FOUND: A Hannigram Devil AU

30

     As he drove deeper and deeper into the woods, Will shut off his car's headlights. He drove slowly, careful not to make too much noise. The trees grew thicker, it grew harder to see, and he grew to wonder if he'd turned into the right area. Then, suddenly, everything cleared and there it was: a wooden cabin, unassuming and cozy. It stood alone, far from anything civilized.
     A car sat outside of it, and a lone light came from one of the windows.
     Will parked in the trees and opened his glovebox, where he kept his pocketknife and aspirin. As he leaned over to reach inside, a glint of something silver caught his eye. He tilted his head to investigate.
     A handgun that he'd never seen before sat in the very back of his glovebox. His breath caught. How long had that been there?
     Hannibal. He'd offered to give Will his gun. Somehow, he'd snuck it in there. He knew Will would go to Minnesota.
You will join me. You are destined to.
     Will sighed, taking the gun with him. It would be stupid to have that at his disposal and not bring it along. He slid it into his back pocket and swallowed three aspirin dry.
     He slunk out of his car and closed the door as silently as possible, creeping around towards the front door of the cabin. He composed himself, readying his badge and his cuffs for when they would need to be used. After throwing away his phone, he couldn't call the Minnesota police— he'd have to wait until Hobbs was cuffed to do that with another phone. He wasn't driving all the way back to Quantico with a serial killer in his car.
     He took out his pocketknife and slid it up the sleeve of his shirt. Just in case.
     Will knocked on the front door. The rickety porch blocked the rain, but it was still loud and wet outside.
     After a pause, the door slowly creaked open. A reluctant head poked out.
     It wasn't Hobbs. A young woman stood at the door, her brow furrowed in concern at the strange man on her porch. Will's face fell, and he quickly reached for his badge to cover himself.
     "Uh, hello. Good evening," he fumbled, surprised. "My name is Will Graham. I'm with the FBI. We had some information on this cabin that I'd like to ask a few questions about."
     "I.." The woman's voice was light, shaky. "I can't. I don't know anything." She moved to close the door.   
     "Ma'am, wait. Please. You're not in trouble. Just a few questions."
     "I don't want to answer questions."
     Her eyes darted to Will for a split second, and the look behind them made his blood run cold. It was a look he'd learned to pick up on early in his life: walking at the mall with Katie, noticing a man whose eyes lingered on her for a bit too long. The way her hands trembled slightly as she spoke to their father. Telling Will she loved him before taking off for the phone, running to call the police before the intruder noticed her...
It was pure, unfiltered fear. He tried to communicate without words, raising a brow. "I'm just trying to help the investigation move along," he said, not really paying attention to the words coming out of his mouth. While he spoke, she stared him directly in the eyes and her lips moved almost imperceptibly. Help me. Help.
     That was enough for Will. "Okay, well, I'll come back another time with a warrant," he said, moving towards the door. It was barely open, and the woman's body blocked the small visible space, so he hoped he went unnoticed. "Have a good night." He pushed his way past the woman, shoving her behind him and blocking her from whoever was waiting inside.
     Garrett Jacob Hobbs was pointing a gun directly at his head, an amused smile on his face.
     "Should have run while you had the chance, Mr. Graham," he said. "Could've lived a little bit longer."
     Will slowly moved to put his hands up. "Don't shoot, Hobbs. We can talk about this."
     But Hobbs's eyes had already moved behind Will. "Don't fucking move," he called out to the girl, who whimpered. She stayed rooted in place, despite Will's multiple backwards glances.
     "Stop looking at her. Where's the rest of the cops?"
     "It's just me."
     "Really? You sure about that?"
     "I swear on my life, I came here alone."
     "Well, that was dumb of you. You got some kinda death wish?"
"I know it was dumb." Although he didn't want to say it out loud, perhaps Will did have a death wish. He wondered if he always had.
"Your life don't mean that much anymore, Mr. Graham. You don't have a lot of time left." Hobbs shrugged. "More fun for me."
     He slowly began to walk towards both of them, sending Will's heart up into his throat. He couldn't reach for the gun— it would be too obvious. All he had to rely on was a hidden pocketknife and his hands, and he soon wouldn't be able to use either.
     Hobbs grabbed Will by the shoulders and spun him around, pressing the gun against his lower back. Will felt him reach for the gun in his back pocket and slide it out, throwing it across the cabin. It clattered to the floor. Now he really couldn't rely on it.
     "Oops," Hobbs said. "No more gun. Now move. Both of you."
     Will had no choice but to follow. Hobbs led both him and the girl along, who Will noticed was sobbing. There was a large bruise on the back of her neck, her dark hair swept aside. Is this how Katie felt? He quickly shoved those thoughts away.
     They walked all the way out into the trees, all of them now soaked to the bone by rain. Will felt the cold metal of the pocketknife resting against his forearm. It was so dark that he couldn't see the outline of it through his sleeve; he hoped it was the same way for Hobbs. He came to a stop when Hobbs told him to.
     "You interrupted something important," Hobbs hissed into his ear. "So you're gonna go first. She and I will make up for lost time once you're gone."
     The girl let out another sob. When Hobbs turned his head to look at her, Will shifted his arms so the knife was nearly poking out of his sleeve. One little move, and he'd be handling it. He just had to incapacitate him, get the gun away from his hand.
     Hobbs instructed him to get on his knees. Will grasped the handle of the knife in his palm, and as he started to lower himself to the ground, he reached out and sank the blade into Hobbs's wrist. He then threw himself sideways, ducking out of the gun's line of fire. He didn't need to, though— Hobbs cried out in pain, dropping the gun and clutching the wound. Blood tricked down his arm. Will leaned over and grabbed the gun, gripping it tightly in his other hand.
     "You fucker!" Hobbs bared his teeth, lunging towards Will and trying to wrestle the gun from his grip. Will fought back, kneeing Hobbs in the stomach and kicking him in the groin.
     "Go!" Will screamed at the top of his lungs, temporarily stunning Hobbs. The girl gasped from her place behind them. "Run, now! Run, and don't come back! Get anywhere but here!"
     Hobbs grabbed Will by his hair and smashed his head hard into the ground. He felt something sharp pierce his cheek, and soon his face was warm with blood. He cried out.
     He didn't have to tell the girl twice. She took off, sprinting into the trees. Hobbs let out an infuriated growl, torn between chasing her and fighting Will. In the moment of weakness, when his attention was just slightly altered, Will pointed the gun at Hobbs's knee and pulled the trigger.
     The blast was deafening, and Will's ears rang as they both stumbled backwards. Hobbs collapsed to the ground, screaming in agony, his face contorting with fear in a way Will had never seen from him. Will dropped the gun behind him before it could burn his hand. He placed a hand on his injured cheek— the wound was deep.
     He'd done it. He could knock Hobbs out, call the police and finally get the Shrike arrested. He'd done what he wanted to do. He could finally be a hero.
     But the sobs of that poor girl echoed in his head. They melded with the screams of his sister, conjoining into one traumatizing cry of pain. Will couldn't handle the noise. He could feel the anger boiling inside of him, the same anger that had led to Elliot's death. It pounded inside of him, begging to be let out. He balled his hands into fists, knuckles turning white, hatred fueling him like gasoline meeting a spark.
     Holding the pocketknife, he kneeled down on the ground next to Hobbs. Hobbs glared at him with fire in his eyes.
"You're just as bad as I am," Hobbs said between his teeth. "Coward."
Without giving himself much time to think, Will brought the blade down hard onto the man's chest. There was a sensation of crunching bone, separating tissue, and Will even felt the knife pierce a part of the heart like raw meat. It was horrendously satisfying, made even more so by the anguish on Hobbs's face and the way his limbs froze in place.
     He ripped the knife out and brought it down again. Blood spurted out from the holes, coating Will's skin. He did it again. And again. And again, and again, and again. Chest and stomach and neck and head and arms and legs and more more more more more until his arm cried out from the effortful swings and Hobbs had long gone still. Even then, he went once more for good measure.
The world went unexplainably still. He stopped.
     Garrett Jacob Hobbs was dead. The Minnesota Shrike was dead, and Will had murdered him in cold blood. He waited for the guilt that never came.
The now red knife slipped from his grasp as his skin became spotted with goosebumps. The lack of life around him was startling; the forest was cold and lonely. He was a killer. He had betrayed everyone around him, including himself, and now he was alone.
     Except he wasn't. There was a presence behind him, the feeling of something looking over his shoulder, caressing his skin and waiting for the right moment to tear his soul from his body. Comfort and terror. Surrounded and alone.
     "Lucifer," he breathed.
He felt an icy cold hand against the back of his neck as a familiar voice entered his ears:
     "Hello, Will."