Chapter Text
Los Angeles - The Dragon
Hannibal’s hand does not leave the small of Will’s back as the pair of them stand in the Dragon’s dark, shadowy apartment. It’s in a less savoury part of the city, one that Will is all too familiar with. The Dragon had been woefully easy to track down through Jack’s cell.
The Dragon himself is a peculiar man. Peculiar because he makes a living - if you can call hiding away in this dank, claustrophobic apartment living - from creating and distributing snuff films, but every last mannerism of his unnerves Will. Will is unfazed by the cleft lip, the lisp, the nervous disposition; what unsettles him is the clear bloodlust thrumming through every cell of the man before them.
Hannibal merely finds him… interesting .
“This… is beautiful,” the Dragon whispers, in awe.
Will tries not to think too deeply about how many levels of wrong it is that they’re doing this; he doesn’t care, doesn’t feel guilty, but he is overwhelmingly aware of the fact this is the thick icing of illegal and morally wrong on the cake of Jake Crawford’s death. Will mulls it over, turns it around in his mind; who’s Will kidding? He’s morally grey at the best of times.
“An artist in their element,” Hannibal muses, turning his head and brushing his lips over Will’s curls.
Will is unsure as to why Hannibal seems so relaxed around the Dragon, even if he is about to gleefully accept their footage of Jack’s death and give them thousands upon thousands of dollars for it. Will thinks the Dragon is creepy. He’s dangerous. But then again, so is Will. So is Hannibal, for all his glossy demeanour and high brow proclivities.
“ Oh ,” the Dragon gasps in wonder as the film shows Will removing Crawford’s first hand. “He suffered so beautifully under your administration.”
Will swallows; Hannibal smiles , like the cat that got the cream.
The film finally ends, and the Dragon slowly closes the lid of the laptop sitting on the decrepit looking coffee table in the dreary living room they’re all in.
“Well?” Hannibal asks, amusement lilting in his voice. “Are you interested?”
The Dragon nods enthusiastically, just as Hannibal suspected he would. “Very. Very interested. I have to warn you though, it won’t gain as much ah… popularity, because neither of you fuck him - before, during or after. But it’s still exquisite.”
Hannibal’s lip curls in distaste. “I did pre-warn upon first contacting you the film would contain nothing of that nature.”
The Dragon’s eyes latch on to Hannibal, his pupils widening - Will isn’t sure if it’s arousal or anger. It could be both.
“Well, let’s settle this, shall we?” Will interrupts, clearing his throat. “How much?”
The Dragon scoffs at Will’s directness. “Straight to the point, aren’t you?”
Will returns his disdain with a flat, humourless smile. “You’ll have to forgive me. I’m a prostitute - I’m used to asking for my pay upright. Old habits, and all that.”
The Dragon stands, and Hannibal’s hand slides protectively around Will’s waist, drawing him closer. The Dragon pays them no heed, going directly to a battered looking safe in the corner of the room Will hadn’t noticed before, as it was so hidden in shadows. The Dragon crouches before it and fiddles with the access code. The door swings open and Will nearly chokes at the armfuls of cash the Dragon turns around with when he stands again.
Unceremoniously, the Dragon begins to count out taped wads of bills, tossing them onto the coffee table next to the closed laptop.
“One hundred. I think that’s fair enough.”
“One… one hundred thousand?”
A curt nod is the only answer Will receives.
Hannibal dips his head. “Thank you. It was a pleasure doing business with you.”
The large gym bag appears from nowhere, and then Hannibal is carefully transferring the wads of bills into the bag. Will stares in shock at the whole thing, blinking in disbelief. He wonders for a moment why on God’s green Earth the Dragon is living in this hovel of an apartment if he has this much cash laying around to exchange for all the sick and twisted footage that comes through his front door. Why not live a life of luxury, like some sort of fucking Mafia overlord or shady politician?
But then Will’s eyes are drawn back to the warped skin of the Dragon’s cleft lip, the nervous flicker of his eyes, and Will is pulled into the Dragon’s feelings against his will, tumbling headfirst into the rush of empathy he experiences.
The Dragon is scared . He feels inferior, terrified of never being loved or accepted. He loathes himself with a passion that is scorchingly hot and it nearly knocks Will sick. Hannibal seems to notice, aware of the way Will’s empathy has involuntarily gripped him with the Dragon’s tar-like self hatred. He brushes a hand over Will’s cheek, sliding it along his skin to grip Will round the back of his neck.
“You’re alright, beloved. We’re leaving now.”
Will simply nods, his skin crawling at the smell in this godforsaken apartment, the walls streaked with black mould and cobwebs and is that a fucking set of dentures sat on the -
“Pleasure doing business with you,” Hannibal murmurs courteously, pulling Will with him towards the door.
“Thank you for your work,” the Dragon lisps, already twitching his way back to the laptop to re-watch Jack Crawford’s death. “Until next time. Or not.”
There isn’t another word exchanged between the trio, and then Will is being gently tugged back out into the dirty, polluted air swimming around this side of Los Angeles, but by God is it better than the foul atmosphere inside of the Dragon’s lair.
“Will,” Hannibal coos softly, tilting his face up to look at him. “It’s done, my love. You did it. I’m so pr-”
“I need a fucking drink,” Will cuts him off, stumbling away across the cracked slabs of the sidewalk. “Let’s go.”
Hannibal sighs, looking down at the bag and then back up at Will’s retreating figure. “Please tell me it’s not a dive bar.”
It turns out it absolutely is a dive bar, but Hannibal makes the exception for Will.
Los Angeles - Matthew
Life has not been in any way shape or form kind to Matthew Brown. But the days pass, regardless. The years blur. Memories dissipate, like the faded ink tattooed into aged skin a lifetime ago. Blurry, barely recognisable, distorted, but there nonetheless.
But Matthew still thinks of those days in Jack’s house with Will. Will, with his wild curls and vivid blue eyes, all beauty and naivety. How quickly that naivety had faded after a few months, once the itch for the next high became a permanent feature, the ache from all the shoots became a constant fixture. Matthew felt guilt, such immense guilt, for leading Will into that life. All he could do was make sure he stuck by him as much as he could once Will was well and truly caught up in the life - if Matthew hadn’t looked out for him, god knows what could have happened in those early days.
And God knows what did happen to Will Graham after he fled L.A. Matthew’s heart had sank at the sight of him limping out of the bedroom he’d been locked in, looking like death and trembling all over. But his eyes - his eyes still flared with righteous anger, indignant and furious. Matthew had to give it to him; most people would have shrivelled, resigned themselves to their fate. But not only did Will gather himself together and leave with nothing but the clothes on his back to escape, he wounded Jack more than anyone had ever been able to. It had been bold and also, in Matthew’s opinion, stupid, but Will had gotten his own back nonetheless.
And then he was gone. Never to be heard from again. Matthew had no way of knowing if he was still alive.
Matthew had left Crawford’s house years ago - he was too used up for Jack’s liking by the time he’d left. Jack still held a firm grip over Matthew’s life, however, a clenched fist on his liberty. Any money he earnt turning tricks or the occasional shoot he managed to wrangle went to Jack, just as it always had. In return, Jack dropped off a steady supply of drugs and also had a handful of johns lined up for Matthew.
The switch from porn star to prostitute had hit Matthew hard. Turning to his vice, to whatever narcotics he could get his hands on, had helped make the transition a little more bearable.
When he hears the knock at his front door, it startles him. It can’t be anyone other than Jack, because, well… he has no friends. No family. Just Jack and the drugs and the johns Jack procures for him. There is nothing else, nothing in between.
Matthew makes his way to the front door regardless, squinting to peer through the glass peephole in his front door.
There’s no one there. So who…
Matthew frowns, opening the door, ready to yell at whatever kids are playing tricks. And then he sees it. Sees the non-descript, zipped up gym bag sat on his doormat with a little slip of paper tucked between the handles.
Matthew.
The writing looks familiar, but he doesn’t know why. Matthew steps out, craning his neck to look up and down the street. But there’s nothing, no one to see. Just the odd person crossing the road, the occasional car rolling by.
“What the fuck,” he whispers under his breath, looking back at the bag.
When he crouches down, he takes the note and unfolds it. There’s a brief message inside:
Matthew. I thought for such a long time about what to say, and nothing seemed right. I just want you to know I will never be able to make it up to you, or pay you back, for what you did for me. For how you saved me and then suffered because of it. I just hope this helps a little. It’s yours, all of it. Get out of L.A. Go see somewhere new. Make a new life for yourself. I spent every day for the last seven years thinking about you. Hoping you’re ok. Hoping you’re alive. Take the money and go somewhere far away from here, Matthew. Be happy. You deserve to be happy after everything.
There’s no name signing it off but… Matthew drops the note as if it had stung him, head whipping up and looking around frantically. Then, he wrenches the zip open on the bag at his feet and nearly chokes on his breath.
“Holy fuck …” Matthew whispers, eyes widening.
Matthew stands up again, heart hammering in his chest, the money forgotten at his feet.
“Will?!”
Matthew takes off, jogging down the street, frantic.
“ Will !”
“Will! Where are you? Will, please !”
Nothing. Just strange looks from the few stray passers-by. Matthew’s chest heaves, and he slowly turns to look back at the bag, his eyes clouding with tears. On shaky legs, Matthew walks back to the bag, still not quite believing what is in front of him. He bends down, lifting the heavy bag and dragging it back inside, then stands on his doormat outside again.
“Will?”
His voice is hoarse, croaky. The tears spill.
“You motherfucker, Will Graham,” Matthew curses.
He falls to his knees next to the bag, unable to bring himself to start counting just exactly how much money is inside the bag. He grips the note in his hands and begins to laugh hysterically, still sobbing, curling in on himself in his grubby little apartment hallway.
Will was alive . He was out there somewhere, alive. And so was Matthew - and now he could get out , could pack a bag and leave and start somewhere new, away from Crawford and… Will was alive. Matthew’s chest ached at the knowledge. He’d wanted to see Will so badly, for so long, and had given up hope that Will Graham even existed anymore.
But he did. They both did. Both alive, both still here and kicking and God… even if he never did see Will again, wasn’t that just something?
Baltimore - Elijah
Elijah sighs as he scrubs at his eyes, still bleary with sleep. Coffee clutched in one hand and a stack of post in the other, he makes his way to the oversized cream leather sofa that takes up the vast majority of the sleek, open plan space of his living room and kitchen. Just the way he likes it.
Elijah yawns, flipping the TV on to half-listen to the morning news and half to have some background noise.
His mail is the usual. Bills, bills, bills and… a letter?
“... six months after his disappearance, Doctor Frederick Chilton still has not been found. Authorities are now proposing that the case becomes a murder investigation, rather than a missing persons…”
Elijah snorts, shaking his head as he looks up at the flat screen mounted on the wall in front of him. “I coulda told ‘em that. Good riddance.”
Elijah turns his attention back to the letter in his hands, frowning at the number of stamps across the front. Is that the word ‘Italia’ stamped into the ink? He slips a finger under a loose edge of the seal as the news anchor begins to mention another missing persons case.
Some guy in Los Angeles. Carter, or Carlson, or something like that… Elijah is too absorbed in opening the letter to listen properly.
Dear Elijah,
Just know I cringed incredibly hard writing ‘Dear’ to you. You’re not dear. You’re a bastard.
Anyway. As much as you’re a bastard, I am, for some reason, fond of you and felt somewhat inclined to let you know for the sake of decency that I won’t see you again. I’ll be out of your hair for good. Which I suppose you’ll be glad about, as I’m fully aware of what a bastard I also am, but I guess you’ll miss me just a little bit. We both begrudgingly care for each other, after all, don’t we? Plus, I was your best boy - don’t even try and deny it. I expect you’ll go bankrupt without me now. Whatever will the rich and wealthy of Baltimore do now that everyone’s favourite escort has skipped town? Good luck with your impending descent into poverty now you’re not selling my ass. Perhaps you’ll have to sell that obnoxious fucking sofa of yours to tide you over for a while.
I’ve gone to Europe. With Hannibal. Obviously. Apologies for not formally handing in my notice of leave, but I suppose this will have to do.
We’re moving about, so by the time this letter reaches you, we probably will have moved on from Italy. Hell, we might even be married by the time you read this. We both somehow proposed to each other on the same day, at the same time. Romantic, I know. We’re thinking of tying the knot in Sweden. You’re not invited, by the way.
I don’t expect to hear back from you, and I don’t particularly want to either, which is why I didn’t leave a forwarding address. No offence, of course - I’m just trying to leave the whole escort/prostitute thing behind. I thought you’d be pleased I’m at the ‘moving on and starting afresh’ point in my life.
I’m sorry for being such a burden on you at times. I am grateful for everything you did. For picking me up, quite literally, out of the gutter. But I’m done now, Elijah. For good. I found my reason for living again, as much as you don’t trust Hannibal as far as you can throw him. (Which wouldn’t be very far at all, he weighs a fucking tonne.)
Go get yourself a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend. Whatever you’re into, I guess (seeing as you always brushed off that topic of conversation between us). I just hope you find your Hannibal one day. Thank you for being a decent guy, Elijah. (Still a bastard though.)
Addio, as they say in Italy.
- Will
(PS, Hannibal said I have to send you a photo of our wedding day, so I guess you will hear from me again, but that’s it then, ok? He said something about proving his point to you. Whatever.)
Elijah drops the letter in amazement. Picks it up, reads it again. Then bursts into laughter, eyes crinkling in the corners and grinning from ear to ear.
And then he promptly spits his coffee all over the white leather sofa, staining the cream fabric cushion covers, when he looks up at the TV.
A photo of a man he doesn’t recognise, but whose name he knows . The penny does not drop - the penny plummets and crashes with the force of a meteor.
‘JACK CRAWFORD: LAST SEEN 3 MONTHS AGO, APRIL. CURRENT WHEREABOUTS UNKNOWN. POSSIBLE MURDER INVESTIGATION TO BE OPENED.’
“Oh shit .”
Fin