Chapter Text
𓇢𓆸
The weather was beautiful this time of year. Some storms and some sun, but mostly a cool cloud cover. It was reminiscent of those autumns in Louisiana before moving along. What he longed for, truly, was the mountainous ranges and rain of his childhood.
Will liked to convince himself that he truly remembered such a time, but it had been too long ago and his memory had dimmed as the years passed.
He adjusted the collar of his coat, pulling it tighter around his neck. He wasn’t chilled—it wasn’t in his nature to be—but he enjoyed the comforting weight around him. It evoked memories of the wardrobe he’d long given up. Stiff starched collars, long flowing coats. A form of grounding perhaps.
Memories of his childhood always took his mind far away. It was important, to him, to maintain a connection to his roots. When one grows in age, it becomes easier to lose yourself in the present. It takes the wisdom of age to value our roots and carry those lessons with us.
He huffs a laugh at his thoughts, he sounds like the same poets he used to find insufferable. Another benefit of age, he supposes.
The sky was dark still, lit by inklings of the sun dawdling on the horizon. Shades of blue and orange mixing into purples and pinks. The stars were bright, especially out here with no one around. The trees loomed, imposingly dark, casting long shadows on his path. The branches spread like webs of neurons, reaching a grasping for sunlight and nourishment. The shadows they crossed and covered everything.
Though he could just barely see ahead of him, his path was carved into his brain.
The trail was the same as it always was, molded to his daily path. Devoid of any excitement, truly, but duty brought him back each day. Better safe than sorry. Better them than me.
The wind whipped through the forest, rustling the leaves and tossing loose debris on the forest-bed. A crackling to the right pulled his attention. A twig?
He stepped off the beaten path, following his ears. His dogs were trained to wait, so he turns his head and whistles once sharply. They heel immediately. Stepping over leaves and branches, they make not a single noise. The perfect companions, undyingly loyal.
His head jerks right at a shrill bird call and he sees crows circling in the distance.
He began his approach, a sense of foreboding building in his chest. His instincts have only gotten sharper with age—his becoming had turned them preternatural, but age had added experience. He was surprised to evolve at all, it wasn’t expected, but he supposes a creature of his age was not common.
He increases his pace, walking purposefully through the forest with his pack following dutifully. His feet make no noise, the leaves he steps on undisturbed. As he approaches, the crows sense their presence and stop their calls. They quickly fly away, afraid of the larger predators.
He looks dispassionately down at the corpse, rounding it slowly to assess its state. The crossing of creatures through his land was constant, but it was not often they were unable to make it through.
The stag was impaled. Its antlers were bloodied—it put up a tough fight. No matter because here it laid, its opponent in the wind. It was missing a few chunks of flesh, perhaps from their fight, but the stag was otherwise untouched.
It's eyes were open, staring beseechingly into the distance, uncomprehending of its fate.
The foreboding he felt reaches a fever pitch, his mind quickly cataloguing what it could mean. Seemed like more death.
Nothing new, Will supposes.
It had only been dead a couple of hours, the meat still smelled viable. He rose from his crouch, ambling back a few steps. He clicks twice with his tongue, Go get it, he thinks and suddenly the dogs are on the stag, devouring.
He watches for a few moments, heavy jaws gnashing, blood and flesh shared between them. Finally, his youngest, Zoe gains the courage to approach, so he turns to walk back to his path. He doesn’t have time to waste as dawn rapidly dwindles and the sun rises.
And with the sun, his powers dull rapidly, leaving him slower than he'd like. A little duller too.
It takes him 10 minutes to loop back to his home and another 2 for his pack to rejoin him. From there its a battery of wiped paws, snouts, and mundane morning chores before he finds himself ready for the day ahead of him.
He leaves his pack with a few pats, a Be Good and Be Nice to Buster. As he walks down his driveway, he can’t help but appreciate the serenity of the morning. And he can’t help but dread how that calm will soon shatter.
The drive was the same as usual, 30 minutes with moderate traffic. The routine could be numbing at times and it only made it harder to feel the time pass, but he wasn’t one for excitement any more.
He’d lived an exciting life. He had the memories to tide himself over, so he had no need to relive them. He was happy to stay with his pack on his quiet land and get modest entertainment from his day job.
It had taken him a long time to settle into this way of life, a lot of pain and blood too, but he was fine now. He was also tired. Too tired to care much.
His thoughts were elsewhere as he drove into the lot at Quantico and parked in his usual spot. Under the big tree. There was little special about it other than it was his. He remain seated for a few moments, breathing, anticipating what was coming.
He would be remiss to leave Wolf Trap and the FBI in a few decades, but he would be glad to leave some pests behind.
And one of the largest pests was rapidly approaching him as he left his car. He continued collecting his belongings as he pretended not to notice. The charade did not last long as his attention was demanded when Jack Crawford was still several feet away.
His name echoed throughout the lot as Jack bellowed it, with no regard for their surroundings. It was his own fault for allowing Jack this much slack, but it was too late to undo that. He grimaced as he turned towards him resigned. “Jack.”
“Are you teaching today?”
The question was delivered in that same insistent tone that coloured everything Jack Crawford said. The man at the helm of the BAU was well aware of boundaries and body language, he just had very little care for them. Especially in the case of useful personnel he felt he could push around. Will could respect his dedication to the cause if it wasn’t so irritating.
When Will had first met the man, he’d been too focused on staying under the radar and masking his nature. He’d crafted this ‘Will Graham’ into a particularly meek man who was avoidant and twitchy. It repelled attention, except where it attracted Jack Crawford.
He continues to live to regret that.
The question was also rhetorical in nature and insidious in the picture it painted. Will was a professor, he was always teaching when on campus. What Jack truly wished to ask is, ‘Can I take you away from your actual obligations and command your attention for my case.’
Will thought to his morning. An animal savaged by another. It was not an uncommon occurrence, but on his property it surely gave him pause. Perhaps an omen. Perhaps he has some excitement to look forward to.
“I can make time, Jack, what is it?”
The subsequent gleam in Jack’s eyes told him he’s made another allowance that will come back to bite him.
The case wasn’t particularly special. Missing girls.. Why is it always missing girls, Will thinks with disgust.
He remembers, years back, the latest round of missing cases was an up-jump young man trying to build a harem that he passed off as a coven. It was particularly satisfying to nip that in the bud.
It didn’t seem to be similar circumstance at all, but the pictures of the girls on the board spoke to him. They looked.. familiar. In a way that called to him.
Perhaps a hunter? With a decent accuracy too. Somehow he’d found a good niche and was alarmingly fast. Probably well-practiced, not his first hunt. Another light to snuff—it wouldn’t do to have another know the secrets of hunting.
His mind raced, thinking of the consequences of another hunter, but at the surface, he was staring at the board. He looked contemplative, but no sound passed through his lips.
Turning back to Jack, who observed from beside him, he commented, “You’re calling them abductions because you have no bodies?”
“We have nothing. No parts of bodies, nothing that comes out of the body..” Jack lets his voice trail off suggestively. Will didn’t do much to hide his revulsion.
“One through seven are likely dead, maybe even eight.”
“They were all abducted on a Friday, reported on a Monday. They all look very mall of America, same eye colour, same hair colour,” Jack looks back at Will, trying to catch his eyes, “What is it about all these girls?”
Hm. Will tilts his head, avoiding eye contact. He looks back at the board. He needs Jack to drop that line of questioning.
“It’s not about all these girls, it’s about one of them or none of them. Maybe one who hasn’t been taken yet?”
It was fortuitous that these girls were all physically similar , because what truly united them was not something he was willing to share.
“His inspiration?” Jack asked, sounding interested. It was likely the first proper idea he’d seen yet. This hunter was smart about how he went about abducting. Nabbed before a weekend, giving him time to work and hide.
Will continued to stare at the board, hoping to glean more about the man while Jack shuffled about in the background. He paid the man no more mind, he’d done what he promised and he was leaving with more work on his plate.
Leads like this was one of the reasons this job was worthwhile.
In a second, Will’s instincts call to him again, loudly. He stills his body and stretches his hearing. Another presence. He could smell the rich cologne, the musky sweat. A man.
Heavy, controlled steps. A metronomic pattern, Even steps and even breath, slow heart beats. Almost fake.
And then, a knock on the door. For Jack?
He subtly turns his body, to include the door in his periphery. A man enters confidently, expression bland, dressed…oddly. A lot of layers for this weather, a casual look, aggressively neutral, yet still flamboyant.
The man makes brief eye contact, cut short only by Will’s turned head. Another fledgling, barely off their sire's fangs. Will suppresses an eye-roll, cataloguing his posture and dead-eyed expression. Not even trying to blend. But Will couldn’t let himself care. Baltimore wasn’t his area to protect or monitor. But what was he doing here?
“Ah, Dr. Lecter, thank you for joining us. This is Will Graham, he’s a professor here at Quantico.” Jack walked the man, Dr. Lecter, over to him as he spoke. The man had a penetrating gaze, seeming to analyze every inch of Will within seconds.
Will stood a little taller, letting the pup take his fill. He was not new to meeting others, on his turf or theirs. And of all those others, he was the last man standing every time.
He looked at the extended hand, ignoring it, and returning his verbal greeting. Rude, yes, but he had a persona to maintain. He turned back to the board.
“What’s he doing here, Jack?”
He can feel the stare burning into the back of his head. He remains unmoved.
“Dr. Lecter is an established psychiatrist who I asked to consult on the case based on Dr. Bloom’s recommendation,” Jack explained. His voice was odd, anticipatory, eager.
“And why would an unrelated psychiatrist be of use here?” Will allowed himself to drag the last syllable, heavy with suspicion.
He was annoyed now, that he’d been set-up. Dr. Lecter’s timely arrival was planned, clearly, and he didn’t appreciate feeling like a pawn.
Jack was lucky that this job proved beneficial to him.
“Have you seen the new article on Tattlecrime?” The man, Dr. Lecter, asked instead. His voice grated.
Will turned back to him then and grimaced, “About as tasteless as ambushing an unwilling patient.”
Amusement flickered in his eyes, but his face remained blank, he turned to Jack and raised his eyebrows. Ah. Another victim apparently.
Jack approached from behind, standing just to his right, “I’d like you in the field, but you know there’s protocol in place.”
“I don’t remember saying I would do field work, Jack,” he grits out. What use would he be on the field? If he was seen in the same state as this hunter then he could be implicated when it came time to take care of him.
Jack sighed then, hand raising to clasp his shoulder stiffly. Will wanted to rage at the attempt to physically intimidate, but the urge fell away as quickly as it came. He allowed himself to be backed into this corner, no point fighting now.
Any regular person would be quickly convinced to acquiesce on the moral basis alone. To save people was as noble as pursuit as any.
Will simply had to remind himself that he didn't really want to leave Wolf Trap yet.
Will clenched his jaw, taking a calming breath, before turning swiftly in place to face Dr. Lecter, “This is beyond violating and I’ll state outright that I don’t need a therapist. Feel free to rubber stamp me.”
Dr. Lecter stood in place, face indifferent. He was clearly incensed by Will’s demeanour, not that Will cared much. He’d be glad to never see this fledgling again after he got what he needed.
Will stared back at the man, allowing his eyes to roam his form. It was truly an interesting thing to behold.
A suit with wide lapels in a light tan. A shirt and sweater underneath. The suit gave the impression of being dressed down in comparison to the mans regular choices, which was ridiculous considering Will hadn’t looked that good since the 18th century.
Will smirks at the thought, belatedly realizing he'd laughed in the mans face. Incomprehensibly, the man seemed to be amused and smiled back amiably.
Will didn’t trust it.
“Dr. Lecter, it would be a great help,” Jack pitched then, sensing the tension. His voice trailed off as he spoke, willing Dr. Lecter to look at him and see his imploring face. It was a rather pathetic display, appealing to Dr. Lecter's obvious need to be the alpha, but Will held his tongue, waiting.
Predictably, it worked.
Images painted red and black, flashing through his dreams, repeating on a loop. Dead, Dead, Dead. Corpses piled upon each other, corpses left in the snow, a woman in a chair. A man in the parlour. A drink shared, a flash of movement, the rich tang of iron. A blur of faces, a blur of hunts.
The image distorts, the happiness of the hunt changes to the exhilaration of being hunted.
He was being chased. He was running. Arms scraped by passing branches. Pitch forks? A village. Transylvania. His home. His. The Magyars, the war—
Will jerks out of sleep, the images fresh in his mind.
He didn’t think of his home often. He’d been haunting this Earth so long it was hard for his brain to even recall. Some days, he would swear he really was Will Graham from Louisiana. Sometimes, his brain would even conjure images to fill in the blanks.
But those were certainly true. Rather surprising that he should be reminded so abruptly of his becoming. Of his follies that drove him from his home. It had been nearly 10 centuries now since then.
Turned off-handedly on a night in town, he could scarcely understand what had happened to him before the hunger hit. The raw yearning for destruction, the burning in his gums as his fangs came in, itching to pierce and rip and tear.
What followed was decades which blurred red. All visceral reactions and instinctual choices. He was feral in a way he never allowed himself to be again. And then he was found and chased and hunted. He survived by the skin of his teeth—he was the only survivor of his coven.
He knew that had to cool down. He slept through centuries to keep himself in check. And now his age meant he didn’t need to feed nearly as often, and it meant he had much better control.
Something of a blessing now that he found himself in law enforcement again.
Will sat in the silence of his motel room, heart racing as he reviewed his dreams. It was rare to have memories of his home so fresh in his mind. He could almost smell the mountains. Fresh, dewy grass. Fertile earthy soil. The dust in the air looked almost like the mist which would wet his hair in the mornings. With his eyes closed, he was almost there. Young and guileless. Back then, he would help his father on the fields, but was excited at the idea of exploration. Of leaving that town. Now, he only had the fleeting memories which brought him peace.
Inevitably, the peace he scarcely found was interrupted. God forbid he bask in a moment of happiness.
Someone was knocking at the door and from the smell alone he knew which nuisance he’d be dealing with.
Somehow Dr. Lecter had made himself useful enough to qualify for a field trip. Probably here babysitting his mental health, he thought bitterly.
As he heads towards the door he sees his robe but refuses to grab it on principle. He was not willing to accommodate this pest, Will wanted to project just how intrusive he found him.
The sun blinds him briefly as he opens the door, making him flinch sharply. Dr. Lecter cuts a dark shadow blocking the light immediately, how fitting.
“Good morning. May I come in?”
Will doesn’t move, and watches amusedly as Hannibal’s eyes dance on his form, awkward and unsure how to proceed.
He waits another few moments before meeting his gaze, “Where’s Crawford?”
Hannibal’s face doesn’t twitch in its blankness. It would be eerie if he didn't know what he was. In complete juxtaposition, his voice is jolly when he answers, “Deposed in court. The adventure will be yours and mine today.”
“May I come in,” he adds insistently, shaking the parcel in his hands.
Will sighs deeply before moving aside.