A.N: Do I need to warn you guys that most of this chapter is interaction between Will and Alana? Not romantic, don't worry, but still, yeah, warning. They're friends.
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Will was eleven years old when his school teacher had first recommended he see a psychiatrist. He was...incapable of integrating with the group, they had told his father. The way he spoke, thought, carried himself: it was too different.
Too wrong.
His father had spent the next day searching psychiatrists in the area that they could afford. Then, when there was none, he brought Will to the library. The entirety of the opening hours was spent with him on the opposite side of the children's section; Will with his books, and his father with own. After that, they had more 'talks' after dinner, though looking back, it was more verbal flailing than anything else. It ended with Will's dad finding higher paying job on the other side of the country that took night shifts; Will moved schools and they stopped talking.
There wasn't anymore time for 'family' anymore.
Those moments though may have been the reason Will had decided to take psychology at college. If not for them, perhaps he'd never had taken an interest in criminal psychology. Thus, never receiving the teaching position in Quantico, never meeting Jack, never seeing those crime scenes-
-never failing to save Abigail.
But he did. And now he was here: the middle of nowhere, standing in front of a house just short of falling apart. But this was the house he wanted.
Because once upon a time, William was happy here.
Long before he was able to comprehend that monsters lied in people and not under beds. Before his father's flaws became too much. Before his own had nearly broken him.
This place made his feel safe. Sound.
It was like a little boat on the ocean where all the nightmares drowned in the water.
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"Alana? Are you going to help me pack or not?" said Will, addressing the woman in the car as he lifted a box out the trunk. Alana had insisted on coming with him against all protests that he was fine, he could do it on his own, he didn't need the company.
Honestly, the man wondered if the psychiatrist had chosen to come for his sake or her own: to sooth her concerns that Will didn't off himself the moment he was away from a professional eye. Still, the presence, despite him muttering the contrary, was appreciated. To have anything other than dead memories trailing behind and beside him was always welcome.
Alana huffed, carrying a box just past the threshold of the front door before dropping it atop another. She looked up, appraising the tall ceilings and spacious entry way. But, she wasn't smiling. Will wasn't expecting her too: she was against him buying the house anyways.
"Well," Alana sighed. "It's spacious, I'll give you that Will, but are you sure this is the right place for you? It's rather...dark."
Will let out a small scoff. He could tell that she was holding back, every word that she wanted to say was practically echoing from her and reverberating through the walls.
Dismal. Sullen. Somber. Bleak.
Just like him.
Alana's shoulders tensed, and she looked around with wide eyes. It wasps if she expected a monster to appear from behind the boxes. She stayed close to Will though, back slightly to him, as though, if a monster were to appear, she could protect him. Will knew she couldn't, she had tried, tried, and tried.
But he wouldn't have been here if she succeeded.
But still, this was the reason Will appreciated her presence the most. Her concern was honest, not like the other psychiatrists that he'd seen. The way they had looked at him with 'professional interest' as they poked, prodded and asked:
How does that make you feel?
"Honestly, Will. Don't you find it a little creepy?"
Will glanced back at the woman, dropping his own box with a huff. "Not really. My father and I lived here once, when we had no where to go. It's not a bad place."
"But it looks as though..." Alana looked around the room again. "Something from the walls will come out to get you."
"Why, thanks Alana," muttered Will, gruffly. "I'll keep that in mind when I try to sleep tonight."
"Sorry, Will," she replied. "It's just this place is...it's..." She swallowed. "Maybe we could get the realtor to find something else. It might not be too late."
Will turned to Alana with a tired breath. "Why Alana? Because a place like this is counterproductive to my health? Too gloomy to have your approval?" He slipped a box cutter out of his back pocket, slicing open the top of the box he'd just dropped. If he did it with more force than necessary, then Alana didn't mention it; his t-shirts inside were fine anyways.
Will glanced back at her, waiting for the answer. He was sure his intonation was high enough to be a question, even if it was more because of the tenseness in his throat than anything else. Will could feel Alana's pity, her fear for him, even without looking at her. As though living here, isolated like a lonely old hermit, was bad.
"No, Will, that's not what I meant-"
"Then what, Alana?" he interjected. "It's an old house. Maybe there's asbestos in the walls, perhaps thats what your sixth sense is feeling; the poison seeping out of the drywall and wallpaper. If I get cancer ten years down the line, I'll make sure to let you know so you could tell me I told you so."
"Will, calm down. That's not what I-"
"Maybe it'll be better if I bunked with Jack, hm? He'd probably say yes, what with the convenience of having his greatest asset so close at hand. I'll be sure to bark for him whenever he beckons for me!" Will threw the cutter down, hearing the plastic clatter loudly. It felt good to let the frustration out for once. "Perhaps he'll even give me a treat."
"Will!"
Will breathed, flinching slightly as he registered Alana's closeness to him; her hand was on his shoulder. She was telling him to calm down, take deep breaths, it's okay, it's okay, I'm sorry.
I'm so sorry.
Who muttered the last part, he wondered.
"I'm fine," Will murmured. "I'm fine, I'm okay Alana; let's just get these boxes in before dark."
Alana stepped away from him, no longer able to look him in the eye. "It's just that..with everything that happened. I wanted to make sure you're okay."
"I said I'm fine, Alana." insisted Will. He turned away from her, about to head out the door again for another box. But of course, psychiatrists always had to have the last word.
"It wasn't your fault, Will." Alana declared. "There was nothing you could have done to save that girl...Abigail. You couldn't have known that that would happen. "
But I did, Will wanted to confess. I knew. Suspected.
He grit his teeth, and walked forward. Every blink at the sun dyed his eyelids red. "So what, Alana? I can't work for the FBI. My mind's blinded; it can't take looking anymore."
His mind had shattered. Weakened. It could no longer take how every crime scene he saw that revealed to him how the victim begged its killer to spare them gave him Abigail.
Gave him the image of how Abigail had-
-looked at him.
Begged to him.
Cried for him as her words bled out on the ground.
Mocked him with the red smile on her neck.
He grit his teeth, stomping towards his car and digging into it for another box. Alana paralleled his actions, following him back into the house with her own box.
"But, Will," she whispered. "Why move all the way here? Away from everything and everyone? The nearest town is hours away."
"I need a fresh start, Alana," responded Will, stepping through the door. "The dead won't follow me inside here."
Alana's nodded, her expression down trodden and chastised. It makes Will feel guilty; as if he was the criminal, the one wrong in telling her how he'd felt. Will turned away.
"And if I didn't move, Jack wouldn't stop bugging me with his cases."
Alana chuckled nervously with a murmured, "you have a point."
Will considered the chuckle a small victory. The atmosphere had brightened considerably and he could breath.
Alana bent over to drop her box down beside William's lightly.
"Well, that's the last box," observed Alana. She stood up to look at William.
"Call me, if you need anything. I'll come right over." She laughed, trying to lighten the atmosphere of goodbye. "Even if you do live in a creepy house hours away."
Will waved her away. "It's late Alana, I'm fine so just go home. "
"Goodbye, Will."
The door shut softly, leaving Will alone in the entryway surrounded by boxes. A small patter of feet signalled the entrance of Winston; the dog immediately made himself underfoot and snuffed at his owner.
"Hey, Winston," Will greeted. "Done exploring? How was it? Nice?"
The dog barked and Will laughed. "Well, you're right, buddy. It's certainly big enough."
His gaze found the hallway to the main rooms of the house. "This used to be an orphanage, though it doesn't really looked like it's for kids," mused Will. He looked down at Winston. "Wanna be my tour guide, Winston?"
The dog barked again and Will smiled. "Thanks, boy,"
Will walked down the hall, appreciating the mix of colour as Winston followed at his was a mix of red, brown, and off-white, exuding a sense of warmth and coolness: of home. At the sight kitchen he guessed the place had been renovated recently - the woodstain being free of markings and scuffs. As well, the utilities seemed modern enough taking into account how old the house was. The bedroom already had a bed, though the sheets smelled a little dated: a quick change would be easy enough.
"Everything looks different now," Will told Winston. "I don't recognize anything anymore..."
Winston petted himself under Will's hand, freezing and whining when they came across the living room. It was grand space, the architecture hinting that perhaps it was once a small ball room or agrand sitting room. Both the carpet and wallpaper were slightly off-colour with the drywall framing.
Perhaps, Will thought, it was placed down against the original floor plans. Maybe the orphanage changed it to be more suitable for kids. William recognized it. He used to play here, drawing pictures on the floor, reading on the couch and hiding behind it.
"At least this looks familiar," he told himself in relief. "It's good to see it hasn't change much..."
With this, it finally felt like home.
Winston bumped his nose against William's palm, the volume of his whining getting louder as they approached the living room.
"Hey, bud, what's wrong?" asked William offhandedly as he spotted a small door off on the bottom of a side wall. It almost looked like a cupboard, and Will would probably have believed it was if not for it's odd location. If it really was a sitting room, then it would have been unsightly: unsuitable and out of place. Smack in the middle of where guests could easily see it.
William approached it. Winston whined.
"I think I remember this." William blinked, running a hand against the old wood. Even though he majority of the paint had flaked off, there was enough to know that the colour had been the opposite of every door in the house: black. A splinter came off on his finger and Will's flinched, rubbing the wood away on his jeans.
"Yeah," he confirmed softly after a short search of his distant memories. "I used to play here."
He stood up, not bothering to brush the dust off his jeans as he looked around the room again. If he remembered correctly, he'd left a box of keys by the door. The man turned back to see if it was indeed there, noting that his dog was pawing against the carpet just an inch away from the door's threshold.
"Winston?"
The dog barked, high and afraid. He pawed the carpet harder, as if trying to gesture Will to his side of the door.
"Oh, you don't like the room? Does it smell too dusty?"
Will gave the air a sniff. It seemed fine, but for a dog...
"I'll be over there in a bit. Just give me a second," he told Winston. He carried a small cardboard giftbox away from the exit, staggering a bit from the surprising weight before heading back to the small door. There was a bit of water stain at the bottom, and it sagged deeply.
"Let's see what's behind door number one..." joked Will with himself, prying open the lid of the box. The cardboard folded backwards as it came off.
"What the hell?"
The box was piled to the brim with keys, both old and new with a mix of bronze, silver, and gold. That explained the weight, but still; there was an inch and a half between the top of the pile to the bottom. It was a surprise the box hadn't broken.
William cursed, wondering why there were so many. The number of doors in the house didn't match, even if he counted the cupboards. And not all of them had locks.
William looked back at the door, inspecting the handle. It was a little rusted, the metal clouded and dark with dust, dirt and age; he could barely tell if it was gold or , if the key matched as it should, then he could diminish how many he needed to try. He dumped the box onto the ground, separating the new ones from the old, the silver from the bronze and gold.
There were seven choices left by the end. Will tried the first.
It didn't work.
The second.
A failure.
The third.
Another defeat.
The fourth.
Will stared at the key in his hand, finding it slightly heavier than the others. It was more dated too. He brushed a bit of grime off of the key, wondering at the tiny feeling of nostalgia at the back of his mind when he looked at it.
He gave it a try.
Click.
The door creaked open, the hinges so rusted shut that Will had to pry it open bit by bit. He grunted as he pulled it away from the wall, incapable of keeping away a bit of excitement.
What was behind the door?
He almost joked that perhaps he'd find Narnia, but of course, that was ridiculous. He was Will Graham, and Will Graham never found happiness in the form of fantasies and distant lands. Because that was simply how his life worked.
All he had was nightmares. Nightmares and-
-nothing.
A brick wall.
Will let his fingers fall off the door knob, breathing out in disappointment.
Of course there'd be nothing.
He ran his fingers along the cement between the brick; dust sprinkled off. "I could have sworn that there was something here..."
A dark tunnel.
A smiling face.
An outreached hand.
"Maybe they blocked it off?" Will let out another sigh, closing the door and leaving in the key. He hefted himself up, returning to where Winston was - still in the hallway, looking in. The dog had laid himself down, watching William with trepidation. He had jumped up excitedly though when his master approached.
"Hey, boy, time to go." Will petted the dog, his fingers getting licked in the process. "Almost time for bed..."
Will returned to the hallway and into the front entranceway to dig into some boxes. He lugged out a can of dogfood and a bowl, putting it down for Winston. For himself, he found a can of tuna and a fork; Will sat himself down by the wall and ate his menial dinner, it wasn't much, but for now it was all his stomach could handle.
If things went as planned, maybe in a week, he'd be better. Maybe then, he'd be able to sit at a table and eat without thinking about how Garett Jacob Hobbs had eaten those girls.
Devoured them
Honoured them.
With Abigail smiling across from him.
None the wiser.
Innocent, sweet Abigail. Bloody, dead Abigail.
Will tasted bile at the back of his throat. The tuna, juicy and meaty in the can almost seemed red in the dim light. He put the can down.
There was still half left.
But that was okay: Winston must be hungry from the move. A treat wouldn't hurt. He pushed the can towards the dog, his head flopping to his shoulder as he watched Winston pounce without hesitation at the proffered meal.
"Maybe, if I just go to bed..." Will murmured, resting his head against the drywall. He was exhausted. Completely and utterly drained.
The man closed his eyes, listening to the sound of the house settling, of it rattling in the wind.
Wehhh...
…...ehhh..lll...
haaaaa...Aah...
eeeeeeehhhhmm...
The sound would have lulled him to sleep if not for Winston licking his palm for more tuna. Will chuckled lightly, getting up to throw the can away.
He missed the house's last echo.
Will...?
…..WiLLiam?
You're HERE...?
…...You're BACK?
.
.
.
.
(WeLCOmE HOmE)
A.N: Hey guys, it's been a long time. I haven't been writing for a while except for school papers (I wrote one on Cannibalism and got an A- yaaayyy) so I hope it's not to rusty; it it is, I'm sorry. Feel free to leave writing critiques on grammar, characterization (I haven't watched Hannibal for a long time, so please please please tell me if they're OOC, I'm so out of touch! At least until third season lol) and anything that bothers you, I'll do my best to respond to all comments! And I actually can, cause after Tuesday next week I'm on holiday for like two weeks before spring sem classes. I went on dA after like forever and found out there's like a whole bunch of updates for the dj by SeniorPotato, so I'll be able to update the next bit easily. So SeniorPotato. Check her/his (don't wanna make assumptions here) comic out.
Sorry if this chapter is a bit more slow moving, with lack of Hannigram. It won't be for long though.
