Chapter Text
Will Graham opens his eyes and finds himself seated opposite a plain, wooden desk in an unfamiliar room, with no memory of how or when he got here. He looks left and right, realising that he seems to be in some kind of office. The blinds are closed, suggesting there must be an open-plan space beyond, but he strangely can’t hear any voices coming from outside. On the desk, there is a photo frame that depicts a dark-skinned man dressed sharply in a suit, and his beautiful wife in a white dress. It must be a photo of their wedding day. Mounted on the wall behind the desk are certificates written in curly script that Will cannot decipher. They look like awards of some kind. He rises from the chair to get a closer look with his spectacles, frowning when he does not recognise the language. He can tell that it’s not Latin-based, and the characters have a different shape to Arabic, or the East-Asian languages. Printed in the corner, he spies an official looking crest. It’s reminiscent of the FBI badge that he’s seen in cop dramas, but different; a pair of golden wings are engraved on the emblem, with more of that strange writing squashed into the centre.
Panic begins to set in, as Will wonders just what the hell happened to him. Was he drugged and flown off to some foreign country? Is he in the hands of special forces, or perhaps an unusually polite terrorist group? Why can’t he remember anything?
Just when he feels as though his head is about to explode, Will hears the door open behind him. He flinches at the noise and turns around. It’s the burly man in the photograph. He’s wearing a blinding white suit- a rather garish choice for a kidnapper- and there is a matching envelope under his arm. He opens it and slides out a page. Will judges that it’s a report of some sort, although he cannot read it. The man scans the first couple of lines, and then his gaze flicks up to meet Will’s.
“Will Graham, huh? It’s about time,” he smiles. Will notes the stranger’s American accent. The familiarity is marginally comforting.
He knows who I am?
“That’s me,” Will confirms warily, unable to look the man in the eye. “Who are you? Where am I?”
The stranger slides into the chair opposite and lays the file on the table, folding his beefy arms.
“My name’s Jack Crawford. You can call me Jack.” He fixes Will with his serious, dark brown eyes. Will slides his own away and adjusts his glasses. He’s never been good with eye contact. Jack gestures to the swivel chair opposite the desk that Will vacated earlier. “Please, have a seat.”
“I’m fine standing,” Will replies stiffly. Jack’s expression hardens.
“I really need you to sit down for this, Will. Trust me.” Something about the seriousness of his tone compels Will to comply. He eases himself back down, holding himself awkwardly in the chair. “Thank you. Now look, I appreciate this must be a confusing situation for you-”
“Oh, you think?” Will bites out, glancing directly at Jack for a split second. The other man continues, undeterred.
“-but I need you to stay calm for me, okay?”
Will really doesn’t like the sound of that.
“Are you police?” he tries, clenching his hands under the table. “Did I… do something?”
“You didn’t do anything, Will; and no, I’m not with the police,” the man assures. Unease gnaws at Will's stomach, wondering when this is going to start making sense. He can feel Jack’s intense gaze prickling his skin and he hates it. “Tell me, what’s the last thing you remember?”
“I er… I don’t,” Will confesses with a twitch of his head.
“Try,” the man in the suit encourages. “It’ll take a minute, but it’ll come. Maybe try closing your eyes, like you do when you go fishing.”
Will swallows and licks his lips, wondering how this guy knows about his fishing habits. Still, he does as Jack suggests, letting his eyes slip shut behind his spectacles. For a second, his mind is completely blank. Then, he sees the flash of a familiar face: a woman with golden hair and a welcoming smile.
Molly, Will remembers, relieved that he finally has something familiar to grab onto. In his mind’s eye he sees her and Walter, Molly’s young son, pottering around together in their kitchen, a mountain of food laid out ready on the side. He sees himself packing up his fishing kit, hauling their bags out of the front door, and the three of them stepping aboard their private boat.
With a jolt, Will’s eyes snap open.
Shit.
He remembers.
Will lurches forward in the chair and his glasses fall to the floor, clutching desperately at his chest in terror. His lungs are burning, unable to hold his breath, crushed beneath the wreckage of his boat and the weight of the ocean pressing in on him from all sides. He remembers the terrible, terrifying freedom of taking his first gulp of liquid death, his chest cavity filling with water.
A pair of large hands settle on his shoulders; Will leans into Jack’s sturdy form, hyperventilating in the chair.
“No… no, it’s not true. It’s not possible,” he chokes out.
“I’m sorry Will, but it is. You’re dead,” Jack tells him, sympathetic, but firm. “You were on a boat trip with your wife and son when you hit bad weather. Your boat was driven onto the rocks, and you were trapped in the wreckage. The emergency services couldn’t reach you in time.”
“Molly… Walter.” Will rasps, finally raising his head. He stares up at Jack Crawford with wild eyes. “Are they-”
“They’re alive,” Jack assures him. “It’s just you and me here, Will.” The man in question lets out a shuddering breath of relief. He’s not quite ready to question how he can be ‘breathing’, considering that he’s dead. A few minutes pass, until Will’s hands are no longer shaking quite so badly.
“Where is ‘here’, exactly?” he asks, at last. Jack straightens up in his chair, and Will senses that his already extremely bad day is about to get a whole lot worse.
“I’m afraid there’s no easy way for me to say this, Will.” Jack pauses, looking down at the desk for a moment, before delivering the devastating blow. “You’re in Hell.”
Seconds pass. Will stares at him blankly.
“Sorry, what?”
“You’re in Hell,” Jack repeats, gesturing to the office in which they sit. He tries offering Will a smile. “If the big guy upstairs doesn’t want you, you get to chat with me instead. It’s your lucky day.”
Not a moment too soon, reason regains control of Will’s senses- because really, this is absurd. He’s quite clearly in an office. The chair he’s sitting on is solid. He can’t be dead. He can’t be- let alone in Hell.
“Right… right. Good joke,” Will laughs grimly, rising from the chair. Fury supresses fear, his blue eyes cold as he looms over Jack. “Enough mind games, ‘Jack’- if that’s even your real name. Let me guess, you drugged and kidnapped me, right? What’s your big plan- hold me for ransom, and convince me I’m dead so that I don’t try to escape? It’s inventive, I’ll give you that much.”
The man in the white suit remains quiet and lets Will throw his little tantrum- although a muscle in his jaw is twitching.
“I get it, Will. Denial is a normal reaction in this situation,” Jack assures once he has a chance to speak. His words only set Will off again.
“Come on. You seriously expect me to believe we’re in Hell? Look around. We’re in an office,” Will spits, gesturing wildly with his hands. He’s a twitching mess, pacing back and forth. “Where’s the fire and brimstone, Jack? Where are the pits of sulphur, hm?”
“Alright, Will," Jack sighs, at the limits of his patience. He doesn’t get paid enough for this. Actually, scratch that- he doesn’t get paid at all. “If you want to be difficult, I’ll show you.”
A strange shudder passes through the air, like the ripple before the atomic blast; and the next moment, the fabric of Will’s existence is unravelling. The office ‘floor’ peels back, and there is nothing but darkness now beneath his feet. The security of four solid walls, the office chair and sturdy wooden desk, dissipate in a blink. Will looks down at his hands, only to find them missing, along with the rest of his body. Pitch-black emptiness stretches out as far as the eye can see.
Oh God… does he even have eyes to see with anymore?
Will turns left and right, desperately seeking the familiar- but Jack Crawford is gone. Reality is gone. There is nothing and nobody to help him. Will is alone, facing the gaping jaws of the void.
Will collapses in terror, presses his face to the ‘ground’ in subjugation, and begins to scream.
It's Jack Crawford who saves him.
Will feels hands grabbing him from underneath his shoulders, pulling him to his feet. He falls backwards and lands on something solid. When he dares to open the eyes that he doesn’t have, he’s back in Jack’s office, sat on the swivel chair, with his spectacles inexplicably back in place on his nose. The man in the white suit sat across from him gives Will a pointed look.
“Glad to be back?”
A shaking Will doesn’t answer. He tests the reliability of his senses; he gets up and sits back down once, twice. The chair feels solid enough beneath his derriere.
“Back where?” he grinds out. Jack shrugs.
“I guess you could call this place my ‘mind office’.”
“Mind office,” Will echoes flatly.
“When you pass over, you lose your physical body, but the mind survives. The power of imagination, so to speak,” Jack explains, gesturing with a lazy wave of the hand to their surroundings. “This room, the chair you’re sitting in; I built it, with my thoughts. I find that somewhere safe and boring helps the new guys like you settle in.”
“In other words, it’s not real,” Will concludes. There is nothing separating him from that terrible, all-consuming emptiness, except the barriers of his own mind. A delusion.
“It’s as real as anything is in the afterlife,” Jack chuckles, getting to his feet. “Now then, how about a coffee?”
It is then that Will notices that a coffee machine has materialised in the corner of the room that wasn’t there before. He accepts the offered cup, reassured by the polystyrene beneath his fingers and the taste of the bitter swill on his tongue. His tremors ease.
“That’s one good thing about being in Hell; you can at least get a coffee, even if it’s the cheap and nasty kind,” Jack remarks, eyes crinkling with a smile. “Heaven doesn’t exactly accommodate fleshly pleasures.”
“Heaven?” Will repeats, voice distant. Jack stretches out his hand across the table for Will to shake. The latter glowers at it in mistrust.
“Now that we’ve established the basics, let’s get reacquainted. I’m Dominion Crawford; Head of Inductions.”
“Dominion Crawford?” Will raises an eyebrow. He remembers his old lessons from Sunday school; Dominions are a rank of angel, aren't they?
“What, did you think the white suit was just for show?” Jack jests, indicating proudly to his uniform. “I’m one of the lucky ones who made it through the pearly gates. Think of us as the enforcers of the afterlife.”
Will stares listlessly at him.
“Then why are you doing time in an office, in Hell?”
The question clearly displeases Jack. He retracts his hand, clears his throat, and folds his arms once again on the desk.
“I’ve been placed on administrative leave for the next few centuries,” he replies carefully. Will wants to ask more, but Jack’s next words successfully distract him. “There’s a team of us down here, in charge of processing all the newborn demons.”
It takes a second for the penny to drop in Will’s mind—but drop it does.
“Are you calling me a goddamned demon?” he snarls, sitting bolt upright in the chair.
“You’re a resident of Hell now, Will. ‘Demon’ is your new nationality, that’s all,” Jack replies, ignoring his disturbed expression. Will gets up and begins to pace the room again, running his hands frantically through his brown curls. He tries his best to ignore that the floor under his feet could give way again at any moment.
Demon.
Will Graham, formerly of Wolf Trap, Virginia, USA, is dead as a doornail and the newborn spawn of Satan.
“Alright, back up. How the fuck did I end up in Hell?” Will rounds on Jack, gesturing to the papers on his desk. “Have you got my rap sheet in there? What did I do wrong?”
Hell is supposed to be for sinners, isn’t it? A home for rapists and murderers. The closest that Will Graham has ever come to criminality is stealing a watermelon as a kid. It’s not like he ever killed anyone.
“I really don’t know, Will,” Jack replies. He sounds contrite this time. “That’s between you and God.”
“Seeing as you keep going on about ‘God’, enlighten me Jack, which one are we talking about?” Will snaps.
“I don’t know that either,” the angel admits. Will sneers at him.
“You don’t know much, do you?”
Rationality warns Will that it’s probably unwise to piss off the high and mighty Dominion Crawford, when he has no idea exactly what Jack is, what he is anymore, or how the rules ‘down here’ work; but Will isn’t exactly thinking clearly right now. God will have to forgive him. Maybe.
“I’m only a mid-rank angel. I don’t have access to that level of information,” the man in the white suit explains tiredly. God, he hates his job. What did he ever do to deserve decade after decade of dealing with these newborn gremlins? Jack knows the answer to that, of course- but he still thinks it’s disproportionate retribution. “For what it’s worth, Hell is home to all sorts of believers—devout Christians, Muslims, atheists—the whole spectrum. Ascension isn’t as simple as choosing the right religion. You don’t have to be perfect, either. I’ve seen con artists, bank robbers, hell, even politicians make it to Heaven.”
“Ascension?” Will presses. Jack leans forward across the desk, his expression earnest.
“Hell is escapable, Will.” The declaration seems sincere. Will looks at Jack in wary hope. “You failed the test the first time around, but everyone gets a second chance. If you help an angel out, I can return the favour.”
Jack pushes an aged, black-and-white photograph towards Will across the table. It shows a middle-aged man with sharp cheekbones and deep, dark eyes that seek to swallow their audience. Will stares at the image.
“Who’s this supposed to be?”
“The Stag,” Jack replies, studying Will carefully for his reaction. “The First Fury of Hell. Hannibal Lecter.” As soon as the name passes Jack’s lips, the hairs on Will’s arms stand on end, as if a chill just passed through the room. He notices Jack watching and hunches his shoulders in defence. Will feels suddenly exposed, although he can’t put his finger on why. “Hell is ruled by the three Furies: the Boar, the Dragon and the Stag, their true names being Verger, Dolarhyde and Lecter.” Jack taps the photograph on the desk of the intense looking man. “The Boar controls the most territory, the Dragon is the strongest, but the Stag is the most influential, making him the most powerful demon in Hell.”
“So, it’s like a kingdom with different lords?” Will summarises.
“Heaven is a kingdom,” Jack corrects. “Hell is a mashup of warring tribes. The three Furies hate each other. The demons in their territory are under their command and protection. All newcomers to Hell have to pick their poison.”
“So, I’m expected to choose who to serve? You’ve only shown me one,” Will points out, glancing back down at the image. Jack’s gaze intensifies.
“That’s because I want you to choose Lecter.” The angel reaches for the dossier on the desk, and hands his new charge the papers, letting him rifle through them. Will still can’t read the writing, but he can see the macabre photographs clear enough. “As you can see, he’s a real piece of work; likes to wreak havoc in the human world for fun.”
The images are both grotesque as they are intricately beautiful: a man turned into an art piece of mother nature, tree branches interwoven with his bones and fresh flowers planted in his ribcage; a judge with his head and chest split open, his heart and brain balancing the scales of justice; a young woman cut into slices and displayed behind glass, allowing forensic examination of her innards.
Will initially looks away in revulsion but cannot help the way his eyes are drawn back again like magnets. Then a second time. Then a third. He’s certain that Jack notices. The silence is becoming increasingly oppressive.
“So, the demon-in-chief is a mass murderer? Figures,” Will grinds out, with what he hopes is a convincing amount of disgust.
“Not personally. Lecter has everyone else do his dirty work," Jack replies, sour faced. “He sends vulnerable demons back to Earth on his orders and lets them have their fun.”
Will realises that there is clearly bad blood between Dominion Crawford and the Stag of Hell. He supposes it makes sense. If angels are the enforcers of justice, the two would be natural enemies. Will gestures vaguely to the pictures, not daring to look down again.
“If he doesn’t kill personally, how do you know it's him?
“Well, his style is pretty distinctive.”
Will snorts, making the angel raise an eyebrow. It’s an inappropriate response, given the subject matter.
“How does he make them do it?” Will asks curiously. There must surely be blackmail involved.
“He doesn’t ‘make’ them do anything. He convinces them,” Jack replies darkly. “Lecter is a paradox demon. A manipulator of space and time.”
Seriously?
Will gives the angel a deadpan stare. Demons who control space and time- he’s actually supposed to believe that?
…Sure. Whatever.
The only conclusion that Will can draw from his current situation is that he is either certifiably insane, or he really is dead and in Hell. Either way, his day can’t get any crazier. Time warping demonic entities are par-for-the-course.
“So, by that logic, he’s basically a god. Fantastic,” Will scathes.
“I’d be careful talking that like that if you want to make it to Heaven,” Jack warns dryly, to which Will rolls his eyes. Jack readjusts his position and presses his palms together, all-business. “Hear me out, Will. Lecter is very powerful, but every demon has their strengths and weaknesses. The Dragon is a pretty terrifying fire elemental, but he's a loner. The Boar has a huge mercenary army, but paid shills don’t make for loyal soldiers. You have power too—more than you think.”
“Me?” Will questions in disbelief.
“Your mind is all you are now. You’ll find that you can bend reality here in ways you couldn’t in the ‘real’ world,” Jack explains. “Your report says you have a particularly powerful imagination… one to rival Lecter’s.”
Will leans back in the chair and cranes his neck to the ceiling. The puzzle pieces begin to slot together in his mind, eyes dancing behind his closed eyelids.
“Am I being conscripted, Jack?” he asks hollowly. The angel gives him a firm look.
“I’m not forcing you, Will—I’m asking for your help. Lecter doesn’t have a mind office; he has a mind palace. My guys can’t even get close. The only way through his doors is by invitation.” The implication in the statement is obvious. Again, Will looks away, unable to hold Jack’s gaze.
“What makes you think he’ll let me in?”
”Curiosity,” Jack says simply. “Lecter loves the sound of his own voice; likes picking ‘favourites’ to keep him company—demons he finds interesting… I have a feeling you’ll be exactly to his tastes.” The murky statement makes Will’s eyes narrow. Jack is still staring him down. “Once you accept his invite and you’re on the inside, all you need to do is open the doors. We can do the rest.”
”And I’d risk this because…?” Will may be freshly deceased, but he wasn't born yesterday. There may as well be a flashing red warning sign above Dominion Crawford’s head screaming this is a Bad Idea.
“Because the Stag knows the secret to ascension.” The declaration lands like a gut punch. Will freezes—then sits up straight in the chair, a reluctant marionette standing to attention for his master. Jack smiles, victorious. “I can get you through the door, Will. Hopefully you’ll find your way to Heaven’s gates in the process.”
“You’re telling me this great and powerful lord of Hell is sending his loyal subjects to Heaven?” To say Will is doubtful is an understatement.
“Well, he is a paradox demon,” Jack points out. Will lets out a desperate laugh. He rubs his hands over his eyes.
“I’m a fisherman, Jack. I’m not a detective, or a soldier. What makes you so sure I can help?”
He thinks with longing of the hours spent adrift at sea with only his thoughts for company, floating on the water until the late hours, watching the lights come on in his house as Molly prepares dinner. Such a wonderful, simple existence.
You were a fisherman, his traitorous mind corrects. Now you’re dead.
“Because you’re the last person he’d see coming,” Jack rebuts. Will finds, to his dismay, that he has no comeback ready. The angel in the suit gives him a satisfied smile, deep voice soothing and oh-so convincing. “Find your power, Will. Use it against Lecter, and I promise that the angels upstairs will welcome you with open arms.”
A minute passes as Will considers the insanity of the proposal. Take down the most powerful demon in all of Hell?
Sure. Whatever.
He’s already dead- what more can he lose?
“Alright.” Will sighs finally, massaging his temples. “I’ll help.”
“Great,” Jack rumbles in satisfaction, reaching into his desk draw and pulling out a blank sheet of paper and a biro pen. “Then I’ll get started on your letter of recommendation.”
“People send letters in Hell?”
“Lecter has been around for a long time, and he’s the traditional type; he prefers an old-fashioned letter to holy revelations or a video call.” Jack’s pen hovers over the page. He taps it in thought against the desk, musing out loud. “Now then, what shall we call you?”
Will cocks his head.
“Er, Will Graham? You know, my name?”
“No can do, I’m afraid.” Jack shakes his head apologetically. “Names have power down here, Will. They’re the key to who we are. Without a physical body, our sense of self is we have. If he finds out your real name, Lecter will be able to control you.”
“You gave me your name,” Will points out with a frown, looking to the demon’s photo on the desk. Will finds himself staring for a second too long into his eyes. “Lecter’s too.”
Hannibal, his inner voice adds unexpectedly.
“I’m a nobody to you, so it doesn’t matter,” Jack dismisses with an easy shrug of the shoulders. “Every lock has its unique key, right? The same goes for names.”
“So, you think I’m ‘somebody’ to him?” Will stares. The angels of Heaven think that he’s special to a psychopathic, serial-killing demon lord. His day just keeps getting better and better.
“Let’s hope so, eh? He is your key to getting out of Hell.” Jack gives him an impatient look. “So come on then, what name shall we go with?”
“…Hobbs,” Will murmurs after a moment's consideration. “Will Hobbs.”
Jack gives him a questioning look but does not push further. He finishes off the letter, licks the white envelope and seals it. Will watches with fascination as the letter rises from the desk of its own accord and slips through the gap underneath the office door. Jack checks his watch and gives his charge an awkward smile.
“Sorry, Will, but it’s about time for my next appointment. Hell is a busy place, you know.”
“Oh… sure.”
Fear grips Will's soul as he relinquishes his safe-space at the desk. Reality is about to slip away from him again. Jack is abandoning him, alone in the dark. The angel rests a strong hand on his arm in sympathy.
“Keep your chin up, Will. I’m sure that Lecter will be in contact with you soon. When he does, text me, OK?”
“Text?”
Will’s eyebrows almost disappear into his hairline when Jack pulls out a smartphone from his white suit and waves it at him.
“I’m a modern guy, compared to Lecter. You don’t need to write me any love letters.”
“But I don’t have a phone,” Will points out. Jack smiles to himself and looks down at the device in his hand, fingers pressing buttons.
“Really? Then what’s that ringing in your pocket?” he prompts without looking up. Will almost jumps out of his skin when the trilling of a phone sounds in the room, and he feels an unfamiliar weight settle against his leg. He pulls out a matching phone to Jack's from the pocket of his jeans that definitely wasn’t there before.
The power of imagination.
Despite the kind gift, Will can’t help but wrinkle his nose. He's never been one for tablets or fancy computers; a constant blue screen in front of his eyes would wreak havoc with his anxiety. His mind is already plenty loud enough. No sooner does he think it than the device in his hand morphs before his eyes, changing shape into something far simpler—a brick phone, only good for texts and calls.
“Not a fan of technology?” Jack notes dryly.
“No,” Will agrees, staring in quiet awe at the phone in his hand. Changing it had been so easy.
“If you ask me, you’re lucky to have been around in the twenty-first century,” Jack remarks, clearly unimpressed. Will pushes his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose and thinks that no, he didn’t ask for Jack’s opinion, thank you very much. “Wish this sort of thing was around in my day,” the angel adds, tossing the phone from hand to hand. Will looks at him curiously.
“And how long ago was that?”
“Not sure. About… a thousand-odd years?” Jack muses, scratching his chin. Will’s jaw almost hits the floor. “Now remember Will, when you do meet Lecter, whatever you do, don’t tell him your real name… and for the love of God, don’t be rude.”
“What’ll happen to me if I’m rude?” Will ventures. Jack gives him a grimacing smile.
“Trust me, you don’t want to know.”