Chapter Text
In his house in Wolf Trap, Virginia, surrounded by well-cared-for and well-loved dogs, resides the well-known, early retired, and committed to solitude psychiatrist: Dr. Will Graham.
His phone almost never rings, so when it does, the ringtone startles the dogs.
“Hello?”
“Will, it’s been a long time. This is Jack Crawf–”
Will Graham, as soon as he hears the voice of his old acquaintance, does what every sane man with the barest minimum of self-preservation does the moment Jack Crawford calls: He picks up a hammer and smashes the phone into a useless brick.
“Nope.”
Will throws the phone inside the trash bin under his desk and resumes the work on his lure. The weather has been nice lately, he’ll probably go fishing tomorrow.
[x]
Days later, when Will Graham is busy again at his desk on the upper level of his house, this time reading a book, he hears the scratch of car tires on his pebbled driveway. He looks down through the window to find an FBI SUV car, and so, Will Graham does what any sane person with the barest minimum of self-preservation should do when Jack Crawford comes to their door carrying a manila folder full of pictures of dead bodies in his robust hand: He opens the door, lets the dogs out to the porch to bark and growl at the intruder and aims his deceased father’s old shotgun at Jack Crawford’s chest.
“Unless you’re carrying a warrant in that folder, I want you gone from my property right now, Jack.”
“Will, listen–”
“Get out.”
Will disengages the safety of the gun and the sound of it stuns Jack into silence.
“This could save lives–” Jack tries to argue, but Will cuts him again with a sharp whistle.
“Ellie,” Will calls, and the smallest dog of the seven chirps angrily at Jack, attempting to nip at Jack’s leg and making the agent take a step back. “Winston,” he calls again, and Winston, who is not the smallest nor the biggest but the most protective, goes in front of Will, paws firmly planted on the porch and eyes fixated on Jack.
Winston growls. His snout wrinkles when he shows his teeth, and the dog curves his body into an attack position.
Jack takes another step back, fully leaving the porch.
“Don’t make me call B-u-s-t-e-r,” Will spells, nodding at the small terrier. “He is not the biggest, but he plays dirty and he will bite, and he won’t let go.”
Jack presses his lips into a thin line at the threat, brows furrowed as he capitulates snapping the folder in the air.
“Very well. Good afternoon, Will.”
It’s only a momentary victory, Will knows that. Jack hasn’t accepted defeat, and probably won’t, ever. Life has taught Will that. One battle won against Jack Crawford only postpones the end of the war. Jack will come back soon enough.
But as the SUV retreats, Will lowers the rifle and gets back to his dogs. He has earned himself at least another day of peace.
[x]
Jack is also a man more or less sane with some sense of self-preservation, so, the third time he tries to reach for Will, he doesn’t try to call or come in person. Instead, he sends someone else in his place. Someone that Will would hesitate shooting on sight.
Her name is Applesauce and she is gorgeous. She even allows Will to bury his face in her fur and she wiggles her tail happily when he pets her.
Alana comes along with her because, well, dogs sadly can’t convince Will to help the FBI. Will would have preferred that Applesauce had come alone, but that’s his luck.
“Can I come in?” Alana asks ruefully, another hint that she is so clearly sent by Jack.
“No.” Will answers plainly with a smile on his face that is still buried in Applesauce’s fur. “And you can’t tell me what Jack wants either.”
Alana smiles proudly at him, but Will knows that she still won’t desist. There’s a hint of guilt in the way she carries herself, making her shoulders smaller and brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. Must be something important then.
Still, it’s a ‘no’ from Will. If she wanted to ask for a favor she should have helped him more while the FBI tried to put him behind bars.
“Can I tell you what I want instead?”
That catches Will’s attention. Must be really important then. He hasn’t been looking lately at the news, and Lounds hasn’t sent any of her tabloid articles for him to check.
“Perhaps…” he ventures, peeking at Alana with one eye open, still hugging her dog.
“The Minnesota Shrike. Have you heard of it?” she says tentatively.
Doesn't ring a bell, but it sounds like a moniker that Lounds would have come up with. Must not be a very complicated serial killer if she hasn't asked for his input yet.
It makes the fact that Jack and Alana are coming to ask for his help a lot more curious.
And speaking of Alana, she looks like she wants to take a step forward but she resists. She may be expecting that Will will bite a chunk of her if she tries to. He supposes it's a fair assessment on her part, he hasn't had a lot of interaction with fellow humans since he stopped working a few years back.
(And no, Freddie Lounds doesn't count as a fellow human. She counts as a headache in any case. A useful one, contrary to Will's normal headaches and the headache that Jack Crawford represented, so that's a point in her favor.)
“No, and I don’t care.”
“Good,” Alana answers proudly with a smile. “The current profiler–”
“Jack’s new punching box,” Will corrects.
Alana sighs, more amused than irritated.
“The current profiler is having a hard time with it. The FBI could use your insight.”
Will makes a face and a disbelieving hum. Don't they always? The corners of Alana's mouth curve upwards. Her blue eyes sparkle.
“Jack promises he won’t make you go into the field.”
“Jack’s promises are feeble at best,” he refutes as he stands up, brushing the dirt from his knees. A clear show of him considering the idea of heading back home.
“The profiler is a friend of mine. Please?” Alana asks quickly, stopping him in his tracks. She may not be cursed with Will’s empathy, but she catches on his sour expression. Will has a huge resting bitch-face after all, it’s difficult to miss. “I’m going on a trip next month to a psychology convention, I’ll need someone to take care of my girl,” she adds, gesturing with her head to Applesauce.
It's a desperate attempt to make Will at least consider helping the FBI. It could have worked. But the case has quickly piqued his interest, something about it doesn't sit right and it's munching at the back of his brain.
Still, he will put out a show for Alana's sake. Let her believe she did something.
“Alright. I’m sold,” Will groans, rolling his head and wiping the smirk from his face with his hand. He points a finger sharply in Alana’s direction as an afterthought, though she doesn’t seem faced by it. She’s smiling far too wide. “I’ll go once . No field. And I won’t be nice.”
“Believe me, Will, nobody will be expecting you to be nice,” she laughs, and it’s quickly contagious, even if he doesn’t want to.
It dies as quickly as it has begun, and Alana still stands in front of him, her posture tense as she brushes the same strand of hair behind her ear once again in that nervous tic she has. Her smile is shy when she speaks. “You look good.”
She oozes guilt from all her pores, and maybe some regret for the broken friendship and missed could have beens.
Will doesn’t care about it. Never actually cared. But it’s good that she does, works perfectly for him. Next time the FBI is onto him, Alana’s guilt will make her become the first one on the line of fire to protect him and voluntarily ignore all the proof of his guilt.
“Yeah, well, it’s needed more than two serial killers to put me down,” Will answers with a shrug. “My practice on the other hand…" he trails off with a gesture of his hand, waiting for the moment Alana drops her eyes.
As expected, she lowers her gaze, and her smile dims.
"But doesn’t matter," Will resumes quickly, brushing the matter away with a disinterested wave of his hand. "The lawsuit I put the FBI through gives me more money than I could spend in two lifetimes. Oh, that reminds me, tell Jack my fee will be double, you know what, make it triple than last time.”
Alana laughs again, louder and more honestly.
“Don’t worry, I got you.” She looks at him for a long moment until Applesauce starts pawning at her leg. Her cheeks blush pink when she looks at Will, and she quickly lowers her eyes again, petting the dog to make her hands useful. “Thank you. Really.”
“Sure, whatever,” Will shrugs again, trying to present himself as more relaxed and friendly. It’s been a while since he had some fun. He will have to look up The Minnesota Shrike and call Lounds once Alana is gone, but that barely will entertain him. Instead, he goes for what he is truly curious about. “So, what’s your friend’s name? Jack’s new profiler.”
“His name is Hannibal. Hannibal Lecter.”