Chapter Text
Will Graham is a FBI Agent, to give him his proper title he is Special Agent Will Graham of the FBI, a very special agent indeed. He brings serial killers to justice and in his spare time, when he’s not fishing or walking his dogs, he hunts gods. That is to say, he meets up with a bunch of guys who, using ancient books, rumours of recent sightings and ‘Signs’ reported in local, national and international press, keep track of the movements of known gods. It is true, that as of yet they have encountered zero, that’s correct, zilch, nada, not even one, but they are very, very committed.
Will and his dad used to spend summers driving around investigating possible leads, it was the happiest time of his life. Some of the old guys, and their kids are still involved, it’s a bit like a family. Will’s family are a pack of dogs, and a group of guys and girls whom most would consider, ‘odd’, ‘losers’ or just plain ‘crazy’. Its not a mainstream way to live your life but it suits him just fine.
People do believe in the existence of the old gods, but the (almost) universal mantra is, ‘why waste your time on them, humans have much better things to do.’
100 years ago, gods appeared around the world and gave an ultimatum, humans had to renew their worship of them or they would leave. The League of Nations met and said, “F*** off, we will be fine on our own,” or words to that effect. So they did, they fucked off, no one knows where, but it left a gaping chasm, an ache which every child since has been born with and one which no amount of scientific research or psychotherapeutic meddling has managed to heal.
Most people live in denial, grasping for greater wealth, more sex or better hair, Will, not one bothered by any of these things, knows he aches. The God Squad doesn’t stop the ache but it does provide an escape for his mind from the evil that men do and, yes, it would be cool to meet a god. It was said a few gods, so enamoured with humans, or exiled by their own kind, the latter being more likely in Will’s opinion, remained.
Will is taking some leave from the FBI after a particularly difficult case has left him more ‘unstable’ then normal. After arranging for Alana to take care of his dogs, he sets off for some rest and relaxation at the God Squad's Annual General Meeting. Nothing much normally happens, its just an excuse to drink too much whiskey and blow spit balls at each other. This year though, things seem a bit more organised, Will has even been emailed an agenda, its got him worried. It seems a newbie, called Anna, or something, has taken over and decided they need some aims and objectives or some such bullshit.
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Well fuck me, thinks Will, as he opens the door and steps into the trailer, also known as God Squad HQ, if there isn’t some Nordic supermodel sat photogenically amongst the books and discarded plastic tea cups.
Will knows his type, expects the world to fall at his feet because of his chiselled cheekbones and perfect stubble and from the looks of Franklyn, Abigail and Simon he’d not be far wrong.
“Will, its so good to see you,” says Franklyn, “ This is ...”
Whatever the name of the model is Will isn’t listening, he’s staring at the jean clad legs and expensive leather boots currently resting on the coffee table. If Will possessed telekinesis the boots and owner would have spontaneously combust, instead his hand goes to his belt, damn, why did he have to leave his gun behind. The table is the last thing Will’s dad made, he does not mind that it is covered in books, ink and is sticky to the touch, what he cannot abide is feet; it is disrespectful.
The boots do not explode, unfortunately, but they and the legs are, with a noticeable amount of grace, removed from the table. Will, and his intensity, turn on heel and head to the third circle of hell known as the kitchen. To his surprise he is not greeted by a fetid bin long overdue an emptying nor is his nose battered into submission by the stench emanating from the fridge, instead everything smells lemony fresh. He is rummaging around for the kettle when he comes face to face with a shining, chrome devil machine, otherwise known as a coffee maker. Will just stares, What the fuck, if coffee could be made by staring alone, there would be enough for rush hour at Starbucks. Then, it all makes sense, Ah, ha the model, just as Will is making this startling deduction he hears,
“Will, can you make Hannibal a cup of coffee.”
He walks back into the main room and with one eye brow raised looks Franklyn directly in the nose, he need say nothing more. No one feels sorry for Franklyn he should have known better, it is a fact universally acknowledged that Will never looks anyone in the eye. The nose is the closest and then only when he is really pissed. Most importantly when interacting with Will it should be remembered to allow him 24 hours to withdraw from the FBI. His symptoms include high(er) levels of sarcasm, rudeness, irritability and shaking, during this period it is best to not address or look at Will Graham unless he speaks first.
Will turns back to the kitchen.
“Let me help you Will,” requests a smooth accented voice.
He stops, Well fuck me, it speaks and it is European, he decides the best thing to do is ignore it, it will go away. It doesn’t. It follows him into the kitchen.
“You don’t like eye contact do you.”
He could say something witty about seeing too much and not seeing enough but instead Will thinks, Is this clothes horse really trying to psychoanalyse me and continues with his strategy of ignoring him. It takes a minute or two for Will to realise he may have spoken the bit about the clothes horse out loud, but it's not like he and the model are going to be besties or anything, so he doesn’t really give a shit.
He fumbles with the machine, gets it to work by hitting it a few times, he carries the cup back to one of the sofas, he’s shaking so much most of the coffee ends up splattered on the carpet. Will looks at his cup there is maybe two mouthful’s left, but he is too exhausted to get back up.
The model, also known as Hannibal, follows behind Will and wouldn’t you just know it sits down right next to him. The special agent gives the man a look only reserved for the ‘FBI’s most wanted’, closes his eyes, opens them, nope he’s still there, then wraps his arms protectively about himself.
“I made a spare you are welcome to have it,” says Hannibal holding out a cup of the hot stuff.
Will contemplates what strings are attached to the acceptance of the coffee, there’s bound to be something, maybe he thinks we can be friends, god forbid. His hand quickly reaches out and snatches the cup, he mumbles something approximating a thank you. To his horror Hannibal speaks again,
“God forbid we try and be friendly.”
Fuck, the man does want to be friends, Will needs to stop this now, “I don’t find you interesting.”
“You will.”
Will can just tell this guy is going to be trouble, with a capital T for Tosser.