Chapter Text
Running from grief wasn't a solution. It was, pure and simple, running away. Trying to stay one step ahead of the wracking pain in his body, trying to bury the ache of loss in his bones, the fear sparking through his nerves.
Jason had profiled enough to know at least that.
And yet… it was the only thing he could do.
It hit him, over and over again, the truth of his constant reiterations to Elle and Emily and all his team - "They can't help what they do."
And Jason? Jason couldn't help it either.
So he kept running.
He ran from the FBI and the BAU. He ran from the death and the serial killers. He ran from the stifling sense of loss and hopelessness that he'd so long kept at bay. But how could he, anymore, when he didn't believe? When Sarah was gone, ripped to shreds in front of his eyes at the hand of an evil he hadn't managed to apprehend? When this job, this life sucked everything from him, starting with him and ending with Sarah?
He ran.
He ran from Sarah, too, because of course he did. He couldn't face her. He couldn't face anyone. And so he ran from his team as well. He ran from Aaron and JJ and Emily and Derek and Garcia. And most of all, he ran from Spencer. He ran because he didn't have the belief he needed to stay, and he ran because if he had even hesitated, he wouldn't have been able to leave, drowning in despair, because if there was one thing he didn't want to admit, it was that they, the BAU… They were his family. And if he'd stuck around to look at Spencer, he wouldn't have been able to force himself away from a young man he'd come to see as a son. (Like Steven.)
Even later, the thought of Spencer's expression as he realized Jason had left without saying goodbye haunted his thoughts and shook his resolve. It made him want to make an instant U-turn and drive all the way back to Quantico, asking for forgiveness and demanding the family he'd given up.
And then he thought of Sarah again, and he stepped on the race instead.
But that wasn't exactly the important part of his journey. It was honestly more of a recurring spiral, so it was generally unremarkable. Jason preferred to drown it out with whiskey or scotch, but that didn't always work, especially when he had to drive.
Point was, though, that spiral was not the highlight of Jason Gideon's trip. No, the highlight was the realization that there was a whole damn world out there that he'd never known existed.
And it was supernatural.
The first time Jason started to believe was when he got wrapped up in a kind of bar fight he did not want to interfere with.
Unfortunately for him, he wasn't able to resist when one of the goddamn pair was a woman, and she looked terrified and desperate.
So yeah, he'd stepped in.
And then he'd regretted doing that because there was a loud hiss from behind, and the very girl he'd thought was the victim jumped on his back and bit into his neck with unusually sharp teeth.
He could feel the blood leaving his body, and for a few moments, he was paralyzed. He'd seen and soldiered through much of the worst of humanity, but even that hadn't prepared him for this. Usually, cannibals were a lot more sophisticated. Not… obvious.
And then there was a gunshot, and the woman was ripped off his neck by the force of the shot (ouch), and Jason blinked hazily as his head ballooned with dizzy confusion because the man who fired the shot was advancing on the fallen cannibal and… beheading them?
Jason blacked out.
And then he woke up again, but this time, the fight was over, and there was a grimacing man around Jason's age, peering at him with squinted eyes and one hand curled around a bloody machete.
Jason's eyes flared despite the years of practice meeting psychopaths exactly like this.
"Good," The other man said gruffly. "You're alive." He had a very prominent accent, which Jason cataloged for future reference. And then he turned away as if Jason wasn't even worth the attention.
Jason blinked and shifted to look around. His neck was still sore, aching from the pain, he noted, but his eyes gravitated towards the headless corpse a few feet away instead and at the machete-wielding killer towering above it– her, staring at the cannibal who'd attempted to tear off his throat with teeth that were no doubt intentionally whittled to serve her cannibalistic tendencies.
Part of him felt a fleeting gratitude at the man for saving his life. The other part dove right into wondering if he could keep the man at bay long enough to dial 911. Of course, it depended on his mental state and reason for chopping off someone's head, but the point stood.
"She feed you anything?" The man asked, peering at him suspiciously.
That… made no sense at all, even if Jason thought from the perspective of a cannibal or even a vigilante. "No?" He replied.
The man nodded. "Good." He shook his head. "Damn vamps. Had to me make me come outta my way, didn't they?" He muttered in obvious irritation. He nudged the body with his shoe, apparently decided that the girl really was dead, then shook his head again and turned his back on the corpse and its head. "Now, I gotta see which goddamn nest even turned her, the fools."
He nodded sharply at Jason. "The cops'll be on their way soon, don't worry. You'll be fine with a little more blood in you. Honest, I'm pretty surprised she even managed to suck out so much in such little time." He spared a cursory look over Jason's physique. "And ya don't look easy to put down." He snorted. "Then again, they're goddamn vamps."
That was the last thing he said before leaving, and Jason could only spend the next few minutes in dizzy bemusement as an ambulance arrived.
He gave a statement to the police in a sort of detached way (incurring a little awe when they realized he was former FBI), but even he could tell how absurd it sounded - a woman attempting (and almost succeeding; what would the BAU think of that, huh?) to drink his blood ("Like goddamn Edward Cullen?" One of the officers asked, looking disgusted, though Jason had no idea what he meant, so he just hummed noncommittally) and another man showing up and beheading her.
Honestly, as he said it, he realized how absurd it sounded.
But it had happened, and now there was a string of machete-linked beheadings across the area. Jason cursed himself for not stopping the man when he'd been able to see him first.
But the man was long gone before they could even send out cops to every door.
Jason left the area feeling a little defeated.
(Jason left the area wondering what the hell had happened, even as he refused to consider the impossible.)
One thing was for sure, though. He didn't expect to see that man again.
Funny thing was, the next time something strange happened, he didn't see that man again, unlike what all rules of jinx might say. Then again, some would say that was far too old-timey to work in the modern age, anyway.
Jason didn't particularly care what those people would say.
Regardless, while he didn't see the man, he did stumble upon something almost as weird as the time he got his blood sucked out by a cannibal.
The reason for the situation, of course, was the fact that he had habits, and some of those revolved around police work and interest in weird, possibly serial killer happenstance, despite the very fact that he was running away from that life in the first place.
So yes, he kept an eye out for the occasional possibly BAU-related incidents he could then anonymously forward to his team– to the FBI, he meant.
It was that habit that led him to a strange series of incidents where (you guessed it) there was another cannibal rearing its head around a quaint suburban neighborhood - Jason really needed to stop running into cannibals, honestly.
There was a string of murders, and human bodies were found ravaged and bitten into, most with the flesh completely removed, bite and gnaw marks in the remains. There was no victimology beyond opportunity that Jason could discover, though he knew the BAU, with a greater multiplicity of resources, would probably find something when he sent it forward, but there was nothing obvious, and nor was there anything to gain beyond the desperate cannibalism. The almost animal-like eating habit that Jason could guage from the remains made it look like a wild beast, in fact, and Jason had to consider that the unsub might have passed the point of a full-on psychotic break.
He did not envy the people looking to catch him.
Just as he forwarded the information to JJ with a repeat of don't-tell and I'm-fine-how's-Spencer, there was a disturbance at one of the houses out near the edge of suburbia, so to say. The local police station where Jason had been taking the time to look at the files, though only because the Sheriff knew him from his days at the BAU and had allowed him to check out this case they couldn't solve, emptied out faster than he could look up, everyone on edge because of the grisly murders.
And then, it turned out the disturbance had been a lie because there was someone trespassing through the station, making a mess of things as he rifled through the documents.
He swore when he saw Jason, and before Jason could stop the dark-skinned man, he made a beeline for the exit.
Beyond the whole demand to sit with a sketch artist and figure out the situation - though Jason seriously doubted it had been that person who was the cannibal, considering he had seemed far too put together for the psychotic break the unsub was suffering from - there was very little that they could do.
He did tell them what he suspected, though, and it turned their attention from the trespasser (until further notice), for the unsub was apparently a man who'd lived amongst this neighborhood the whole of his thirty years, raised by a single mother. He'd recently married and two months ago, right along the time the killings had started, had begun displaying erratic behavior and signs of extreme hunger that couldn't be sated… and then he'd disappeared.
His wife had said he must have skipped town, that they'd been having marital issues, but Jason was pretty sure that Gary Moran was their guy.
He was, unfortunately for himself, correct. He was also (the 'unfortunately' came in right about then) apparently going to be the next victim, he realized as he stared into the rabid, unseeing eyes of a man crouched on all fours, peering at him with hunger spiking through his eyes.
Jason swallowed. "You don't have to do this," He told the man, wondering what he'd done in his life to have two cannibals come after him in the span of just a few months. He also considered, in that very short moment, whether he just ought to return to the BAU and be done with it. It wasn't like he was getting any vacation time out here anyway,
Gary didn't reply. Instead, he growled deep in his throat and jumped at Jason, landing on the table Jason had been leaning on instead (Jason would have to apologize to the hotel for that. He did not look forward to it), making it buckle and break under him.
Jason rolled out of the way and scrambled to his feet as Gary did the same, still unintelligible, still unable to be reasoned with. He'd never come across someone who'd lost all their higher functioning, he realized later, as he went over the event again, though, at this point, he was more interested in finding a way out because he didn't even have a weapon to subdue the unsub with.
And then the door flung open, and the same man who'd trespassed in the police station came barrelling in, a spray can of… something in his hands and– wait, was that a…?
Jason's eyes widened, and he fell to the ground just as a volley of fire spewed from that direction toward the cannibal.
(Jason would hear the man's screams for a long, long time after that.)
"Of course it's you," His savior(?) grumbled as he moved toward the charred remains of Gary Moran, peering down at it in a way that reminded Jason of that other Vigilante he'd had the displeasure of coming across all those days ago. "Ya had to go and ruin my investigation, didn't you? Almost didn't make it in time." He shook his head, poked the body with the closest thing he'd found - a lamp - and shook his head.
Then he got up, a scowl on his face, and stepped back toward the door.
"Wait!" Jason blurted because he hadn't been able to stop the other vigilante the first time around. "This was the only killer!"
The man turned back to look at him with a bemused expression. "Obviously," He replied. "Why? You know somethin'?" His eyes sharpened at that.
Jason gave a short shake of his head, breathing an internal sigh of relief.
"Huh," The man said, then sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Goddammit, Bobby," He muttered, and Jason only caught it because the room was so quiet. "Here," He said louder, putting a card on the table next to the entrance, a piece that had miraculously survived the battle. “Luther Vandross, FBI. Call me or my supervisor if you come across somethin' weird like this Rugaru, right?"
And then, before Jason could get his disbelief under control and place the man under arrest for impersonating the FBI (He didn't know any Vandross from Quantico, and sure, there were thousands of agents he probably didn't know, but he knew protocol and an FBI agent wouldn't need to break into the police station or run away when spotted in the first place) or something like that, Vandross left the room, vanishing from the hotel and most likely the area.
… Jason kept the card.
It took two months for Jason to build up probable cause to call up the two numbers. Something about the last two situations stopped him from sending it off to Garcia with instructions to apprehend the impersonators, even if he didn't exactly want to consider what delusions those two vigilantes had ('Vampires' and 'Rugaru'? Obviously the supernatural in nature, and that didn't exist, even if the bigger problem was the lack of consistency in what was included). But his gut was against it until he found out more, and, well, sometimes, a man just followed his instincts because they weren't bound by strict regulations anymore.
He kept an eye out for the 'weird', just like Vandross had mentioned, and though most of the profile-worthy world was already quite weird, he tried keeping an open mind.
Two months later, he found a case.
In an abandoned building at the corner of a college town somewhere in the corner of Virginia, teenagers had been killed consistently every five years as far back as a century. In fact, as Jason looked up the history of the house, he realized the killings had been happening since a few years after that house had been constructed. Every subsequent murder was more violent than the last, which was why it had come to his attention - the latest batch of murders had made the front page of the local newspaper, and Jason had been in the area long enough to understand that gouged-out eyes and mutilated chests weren't exactly normal killer behavior around there. In fact, it stank of serial killer, and Jason had half written up the case into an email to JJ already.
Except… except the escalation was far too singular for it to be anyone but a single individual, and that was impossible because it had been happening for well over a century. The killer would have to be over a hundred. There was no account for generational serial killers, but Jason doubted that, considering the implications of personal touches and signatures were different even when the killer didn't want them to be.
So Jason hesitated and, in that hesitation, decided to kill two birds with one stone and dialed Vandross.
It went to voice mail.
Frowning, he called the second number and met the gruff, familiar voice of the man who had saved him all those months ago. "Special Agent Willis, FBI Field office," He said, and Jason could barely hide the unexpected laugh. He'd almost forgotten they were impersonating the Bureau. Still, he mused, not bad for a pair of chumps. "Who am I speaking to?"
Jason wondered whether he ought to ruin the whole charade immediately, then decided an in-person meeting was a better option anyway. "Jason Gideon," He said, wondering if the man was versed enough with the FBI to know how that name intersected with the actual FBI. "I was given this number by a Luther Vandross?"
There was a muffled groan from the other side of the phone. "... My agent," He said grudgingly. "He's my agent. You need more proof than his badge or something?"
Huh, so they even had fake badges. Interesting. Jason hadn't known there was a black market for the stuff, but then again, he doubted anyone would have told him that, considering he had been in the FBI himself. "No, that's not it," He said easily. "He told me to call if I ever came up against something strange, and he isn't picking up."
The man perked up, and his voice turned serious. "What kind of weird?" He demanded. "Where did you meet him?"
Jason fished up the small piece of paper where he'd written down the name of the supernatural creature Vandross had said his attacker was. "He saved me from what he called a Rugaru," He clarified. "And right now, I've come across a case of teenagers being massacred and tortured in an abandoned building. The killings go back a hundred years or so, and I figured that's weird enough." He hoped it was weird enough.
"Huh," Willis said, his voice contemplative. "You startin' as a hunter?"
'Hunter'? Was that what they were calling themselves? "Kind of," He agreed neutrally. "I haven't started so much as stumbled upon a few cases, actually."
"Don't we all," Willis muttered. "Where's this happenin'? I can see if there's a hunter up in your area who'd help you out."
Jason rattled off the address.
For a moment, there was a sort of silence punctured only by the far-off, muffled rustling of paper as Willis probably checked his records - another thing to consider weird since the FBI was most online by now anyway - and Jason tapped his finger on his thigh, considering the implications of there being more of these people. Was it perhaps a national cult of people integrated into the delusions of vigilantism and the supernatural? The phrase 'starting as a hunter' certainly hinted at that.
There was an annoyed huff from the other end of the phone. "Can you hold up for a bit?" Willis asked. "The only one in the area's off in Atlanta huntin' ghouls. I'm a few hours away, and I can get there soon." He sighed. "Is it killing constantly?"
"Intervals. Five years, actually, so I think you can take your time."
"I'd rather not. The faster these things are done with, the better." Willis left the call.
Jason stared at the phone for a few seconds, then shrugged and settled in to wait.
'Special Agent' Willis arrived at his hotel an hour past nightfall, and it was the same person who'd saved Jason in the bar. The belated thanks were met with a confused look and then a dawning realization. "Huh," Willis said. "Didn't see that coming. You travel a lot?"
"Yeah," Jason agreed without more explanation.
Willis nodded. "You do some research on the place?" He asked, shifting gears.
Jason pointed at the pile of papers on the table. "Built in 1883, and the first family living there died in 1891. The only survivor was the son, and he didn't let anyone into the house until he couldn't keep up with the debt and had the house seized in 1896. The murders have been happening every five years since."
Willis narrowed his eyes. "The son," He said.
Jason nodded, having come to the same solution himself. At the very least, the first few murders made sense in that regard. Either the son suffered a psychotic break after his family's death or was the cause of it himself, and the stressor being the loss of the house made the five-year intervals make sense, too. But that had happened a century ago. Was Willis going to say it was a ghost?
"Vengeful spirit, then," The man in question said, using synonyms. "We'll have to stock up on supplies." He looked around with a cursory gaze. "Doesn't look like you have any stashed away. Still getting into it, huh?"
Jason didn't show the disbelief on his face. "Yes," He agreed. "Don't suppose you could tell me what those supplies are?"
Willis snorted. "Suppose it serves you right, gettin' into the hunting life so late." He grinned, and it lacked the malice to make it less endearing. Jason wondered why some delusional people tended to be so easy to like. "Salt's at the top of the list, of course," He began.
Jason quickly went over his middling knowledge of the supernatural. "Because it's a purifier."
Willis nodded sharply. "Not a complete idjit, then," He said. "We'll need buckshot, salt rounds, and guns to shoot 'em, just to be safe. That's not gonna get rid of the ghost, though." He stared at the pile of papers. "You have anything 'bout the son's burial ground in there?"
Jason frowned. He hadn't read anything about that. "... Why?" He asked.
Willis's shoulders relaxed the slightest bit, enough to let Jason know that, as a beginner, he probably wasn't supposed to know everything. Not that it looked like he would have done anything, but better to have suspicions cleared and all that. "Those bastards tend to stay here on Earth because they're attached to something. Usually, it's their body or remains. We burn 'em and get rid of the spirit."
Interesting hypothesis. Jason wondered if any of these guys were ever arrested for grave desecration. "No," He said instead. "There was no record of the grave."
Willis sighed. "Guess it's more research for us," He muttered. "God, I hope there's a grave."
There wasn't a grave.
But Jason came out from this case with one burning building to his name, a whole list of future teenagers saved, and a strong, abiding belief in the supernatural because there's only so far you can suspend disbelief, and when a literal intangible entity (he waved his hand through it, for god's sake!) played havoc with his belief system and telekinetically raised him in the air (He checked for wires! For anti-gravity plates even when they didn't work that way! For anything!) and attempted to choke him, only to be saved by Willis and then witnessed the spirit burn up as the house did… well, like he said. Havoc with his belief system.
But Jason was nothing if not adaptable, and next he knew, he was sitting in a bar, getting drunk with 'Special Agent Willis', trading stories. Well, technically, he asked questions about a world he hadn't even considered could exist. Willis answered them, and Jason then refused to consider the few cases he'd had where the unsub had had delusions of the supernatural. He didn't want to think about possibly having imprisoned or institutionalized (or, God forbid, killed) someone who hadn't deserved it. At least not until he was sober, strong, and able to decide how to go about fixing what he could.
So it wasn't much of a surprise when Willis and he ended up becoming fast friends.
For one, they were both old men (though Willis was sure to tell him he didn't accept that stereotype, thank you very much) and around the same age, too. It wasn't that hard to relate.
They'd both lost their significant others, too, both of them to monsters they hadn't been able to stop. Of course, the species was different in both cases, but the point stood. (The fact that Jason laughed at that was a surprise to even himself, for he'd thought he'd never… well.)
Not to mention the fact that they both love to make fun of the other. Willis took pride in being more adept with supernatural lore, and Jason…
Jason smirked.
"Did I mention?" He asked one day after he and Willis met up again, after another month of traveling on both their ends. They'd taken to meeting up once a month, grouching and complaining and drinking as Jason dragged out story after story of Willis's hunting days ("They ain't over!"). And then, around half a year since they'd cemented their friendship, Jason decided that it had been just enough time that it wouldn't be a deal breaker and that Willis would be embarrassed. After all, Willis was most definitely not Willis because he stumbled upon introducing himself more than a few times. Not in big enough ways for normal people to notice, but Jason had made a living out of observing people. It had to have some advantage.
"Mention what?" Willis-not-Willis asked, looking mildly curious.
Jason hummed and got ready to immortalize the moment in his mind (and cell phone, but his friend didn't need to know that). "That I used to be an FBI agent." He pulled out his 'retired' badge, the only remnant of his past he could show.
Willis choked on his beer.
Willis was actually Bobby Singer, and sure, Jason could have found that out had he actually dug, but he respected Willis– er, Bobby's privacy, and he hadn't.
Bobby nodded at him, and that was that.
It also turned out Luther was actually Rufus and that there was a whole goddamn network of hunters running around with fake IDs and a thirst for vengeance. For a little bit, Jason hesitated over actually even thinking about it.
But, in the end, saving lives meant saving lives, and though he didn't help out himself because he wasn't that far gone, he did give Bobby a few reluctant tips on how to speak like an FBI supervisory special agent (SSA Willis, huh? He'd have fit right in all those years when it had been just him and Rossi manhandling the BAU- or, as it was better known to be, the BS Unit).
Once Jason found out the supernatural was real, he jumped into it headfirst. Kind of like he was sure Spencer would do, but mostly because he was done grieving over his past, and there was a whole world out here that he could explore.
Sure, it was just as dark as the lives of serial killers he'd run away from, but you needed the nitty gritty to spice up your life anyway.
He did, however, take vicious pleasure in imagining Frank Breitkopf burning in the hell he now knew was real, tortured eternally by demons who were inhumane in ways humans never could be, even suffering as they were from psychosis and sociopathy.
He also went to sleep many a night taking solace in the fact that Sarah's soul was resting up in heaven, reliving her best memories safe and sound.
Which made him frown later when he woke up and considered, without fail, why angels let humans suffer.
Bobby had said they existed, and they were angels.
When he asked the man that, there had been a shaking of the head, a sigh, and an explanation that almost blew Jason's mind because what the hell? The fucking apocalypse had already happened? And the angels had wanted it to happen? How the hell had they missed that?!
Jason took a deep breath, buried it under layers of let's-think-about-this-later, and decided to explore the starting line a little more first.
Let him be clear - he was no hunter. Hunters drove a little too much on the other side of the law for him to be comfortable doing it himself.
But he was an informant. Where before he used to send everything to JJ, he now thought a little more, considered whether it was supernatural, and then delegated based on that. Part of his pile went to Bobby, and part of it to the BAU.
The only thing Jason was happy with was the fact that these cases would be solved because he had two worlds (families) now, and both of them saved the world a million times over every single case.
"Jason? I– I hate to ask you this. You know I don' wanna bring you into this mess, but… my nephews, they were arrested by the FBI yesterday. Your old team's got the lay. I'd usually get 'em out myself at some point after the processing, but the apocalypse shit's going down again and… I could use your help."
Jason stared down at his phone, at the blinking message and the voicemail, and then he sighed.
The years he'd spent away weren't enough, but, well.
Duty was calling.
(And maybe, this way, he'd get to see his first family again.)