FOUND: A Hannigram Devil AU REWRITTEN

Chapter Twenty-Five

It's a quiet evening in Baltimore. Winter is still bearing its teeth, its cold winds nipping at Jack Crawford's uncovered cheeks, but as he exits his car in Hannibal's neighborhood, he can't help but take note of how much warmer it is here. Like the heart of the city flourishes here, like the sun is hiding behind the massive houses. 

His bewilderment increases when he strolls up to Hannibal's front yard. The greenery standing over the front door seems to defy the laws of the season; pink flowers bloom between lush green leaves, oblivious to the cold. They're too soft and thin to be fake - or else Hannibal has the money for some pretty damn convincing plastic. 

Crawford stands at his colleague's doorstep with one hand in his pocket, carrying a bottle of red wine by the neck. He rings the bell and waits, his body tense and his mind unnerved. Considering the fate of his most prized investigator, it's understandable — he's become desensitized to the idea of death, but he's never had it brush this close. He's never had to directly blame himself for a loss. 

Hiding in plain sight, around the house's corner, there lurks a man with a knife. 

He gazes at Jack Crawford, both hatred and appreciation burning in his gut. Jack has ruined him, but he is also the reason his life has flourished into something new. He wouldn't be in paradise if it weren't for Jack's shoving. 

But Jack has put him through unnecessary pain. He's brushed off his every concern, treating him like a toy. He is selfish and dangerous.

The man's plan calls for someone to die, and Jack happens to be that lucky guest. It's a shame to say goodbye to an old friend, but it will also be liberating to gain justice for his suffering. 

Jack waits a long while for his colleague to answer the door, and he eventually reaches up to ring the bell again. The man in the shadows watches, his gloved fingers curled around the handle of the knife. 

He hesitates one last time. His morals nearly win out, but his heart, his soul, his passion, are leagues more powerful. 

He emerges from the shadows. 

Jack turns his head, and his eyes widen. He stumbles backward, moving with urgency down the stairs and over to the corner of the yard. 

"Will?!"

Will holds a finger to his lips, eyes darting in fear. He wraps his fingers around Jack's wrist, leading him past the side of the house and into the backyard. When Jack tries to speak, Will shushes him. 

"I don't want him to hear you," he says, voice shaking. He brings Jack to the back shed, hidden among the trees, and shoves his hands in his pockets. His demeanor is fearful, jumpy. 

"Don't want Hannibal to hear? What's happening?" Jack whispers, leaning in. "Will, I thought you were dead. We all thought-"

Will lunges. His arm wraps around Jack's neck, and he yanks him close. Jack's throat sticks out, Adam's apple bobbing as he gulps in surprise, and Will licks his lips before raising the knife to slice it.

The blade cuts Jack's vocal cords before he can scream, leaving him with nothing but squeaking, desperate gasps for air. Will lets go of him, and he sinks to the ground. Dark blood spills out onto the grass, and Will watches, emotionless. His brown curls fall across his face, but there's no mistaking the fiery rage in his eyes. 

He kneels down on the ground. 

"I want you to look at me," he hisses through clenched teeth. "I want you to see what I've Become." 

He inhales, shoulders rising, and unfolds his wings. 

He's grown used to them now. They are the only remnant of his old life, his old form, he has left. They are strong, shining silver in the moonlight, and an intense warmth emanates from Will's body as he lets them loose. He smiles, relieved.