Chapter Text
Jack Crawford stirs restlessly, nudged awake by the gentle chiming of his cell phone. He reaches for it, grumbling at himself for having fallen asleep in the bedside chair. Jack had intended to watch his Bella rest before joining her, but dozed off unexpectedly.
He notes the time – just after 7 a.m. (and on a Sunday morning, too!) - and wishes desperately for a shower and a cup of coffee. Opening the text that woke him, Jack gently rolls the residual stiffness from his neck.
Jack, something's wrong. Will and
I were supposed to have an early
dinner Friday night, but he never
showed. I'm at his house – the dogs
are outside and the door is open. He's
not here, and he's not answering his
phone.
-Alana
Alana is pacing on Will's porch when Jack pulls up. He parks in the vacant spot next to her car and notices that Will's vehicle is nowhere in sight. The bright, cheery red of Alana's coat contrasts sharply with the worry on her face, and her normally immaculate hair is rumpled from nervous fingers. Will's dogs are milling around the yard, and they swarm Jack as he exits his car. He is careful to watch his step as he makes his way to the porch, not wanting to trod on their paws - nor end up with shit clinging to his shoes.
“Alana,” he greets her, neutrally.
“Jack.”
He watches her for a moment, taking in the tightness around her eyes and the fretful way she keeps lacing and unlacing her fingers.
“Have you gone in yet?” Jack asks.
Alana sears him with a look. “I know better than that. If something has happened, I didn't want to contaminate any potential evidence. I've been waiting for you.”
Jack nods once, turning his eyes to Will's front door. The screen door is firmly closed, while the inner door swings wide. “Was this how you found it, exactly?” he asks.
“I closed the storm door,” Alana admits, “I was trying to keep the dogs out, just in case. When I got here it was propped open, but I didn't touch the main door.”
Jack nods to her, approving. “Probably a good idea,” he says. He takes a handkerchief from his pocket, drapes it over his hand and uses it to gingerly open the door. “We'll take a look.”
Alana steps inside as Jack holds the screen door open for her, and absently turns on the lights. He steps through after her, letting the door fall shut behind him with a rusty squeak. The front room shows nothing out of the ordinary other than the detritus that comes with seven dogs. There are dog beds and toys spread across the floor, and Jack notes tufts of fur in the corners, as though Will has not swept recently. The bed tucked under the large window has been hastily made, and a faint odor of stale sweat can be detected under the scents of dog and wood smoke. Though nothing appears out of place, unease tickles at the back of Jack's mind. Will has been known to sleep-walk, and while he's taken precautions, the possibility exists that he's wandered during the night and been injured.
Alana walks deeper into the house, toward the kitchen, while Jack examines Will's desk and work-table. Maybe a diary or planner will shed some light on where his wayward agent has disappeared to. Jack is flipping through Will's calendar, turning the pages with the tip of his pen, when Alana calls out.
“Jack! Come look at this!” He hears her puzzlement and concern, and quickly follows her voice back to the kitchen.
“What is it?” he asks, before stepping around the counter to see for himself.
“I don't know,” Alana replies, frowning.
A thick line of dog food stretches across the floor, as though someone has poured out an entire bag of kibble directly onto the linoleum. Jack can see small disturbances in the trail where the dogs have eaten dents in the otherwise tidy line.
“Wherever he is, Will obviously took the time to set out food before he left,” Jack says. “Maybe he took an impromptu fishing trip, didn't take the dogs with him?”
Alana shakes her head, arms crossing defensively over her chest. “I don't think so,” she murmurs. “Will doesn't feed the dogs store-bought food. He makes it because it's healthier and because Maggie has allergies. If he thought he'd be away for a while, he would have asked me to watch out for them or placed them in a kennel. Besides,” she adds, “that doesn't explain him missing dinner Friday.”
Lifting his shoulders in a near-shrug, Jack sighs. “Fair point. About the dogs, not necessarily dinner. You know how scattered Will can be, he may have just forgotten. Still,” he concedes, frowning, “you're right, something's off. Keep trying his cell; if he doesn't respond in two hours, I'll put a trace on it. In the meantime, why don't you check a few of Will's more usual haunts? Maybe he's just ignoring his phone and needed a day to himself. I'll call Doctor Lecter, see if he knows anything.”
Alana nods, the tension in her face easing a bit now that they have a plan. “Thank you, Jack,” she says, “I know it's too early to worry, but -”
“But it's Will,” Jack interrupts, “And you're concerned. Understandable. Should we do anything for the dogs?”
Twisting her lips, Alana thinks for a moment. “I'll herd them into the garage for now. If we haven't heard back by tonight, I'll pick them up and take them home with me.”
“Hopefully that won't be necessary, and Will's just at a bar or drowning some worms.” Despite his brisk words, Jack feels that frisson of unease creep back into his mind. Thinking it can't hurt, he sends a quick prayer into the ether as they walk to the door: Please, God, let this be nothing but paranoia.
Calling Doctor Lecter proves fruitless as well. A curt recording informs Jack that the doctor is not available, and to leave a message with a phone number and a convenient time for a return call.
Turning his car toward Baltimore, Jack hangs up rather than waste his breath. He'd prefer to have this conversation in person, anyway.
Traffic is light, so it's just after 11:30 when Jack parks in front of Doctor Lecter's home. Feeling slightly guilty for disturbing the doctor on a weekend, he gathers his resolve and knocks firmly.
After several moments, the door swings quietly open.
“Agent Crawford,” Hannibal greets him, face showing the barest hint of surprise, “How good to see you again.” He's dressed as casually as Jack has ever seen him, in casual slacks and a comfortable, if expensive, heavy-knit sweater.
“Morning, Doctor,” Jack says, holding out a hand for Hannibal to shake. “I'm sorry if I'm interrupting, but I need to speak with you about Will Graham. It's important, or I wouldn't have intruded.”
Hannibal seems to search Jacks face for a moment. “I see,” he says, brow furrowed slightly. “It's fortunate that I have no plans this afternoon. Please come in.”
Jack thanks him as he's waved into Hannibal's foyer, then on to a sitting room. The doctor excuses himself momentarily to fetch Jack a cup of coffee. Rather than sit, the Special Agent rests a hand on the back of a chair, fingers absently stroking the rich fabric. Hannibal returns with a steaming mug. He hands it to Jack, then sits and crosses his legs, hands resting comfortably on his knee.
“I am not officially Will's psychiatrist, so our conversations are not protected by doctor-patient confidentiality,” Hannibal begins. “However, I consider Will my friend. As such, there is a limit to what I am willing to share.”
Nodding, Jack slides his hands into his trouser pockets. “I know,” he says, “And I'm not here to pry. I need to know if you've heard from Will in the last day or so.”
Hannibal lifts one elegant eyebrow. “I have not,” he confirms. “Why do you ask?”
“Will may be missing. He missed a dinner engagement night before last, and, as far as we know, has not been heard from since approximately 4 p.m. Friday. He's not at his home, and we haven't been able to reach him by phone or text.”
Frowning slightly, Hannibal considers this information. “Though it is unusual for Will to miss an appointment without at least calling to apologize, he does occasionally neglect to answer his phone. Or it could be that he's simply fishing or hiking in a remote area and has no service.”
“It's possible,” Jack concedes, “but there are other factors that are somewhat worrying. Alana stopped by Will's to check on him this morning; the house was open and the dogs were running loose in the yard. There was also a good amount of dog food left out on the floor. It looked almost as though he had left it for them so they wouldn't go hungry, like he had planned to be gone a few days and didn't want to bother anyone to take care of the dogs. But . . .” here Jack trails off.
“But Will would not be so careless with his companions,” Hannibal finishes for him. “He is very attached to his dogs, as they provide unrestrained affection without the difficulties of social interaction.”
“Exactly,” Jack huffs out. “Plus, Alana says Will makes all of his dogs' food, and this was store-bought. Still,” he continues, “there isn't really anything that points to foul play. It's just my gut saying something is wrong. I called Katz on the way over; she's checking hospitals and morgues just in case, and Zee's putting out an APB on Will's car. Alana is calling or visiting bars and shops Will frequents in Wolf Trap.” Jack pauses, turning something over in his mind. Guilt flickers over his face as he resumes speaking. “Is it possible that Will has just had enough, and has walked away from the Bureau and everything that reminds him of us?” His hands fist in his pockets for a moment, then deliberately relax before withdrawing to grip the chair's back once more.
“I shouldn't think so,” Hannibal replies. “Though I can say without breaking any confidences that Will is certainly disturbed by the things he's exposed to in his line of work, he is very invested in what he does. The ability to save lives by catching those who take them is one of the few things he considers worthwhile about himself. Besides,” Hannibal says, allowing a faint edge of worry to color his voice, “even if he had decided to leave the Bureau, he would not have abandoned his pets. Their companionship eases the burden of the atrocities he sees every day. They are his sanctuary.”
Agent Crawford runs a hand over his close-cropped hair. “I thought you'd say something like that,” he admits. “Would you mind calling me if you hear from Will?”
Hannibal rises, reaching out a hand for Jack to clasp. “Certainly, Jack. And please let me know if you find anything.”
After walking Jack to the door, Hannibal carries the Special Agent's still-full coffee cup to the kitchen and carefully pours it into the sink. He quickly washes the mug, then places it into the rack to dry. Only then does he allow himself to go to the wine cupboard, and down.
Stepping through the thick plastic curtains that section off the basement, Hannibal indulges in a small, arrogant smile. He feels a cool satisfaction that the FBI are just as oblivious as ever, that his skills in deception are such that he will stand in full view of their best and still they will not see.
As Will Graham sleeps, Hannibal mechanically checks and adjusts his IV sedatives, then puts on a protective smock over his clothes. That done, he smooths a hand over Will's bared abdomen with something close to affection.
Very few people have managed to intrigue Hannibal. Still fewer have managed to keep his interest for as long as Will. Nothing delights Hannibal more than seeing the awe and fear on Will's face when he steps into the Ripper's mind. Or better, the excitement. The sick, guilty reverence that Will feels, that he detests, when he looks at the Ripper's work and sees under the horror to the artistry.
It is so nice to have ones' efforts appreciated.
As Hannibal's fascination with Will's psyche has grown, so too has his desire to taste. While his other hunts have been little more than entertainment, Hannibal is somewhat disquieted by this need to feel Will's flesh between his teeth, have the flavor burst wild across his tongue. He doesn't wish to deprive himself of Will's mind, but neither will he deny his hunger.
He picks up the scalpel and makes the first cut.