongue, “is beyond our jurisdiction now, Beverly. We had a chance a month ago. Now we can only-”
He cut himself off mid-thought and looked over her head to the siren lights. They flickered and winked to this awful night.
Why did I think of Christmas?
He knew now. And Beverly knew, too. In a second, her face was nothing but searing pain.
“No, Jack. Please. I know what you’re thinking.”
He turned around, walked past the forensics team and into the house. He knew what he had to do.
The funeral was quite dull. Some sad old man dying of some sad old disease, his sad old widow shedding tears over his sad old coffin. A bundle of distant relatives, a bored teen buried in his phone, a grubby fat priest with the most awful voice for such things.
Jack averted his gaze, focused on his feet and the grave before them. It was winter, and the snow covered the bulge on the ground with a pristine thick coat. Someone had been here, he knew. The gravestone looked freshly washed, its grave message less ominous somehow. It might have been Alana. She liked coming here for some masochistic reason.
His briefcase clacked open, and Jack took out the glass. The bottle was not new, it was something from the old days, one of those bottles that had been apprehended by the FBI when they had searched Hannibal’s house. Most of the contents of that house was still lying boxed somewhere in the basement, and sometimes Jack would come there to rummage and drink, drink and rummage. This time he had taken a souvenir with him, in hopes of strengthening the magic, he thought.
Will Graham didn’t get a concrete date after the dash. Just a year. An otherworldly mind – a sad little summary of a person’s life. Although it could always have been worse.
Molly hadn’t wanted anything loyal husband- or loving father-like, and Jack certainly understood why. The FBI had been all for simplicity, and so there it was, a plain-looking stone, ugly even, with the name of the greatest enigma in Jack’s life on it.
He felt bile rising up inside him. Feeling bitter after all those years was counterproductive, not to mention bad for his heart, but there it was, kicking and writhing and still wounded.
Jack poured the scotch and bent down to place the glass. When he straightened back up, the boring funeral was about to be over. The sad old widow was shaking with weak miserable sobs as they were placing the coffin into the ground. The teen was still grafted to his phone.
“Don’t you feel just a little bit jealous of those people?” Freddie Lounds’ voice emerged, just like her, seemingly out of nowhere.
She was wearing a scanty coat, her threadlike legs visibly shaking in the frost. Among the crew that was left from the old days, she looked the youngest. Beverly liked to joke it must be all those hearts of the innocent the redhead ate for breakfast.
“Jealous?” he echoed.
She shrugged, nonchalance not quite working with all that shaking.
“At least they have a body to bury. We, on the other hand,” she chuckled, “have this. Don’t you just feel stupid coming to this mockery, Agent Crawford?”
He did. But then again, it was never about the empty casket and it was never even about Will Graham.
“Oh, I get it,” Freddie spread her offensively red lips in a wide smirk. “Inviting an old friend for a drink and a chance to pick his brain again?”
Not just his, Miss Lounds.
“What do you want?”
“I’ve just posted an article about that last family, the Leeds. I figured you’d be here, what with the Dragon breaking the pattern and all. He really is becoming a formidable presence, isn’t he? Nothing scarier than a bold monster. Is that why you came to a dead man’s grave, Agent?”
“Presumed dead.”
“Declared dead.”
“That is rude, Miss Lounds.” He really should have known better, but out of spite he finished his thought out loud. “You know, it has always been a mystery to me how you managed to survive Hannibal Lecter with that pesky demeanor.”
“How did Will Graham manage that?” She fired back immediately and cocked her head with a gotcha! smile. “You don’t really believe Hannibal killed him, do you?”
Jack deflated. Something inside him, a small piece of Hannibal that had somehow detached from its creator and found fertile soil in Jack Crawford, winced, vexed, and went straight for the knife. Jack slapped that part half-heartedly. That was just something he had to do now – control his intolerance for the obnoxious.
Thanks, Hannibal.
“Miss Lounds, the blood pattern clearly indicated-”
“You know better than anyone else how Hannibal Lecter treated Will Graham,” she cut him off, words puttering now. “You saw the state Will Graham had been in before that notorious Christmas party, you knew what was going on behind the veil. Everybody knew expect for poor little Molly Graham. Did you know she’d changed her last name, by the way? I know I would have done the same.”
Jack threw the last glance at the glass. Inside the snow the scotch looked like one giant eye of a monster hiding its gargantuan body underground, lying in wait for the right prey to frolic by. Then he began walking away. Freddie followed, like some clueless ill-witted mutt.
“Why do you still come here, Agent? What does the glass mean? Do you share my theory about Will Graham being alive? Where are they?”
Jack had to give another slap to his Hannibal parasite, or else this graveyard would have to accommodate one more body. He slid into his car and turned the ignition awake. Freddie kept yapping outside.
The picture was sent from some throwaway email that turned out to be blocked the second Jack tried to contact the sender. He had to get away from the laptop and make himself some strong coffee before he felt like looking at the picture again.
It was 7 a.m., Saturday. The new apartment was squalid compared to the house he and Bella used to share, but after that page had turned itself, many things had to be left behind. Besides, he didn’t need much space. The kitchen stove was hardly used for anything these days. Sometimes Miriam would come, and he would attempt to make her something relatively edible. On other days, Jack used his coffee machine to make coffee, his microwave oven to heat up whatever he bought on the way home, and that was it. He told himself he didn’t care much, but the truth was he had lost his appetite the night of that Christmas party at Hannibal Lecter’s house.
With a steaming cup in his hand he felt braver. The open email was still there, so was the picture. It was rather muddy, taken from afar and probably with a cheap phone, but Jack didn’t want to see those two faces any clearer than that. The muddy picture was just perfect.
The car was a different brand but not a different level of style (of course). The driver and his passenger were opening their doors simultaneously, faces cleanly shaven and equally insouciant, scarves neatly wound around their necks and tucked into their coats. Their haircuts were the same as years ago, as if they just couldn’t care less. The damned picture revealed little more, but Jack guessed the hair of the driver was much more silver now.
He sipped his coffee slowly and stared at the picture until it was time to go to work. Then he deleted it with a strange feeling of vindication.
When he returned to the graveyard the next day, there was an envelope pressed by the empty glass. The note was brief and impersonal.
Dear Jack,
Please leave everything that is needed in the usual place. Hopefully, our paths will have crossed for a good reason and everyone will have theirs in the end.
Sincerely yours.
He was just about to drop the files onto the dust-coated desk and take off (run) when his phone made him start, vibrating in his breast pocket. It was Beverly.
“Have you checked your email? I forwarded it to you.”
“What?”
It was suddenly very difficult to part with the six thick folders, each with the name of the family they represented in capital letters. The Leeds were the latest addition.
“Jack.” More in that voice than he could or cared to read. “Freddie Lounds is back to her old tricks again. She writes-”
“You should know better than to read filth, Beverly!” he found himself yelling viciously all of a sudden.
He came to a halt. The line was eerily quiet. Jack turned back and looked at the files on the dusty desk with the desperation of a drowning man. Suddenly he was captivated by a vicious desire to grab them, press them close to his chest and run out of the damned office. He was not alone here. Too many apparitions in this long-abandoned place. Fractions of memories, unfinished conversations, betrayed expectations.
Will Graham’s blood all over the kitchen floor, looking festive in the glittering lights from the decorations outside. It’s dark, the blood. Almost black, and then suddenly it’s green, and yellow, and blue. It is already beginning to curdle, and it’s everywhere. Too much for there to be hope.
“Jack.”
Beverly’s voice was quiet, plea all too naked now.
“Tell me you didn’t do it again. Tell me you remember what happened the last time.”
He swallowed audibly, knowing she had struck the right chord.
“The last time was-”
“An accident? An exception? You don’t really believe they’re going to leave empty-handed, do you? Jack, someone died because you couldn’t solve a case!”
He clenched the hand holding the phone so tightly he could feel something crack inside it. Very quietly, as if speaking to one of the apparitions dwelling in Hannibal Lecter’s office, he eked out word after word.
“I’m saving lives.”
Beverly hung up. Jack had the craziest vision, as if one of the apparitions smirked and raised his glass to toast the lie.
Jack had to pull some strings to make Freddie take down that article. After all, it was nothing but old-hat conspiracy theories and one very muddy picture with no way of placing a date on it. It was easy enough.
He felt compelled to come back to Hannibal’s office and check on those files, but he didn’t. He knew they would not be there anymore. What he did do, however, was call all of his acquaintances from the old days. Meticulously, one by one. Thankfully, the list was all too short.
“I know what this is about, Jack,” Alana Bloom said in her calm, measured voice saved especially for such repulsive conversations. “And I’m sure we have nothing to fear, but I still made the necessary arrangements. Margot and I are not in Baltimore now, nor will we be the next couple of months.”
“And your boy?”
“With us, don’t worry.”
The next on the list was Frederick Chilton.
“Are you kidding, Jack?” His laughter was squeaky and high-pitched. Jack cringed, glad that he didn’t opt for a face-to-face. “Freddie Lounds is a raging lunatic, you should have brought her to me in handcuffs long ago, we miss her here. The picture is clearly fake, and even if it weren’t, even if this whole charade were true, how stupid would Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham have to be to come back here? A murder vacation?”
“Some people speculate that Bedelia Du Maurier’s death was-”
“Just some copycat wannabe, Jack, you don’t need me to explain this to you.”
How inelegantly arrogant, the Hannibal Lecter inside Jack tutted. Jack suggested he should shut the fuck up.
“It happened after a killer we were going desperate to apprehend was brutally murdered and displayed for the whole FBI to see. Some organs were missing.”
And it was all my doing, Jack concluded grimly.
Chilton raped his ear with another train of guffaws.
“Oh, Jack. Please don’t tell me you really believe it was them.”
“I have reason to doubt.”
Chilton just kept on laughing, and Jack eventually excused himself and hung up. At that moment, sitting at his empty-looking desk in the office that looked far too bright for his current mood, he knew who the next offering would be.
It was awful, to let his mind roam in such shady terrain and not feel guilty, but he really didn’t. All that bothered him was the thought that he wanted it to be Freddie Lounds this time. Chilton could live another year or two, as long as it would take the FBI to stumble upon another true monster and say uncle. Chilton could wait.
Jack found his reflection in the mirror on the opposite wall. He did not recognize his own face.
Five agonizing days later, Jack was startled awake by a 5 a.m. phone call. An unknown number. Hesitantly, he took it.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Jack.”
Jack sat up, suddenly too aware of the darkness still filling his lonely bachelor bedroom. The bed squeaked under his weight, but he didn’t hear it. All he could think of was the voice on the other end.
“It’s over, Jack.”
“The Dragon?”
“The Dragon. His name was Francis Dolarhyde. That would be all.”
“Wait, W-”
The call ended abruptly. Jack fell back and rested his head on the pillow, feeling like the worst person on earth. And maybe he was. The Hannibal part of him smiled and patted him on the shoulder.
Cheer up, old friend. You did well.
Francis Dolarhyde was not only eviscerated in his own home but also partially cannibalized, judging by the gaping hole in his throat. Curiosity winning over disgust, Jack gazed into the dead Dragon’s eyes. In his death Francis Dolarhyde, the Red Dragon who had been terrorizing this land for far too long, looked not pained but genuinely, utterly surprised. Perhaps he’d had no idea there were two of them.
Beverly, who was looming over the body with her arms crossed, shot him a morbid look.
“And you knew where to find the Dragon how exactly?”
He managed to stoically tolerate the implied accusation. She had to look away first.
“Forensics found a new reel with another family filmed. If this hadn’t happened, we’d be looking at four more bodies.”
“You don’t have to justify yourself to me, Jack.” She sighed. “But please, don’t play with the fire again. You remember how it ended the last time you got too close.”
Oh, he remembered. Later that day, in the quiet of his office, he opened his drawer, plunged his hand deep into it and fished out an envelope, frayed and a little crumpled now. He took out the letter folded inside.
It was an invitation. Yet another one of the many Dear Jacks he had received over the course of his friendship with Hannibal Lecter.
That doomed Christmas party. He, Will and Alana had been invited. It had been a private gathering, Hannibal had explained in his note, something to celebrate their long-lasting friendship before they ran off to the comfort of their own homes. Hannibal Lecter had no family, and so he had made that feast to celebrate the family he had created for himself.
Jack remembered looking straight into Will Graham’s eyes at one point of the evening. He had felt something awry with the behavior of his bloodhound months prior but had had no time to ask. (Or so he convinced himself of.) Will had been sitting next to Hannibal Lecter, brushing elbows where there was no need for it – the dining table was vast. They had exchanged glances and half-smirks and toasted only between themselves, it would seem.
Christmas was about birth, Hannibal had said. We were born twice: the first time involuntarily, to a world we did not choose and had little control over, and the second time –fully aware, to a world we created. It wasn’t that common for people to experience the second birth, he had continued. Will Graham had given him such a hungry look at that moment. That should have been a clue.
The phone rang. The same unknown number. His heart thrashing anxiously against his ribs, still seeing blood, bright Christmasy blood on the kitchen floor in the back of his mind, he answered.
“I feel like there was something left unsaid between us this morning,” Will Graham continued nonchalantly, his voice completely stripped of emotion. “Are you going to ask me, Jack?”
Ask you what? his first impulse was, but he knew, of course.
“Thank you, Will.” Saying those words sucked out the remnants of his inner strength. He felt as if he was betraying someone with those words, someone important. The Hannibal inside him broke into a series of short – one would argue polite – chuckles.
“Don’t thank me.” Icy voice. Dangerous undertones. “I left you without a notice, without offering a proper replacement. No wonder you’re still floundering, after all these years.”
“And I will keep floundering.”
“Yes. You will.”
A silence worth a thousand words. In passing, Jack regretted not being a smoker. He could suck on a good one and maybe feel a little more sane after that. He stood up and poured himself some scotch instead.
“I will ask you,” he finally mustered up the courage, “not to stroke your ego, but only because my job is to save lives.” Will was waiting. “Do I need to worry about saving any more lives in the nearest future?”
A soft chuckle was answer enough.
“You summoned us to make a deal, Jack. You know how summoning works.”
“You are not demons, Will, stop it.”
“We might as well be. And it’s been so long since I felt like a part of this world.”
“You are,” Jack clenched his hand holding the glass, “a part of this world. It’s not some illusionary universe Hannibal has snatched you into, you have to wake up! Are you awake?”
“Fully.”
The voice on the other end turned truly dark now, and Jack had never been so terrified of another human being as he was now, in his bullet-proof FBI office on some insane floor. He looked around briskly, like a hare surrounded by a pack of salivating wolves. The darkness was thickening around him, morphing into familiar shapes. The darkness was displeased, rumbling and growling with a thousand throats, teeth bare, muscles tense and ready to make the leap.
He closed his eyes. Focused on the breathing. It was all in his head. He was alone. He was alone, and the darkness could not get him here.
“Is it going to be Chilton this time?”
Will scoffed, sounding amused.
“Fools make meager meals.”
“Why did you kill Bedelia the last time?”
“She got what was coming to her.”
“Why did you fake your death, Will?”
“I didn’t fake it.”
Jack looked inside. The blood was still there, a thick sticky coat on the kitchen floor. Some of it was on the furniture, and of course there was a knife. A small curled thing, more like a claw taken from some rare ferocious animal. Jack remembered the first thought that had entered his mind as soon as it clicked inside his head.
A necessary immolation.
“You were suspecting us,” Will suddenly appeared back in his ear, “we had to get creative. Besides, it seemed a rather fitting symbol of the new world I was being born into.”
“This new world,” Jack rasped, feeling all of a sudden too weak, almost senile. He remembered the funeral he had seen days ago, and that sad old man dying his sad old death. That’s what he was now. Even smaller. He was miniscule, like an ant – no, half of an ant, and the boot was coming down on him like the very ire of God. “Does it deserve you?”
He felt Will smiling wide, like he sometimes did when the topic turned to his favorite psychiatrist.
“Hannibal worked very hard to make this world – his world – worthy of me. Keeps working every single day.”
What are you?
Jack left that question hanging on the tip of his tongue just to punish himself with the bitter taste of it. Out of spite, he asked something else.
“Not Chilton then. Should I be expecting company while you’re still in town?”
Will answered with a slightly exasperated sigh, as if he were talking to an insufferable but cute toddler.
“You still refuse to understand, Jack. You’ve done what was necessary of you now. Leave the rest to us.”
“To you? Will, we’re talking about a murder about to happen! I can’t just leave it!”
“Yes, you can. And you will let it happen no matter what we do. And then, after the Dragon saga is long behind your back, another monster will emerge on your way. And you will come to my grave and pour me a glass of scotch. And I will hear it. And we will come again.”
In a blinding strike of panic, Jack inhaled sharply to refute, to say something, to try and terminate this contract he wasn’t aware he had signed with Will’s sticky curdled blood on that faraway Christmas night.
No use now. He knew that, Will knew that. It was futile.
His voice was unrecognizably thin when he finally spoke, his eyes still shut to fend against the darkness and the figures clothed in it.
“The world you live in now. Is it better than ours?”
Will’s hoarse chuckle crackled in his ear.
“It’s more honest, for one. You should come visit. Aren’t you tired of standing with one foot in the doorway?”
The phone call ended abruptly, but Jack, for the life of him, could not remember who was the one pushing the button. When he resurfaced, he was standing at his desk, and the Francis Dolarhyde file was open. The pictures. The ripped out throat.
Aren’t you tired, Jack?
A shadowy whisper. Jack shook his head violently until the Hannibal inside him stopped laughing altogether. Unless. . . He sounded more like Will Graham now.