Lewis Fic: Snow After Fire
Title: Snow After Fire
Author: Mistress Kat / kat_lair
Fandom: Lewis
Pairing: pre-Hathaway/Lewis
Genre: Dragon!AU, case fic
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: descriptions of violence (not very graphic) and prejudice
Word count: 4,853
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing.
Summary: “All known prior murders like this have been a result of dragon-on-dragon violence.” - A case with an unusual victim uncovers some troubling implications, causes Hathaway to learn more about dragons, particularly his partner, and leads to far more questions than answers.
Author notes: Written for Summer Challenge 2012 over at lewis_challenge. This is a sort of continuation of To See Clearly but you are best to consider this as another snapshot from the ‘verse rather than a direct sequel. The title comes from the quote “So comes snow after fire, and even dragons have their endings.” (J.R.R. Tolkien, The Hobbit) Thank you to planetkiller for a stellar beta work as always.
The dragon lies amidst the trampled barley like an open gash in the earth. Death has dulled her scales to rust red against which the blood is almost invisible until you look closer.
The field is full of officers and SOCOs, police cars and vans scattered about like misshapen Lego. Hathaway tips his head up to the slate grey sky and closes his eyes. It's not the dead dragon he doesn't bear to see, it's the live one.
Lewis is kneeling next to the body, heedless of the rain or the activity going around him. He hasn't spoken or moved for twenty minutes and James is finding it increasingly difficult to keep everyone else away.
If it was up to him, Hathaway would give Lewis all the time he needs to… do whatever he’s doing - praying? grieving? communing with the dead? James doesn’t know - but the reluctant sympathy on everyone's faces has started to turn to annoyance.
“Sergeant.” Dr. Hobson touches his sleeve to get his attention and James blinks the rain away from his face, offering a wan smile they both know is false.
“Can you have a word with him?” she asks, nodding toward Lewis. “I really need to look at the body, although god knows what good it will do. My knowledge of dragon physiology hasn’t exactly gotten much practical application since med school and even the theory is vague at best. They’re a secretive lot.” There’s a faint disapproval in her voice, but James knows it’s just frustration over lack of information, not a sign of actual prejudice, at least not malicious one.
“I can try,” he says, shrugging, “but he doesn’t seem to-”
A commotion interrupts them.
“Sir, this is a crime scene. Sir! You can’t enter… I must ask you to stop right now!” An agitated constable is running after a man who is ignoring him with contempt that is so strong it’s making Hathaway’s lip curl with dislike.
He steps in front of the man, physically stopping him with a hand to his chest. “Sir,” he says. “I’m afraid my colleague is right and I must ask you to leave.”
The man lifts his head and it takes two seconds for James to realise that he’s not a man at all.
“Must you?” the dragon asks. His eyes are ice white, except for the black slits of the vertical irises. Most dragons have learned to adapt their human forms to such perfection that it is almost impossible to tell the difference without a full physical examination.
James gets the impression that the dragon facing him knows how to disguise himself perfectly well. He just doesn’t want to. Probably because of the reaction his countenance evokes in humans; the instinctive wariness, the fluttering metallic fear of a small animal in front of a much larger predator.
It takes all of Hathaway’s self-control not to step back.
The dragon smirks. “Agent Williams, NDA.” He produces an identification card from the breast pocket of his stylish coat - lamb wool, James thinks, unable to shake his disquiet - and hands it over.
Hathaway almost laughs at the name, Williams. Dragons always used the most common names - Smith, Williams, Ahmed... Lewis - another attempt to blend in, he assumes. The ID card is real and James is annoyed at himself. If he had been less distracted by his partner reaction to the victim, he would have remembered to expect the National Dragon Agency to show up and possibly felt a little more prepared for the encounter.
Hathaway opens his mouth for a retort - though the details of that are a bit unclear - when suddenly there’s a hand at his elbow and Lewis is standing next to him.
“David,” he spits out, mouth tight and the expression on his face is like a storm building on the horizon.
James can do nothing about the way his eyes widen and he’s honestly not sure what he is most surprised about: the intense hostility between Lewis and the NDA agent, or the grip on his arm. Lewis is not one for casual touches and Hathaway doesn’t know if he’s trying to offer support or actually seeking it.
“Robert,” Williams answers. “The pleasure is all... well, I’m not quite sure whose.” His smile shows a lot of teeth, though thankfully human ones.
“This is my case,” Lewis says. “There is no need for NDA meddling. The local police already have a subject matter expert. Me.”
Williams snorts, a great bloom of smoke coming out his nostrils and briefly obscuring his face. “You’ve already let a dragon die under your watch,” he says, “and not for the first time. Think we’ve all had enough of your ‘expertise’.”
Lewis tenses and for a moment the fingers digging into James’ arm feel like talons and he can’t help the instinctive flinch of pain.
“Careful now,” Williams says, leaning closer, ignoring Hathaway’s presence like he’s nothing but an annoying pebble that he could flick away if only he could be bothered. “Don’t think the clisk'rah'e are quite prepared for the real Inspector Lewis.”
Williams straightens up and looks around him with contempt. “NDA will be taking over the investigation and if anyone has a problem with that, I suggest you learn to hide it well and talk to your commanding officer.” Both he and Lewis turn their attention to the dirt road, along which a large van is driving toward the crime scene. “Ah,” the NDA agent comments. “My team is here.” Without a backward glance he starts towards the newcomers.
“What...” James swallows, his mouth unexpectedly dry, and tries to come up with a way to finish the question: ‘what was that?’ ‘what happens now?’ ‘what did he mean this wasn’t the first dead dragon?’ all seem too big to tackle right now, so he settles for: “What does it mean? That word... What did he call us?”
Lewis finally lets go of James' arm, putting some distance between the two of them. He doesn’t look at him, eyes on the group of people - dragons, Hathaway corrects himself - stepping out of the van. The rain is still falling at a steady, relentless pace, muting sounds and making everything blurry and soft-edged and James is starting to wonder if he’s overstepped some invisible line.
Finally, Lewis glances at him from the corner of his eye; a quick measuring look that makes Hathaway straighten his spine and take a deep breath. None of it prepares him for the full impact of the answer though.
“Cattle,” Lewis says. “He called you cattle.”
***
Chief Superintendent Innocent seems uncharacteristically frazzled, standing in the middle of two sniping dragons. At least they still look like men, Hathaway thinks with abstract amusement. Otherwise Innocent’s state of mind, and her office, might be even worse off.
“Gentlemen, settle down!” Her voice is firm but there’s an edge of desperation to it.
James can’t blame her. Lewis and Williams have been at it for half an hour now, starting with barely polite debate over appropriate policy and jurisdictional boundaries but fast descending into an outright argument. They had left English behind about ten minutes ago and were now shouting at each other in their own language, sharp clicks and long sibilant words and gestures that seemed oddly dwarfed made as they were with human bodies.
Hathaway is fascinated. Humans rarely heard Dragonese spoken out loud and certainly not this freely and he wishes he’d paid more attention on his Introduction to Linguistics module, enough to at least make an educated guess at the origins of it.
He’s so focussed on watching Lewis and Williams that when the two suddenly clasp hands over their ears, faces twisting in agony, he doesn’t at first understand the cause of it.
“Right,” Innocent says. “Do I have your attention now?” There’s something small in her hand, like an instrument, a...
“A dog whistle?” Williams asks, indignant. “How dare-”
“You were behaving like a pair of mongrels fighting over a sausage. I felt it was entirely appropriate,” she interrupts calmly.
Hathaway bites down on a smile, although it’s difficult when he can see a matching grin lurking in the corner of Lewis’ mouth. “I’m sorry Ma’m,” he says. “We were out of order. But the point reminds that-”
“Enough!” Innocent lifts a stalling hand. “I have spoken with the director of NDA,” the announcement causes everyone’s eyebrows to shoot up, “and we feel it best that Agent Williams and you two,” she nods at Lewis and Hathaway, “work closely together on this one. We both expect you to do so professionally so no more shouting matches in my office or anywhere else, are we clear?”
Williams looks like he swallowed a lemon, but nods curtly before pivoting on his heels and marching off - something he appears rather good at, James observes.
“Clear, Ma’m,” Lewis says, following suit and barely pausing to usher James out of the office ahead of him.
Hathaway feels himself relax slightly. This may be a unique case in many ways - a number of murdered dragons can be counted with the fingers on one hand, or at least could as their victim makes number six in the seventy plus years dragons have been out in the open - but it is still a crime, and he and Lewis are good at solving those.
As if reading his mind, Lewis starts walking straight to the garage. “C’mon,” he says. “We have people to talk to. Well...” he amends, “not so much people, actually.”
***
The wine goes down smoothly, spreading warmth to his chest and stomach, his legs growing heavy. They’re sitting side by side on the sofa, remnants of the dinner - steak, rare, for Lewis as usual, and a chicken Bhuna for James - still scattered in the kitchen counter, the case file spread out on the table in front of them.
“I’m feeling rather extraneous,” Hathaway observes. “Not like I can contribute much insight here.”
“I’m mostly impressed you can still use words like ‘extraneous’,” Lewis says and then looks up sharply, “...because clearly you are drunker than you seem. Why else would you say something that stupid?”
“Well it’s obvious that Lisa Johnson,” and there’s another member of the bland name brigade, James thinks to himself, “was killed by another dragon. If nothing else, the fact that she was... you know,” he makes a large arch with his arms, trying to indicate the sheer mass of her in her proper form and almost sloshing his wine in the process, “would make it suicidal for any human to attempt to harm her. Besides, all known prior murders like this have been a result of dragon-on-dragon violence.”
This was true as far as Hathaway could tell; he had done his homework over the last couple of days. The autopsy supported the conclusions. The cause of death, the NDA medical examiner had told, was massive trauma to the thorax. To put it more prosaically: someone had torn out Lisa’s throat.
It was no mean feat when Lisa had been almost seventeen feet tall at the time with a wingspan of double that and sporting several tons of scaled muscle.
“Yeah well, that makes the suspect pool pretty shallow,” Lewis says, leaning back to the sofa and tossing the file to the floor in frustration. “And yet, we’ve got nothing.”
James grimaces in sympathy. The local dragon population was indeed small and tightly knit, and of course it also included Lewis although Hathaway had the impression that his partner didn’t socialise much with his kind. Nevertheless, his presence at the interviews had eased the process considerably. Over the last couple of days they had spoken to every openly out dragon in Oxfordshire - and some who had preferred to keep a low profile and got rather anxious about having the fuzz and a posturing NDA agent on their doorstep.
The dragons’ reaction to Williams had been interesting. Everyone treated him with unerring respect to his face but it was respect born mostly out of fear.
Lewis had explained that when NDA had been established in the aftermath of 1980s Dragon Riots, those choosing to work with the British government instead of simply tolerating it, had been viewed as traitors and power-seekers. It was clear that Lewis’ own opinion wasn’t far off, which made his choice to join the police a curious one.
But that was a topic for another day.
“I know I’ve asked this already, but are you sure you don’t know anyone who would have wanted to harm Lisa?” James asks. “I mean, maybe it’s something you didn’t think of as important as a time, maybe something you can’t tell me but...”
“No, nothing!” Lewis snaps, and then relents. “She was well liked, preferred her privacy. I didn’t know her well but I can’t think of anything that would have made her a target for a vengeance, no feuds, nothing.”
This is all information he has told James before, even told Agent Williams.
“Did Lisa-”
“Jissah’glek’lieskren’sayiss,” Lewis interrupts, the syllables sinking like stones into the space between them.
For the longest time, James forgets to blink. Or breathe. “...what?” he asks finally, on a soft, shocked exhale.
“Her name, her real name, was Jissah’glek’lieskren’sayiss,” Lewis repeats serenely. He’s shuffling the crime scene photos like nothing out of the ordinary is going on, but there’s tenseness to the set of his shoulders that speaks volumes.
“I thought dragon names were secret... sacred. That they were only spoken to other dragons.” James feels as if he’s walking an unknown path, with no idea where it leads, his curiosity tempered with the need to tread carefully.
“Names have power,” Lewis agrees. “Even humans know that. But she is dead now; no more harm can come to her. And her name deserves to be remembered.”
Hathaway considers this for a while. “I’m not sure I could repeat it correctly. They’re not kidding when they say that Dragonese is difficult,” he says, chuckling.
Lewis looks at him without a trace of laughter. “You could,” he says with absolute conviction. “You can. You will remember it and you will never forget.”
There is something about the way he emphasises the words that makes James feel special, makes him want to be worth the faith placed on him.
“Jis... Jissah’glek’lieskren’sayiss,” he repeats the name haltingly, his human mouth and tongue and throat ill-suited for the hisses and the harsh guttural sounds.
Lewis nods once, approvingly. Then he stands up and starts unbuttoning his shirt.
Distantly, Hathaway wonders if maybe he’d drank more wine than he thought and the whole night is some sort of alcohol-induced hallucination. It would certainly make more sense than the entirely unexpected - though by no means unwelcome - sight of his partner’s bare skin, being revealed inch by inch.
Lewis has stripped completely out of his shirt and is unbuckling his belt by the time James gathers his wits enough to ask: “What are you doing?”
“I’m going flying,” Lewis says, like the answer should be obvious.
Nothing about this situation is obvious, or even vaguely familiar, to James. “Right. Flying,” he says as Lewis shucks out of his trousers, folding them neatly on the arm chair next to his shirt. “Should I...” James’ hands clench on the sofa cushions, fingers digging into the worn leather, and he glances toward the front door. Flying, like telling their names, is one of those things dragons are extremely reluctant to do in front of humans. James has only seen it twice: once on a shaky black-and-white film footage of World War 2 shown during a history lesson in school, and once five years ago driving through Yorkshire late at night when he’d spotted a large shape gliding over the dales.
“Up to you,” Lewis says, “though I don’t think you should drive tonight.” There’s a smirk lurking at the corner of his mouth that shows he is rather enjoying surprising his cocky know-it-all partner.
James fights to keep his face blank when Lewis takes off the rest of his clothes and stands in front of him, fully naked. He can do nothing about the way his eyes rake over Lewis’ body though. He looks like... Well, he looks like a man in his fifties, though fit with it, slight thickening in the middle, skin growing loose here and there.
James finds him beautiful just as he is, but the knowledge of what else, what more, he is makes the desire to reach out and touch even stronger.
Lewis closes his eyes, forehead creasing in concentration for a few seconds. Then he turns around, heading toward the kitchen door, and Hathaway gasps out loud.
Lewis’ back is covered in scales. They are in all shades of bronze, from pale gold to dark almost brown earthy colour, dotted with rich forest green. The scales run from the base of his skull, down his spine, over his arse and right until the backs of his knees. It’s breathtaking.
Hathaway knows that this type of partial transformation is possible - his mind briefly flashes to Williams’ eyes - but to see it like this... He gets up to follow Lewis as far as the door as he walks into the garden and toward the fields beyond it.
There is a shimmer of air, like heat waves, and the man ducking under the trees is replaced by a dragon rising far above them, wings blocking the sun briefly until they catch its last rays, the metallic armour - for that’s what it undeniably is - burning in the dusk like a falling star.
James watches until the dragon is out of sight and then he watches some more, eyes trained on the horizon, a sense of awe and gratitude and yearning filling the empty space in his chest he didn’t know he had until he aches with it, his bones straining for the sky.
The next morning James wakes to a hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him.
“Hobson rang,” Lewis says, leaning over the sofa where James is lying with no recollection how he got there. “We have to go. Lisa was poisoned.”
***
“And the great dragon was cast out, that old serpent, called the Devil, and Satan, which deceiveth the whole world: he was cast out into the earth, and his angels were cast out with him,” James reads the quote from the website. “Revelation, chapter twelve, verse nine. They’re not even original in their prejudice.”
“Is anyone ever?” Lewis asks. He sounds weary but unsurprised, like he’s heard it all before.
He probably has.
James clicks onto the next page, a wall of text making his eyes hurt. He skims it, reading out choice bits: “...walking among us, hidden in plain sight, these demons of the deep...every Real Human must stand up and fight...propose an international register...do you know your neighbour...”
The whole thing makes him sick to his stomach and he can’t even imagine what Lewis is feeling, not least because he is not giving any outward indication, face like carved stone, staring into midair as he sits and listens on the other side of the desk.
The discovery of poison in Lisa’s blood - thanks to Dr. Hobson who unlike her NDA counterparts had wanted to make sure the case was as cut and dry as it seemed - had widened the suspect pool considerably. A healthy, conscious dragon would pose an impossible target for a human killer, but a weakened, possibly unconscious dragon was another matter. It would still be risky to be sure, but not quite as suicidal.
A closer look at Lisa’s circle of friends and acquaintances had revealed an ex-boyfriend who was not only human - unusual in its own right - but had some connections to Populi Suprema, an anti-dragon group with pseudo-religious justifications for their hate-filled propaganda. The name derived from the Latin phrase ‘salus populi suprema est lex', meaning: ‘the welfare of the people is the supreme law’, which James thinks is insulting on a whole new level.
“Any progress?” Innocent’s voice is a welcome interruption to the unpleasant task of trawling through Populi Suprema’s sizeable website, to say nothing of the message boards.
“We’ve got an address,” Lewis says, waving a piece of paper. “Matt Webber, 15 Fitzgerald Drive. We’re off to have a chat with him now.”
“We are?” Hathaway asks and then amends it to: “Yes, we are.” He turns off the computer monitor and gets up, grabbing his jacket. “Yes, right now.”
“Don’t forget to inform Agent Williams,” Innocent reminds them and she seems as unhappy about it as they do.
“I’ll do it,” James says, reaching for his mobile. The dragon unnerves him in a way Lewis or any other dragon has never done, but he knows that his partner would probably rather gouge out his eyes than talk to Williams any more than strictly necessary so making the phone call is an easy favour to make.
In the hallway, Lewis walks close enough that their arms brush against each other at every step, which is how James knows his gesture did not go unnoticed.
***
The weather had turned suddenly over the last week and as he runs James can feel the cold air burning his lungs. At least the harvest had been saved, he thinks absurdly, the frost hardened stalks snapping under his pounding feet.
They are near the crime scene, racing across the surrounding fields: Webber at the front, Lewis and Williams closing in on him fast, and Hathaway bringing up the rear. The dragons are outdistancing him with ease and James hears more than sees them now, the dusk and the growing distance from the road and its lights ensuring the visibility is becoming poor.
Suddenly there’s a cry of pain and Hathaway’s heart lurches in fear until he realises it’s Webber’s voice, not Lewis’. He increases his pace, pushing his body to go faster. The dragons have caught up with the fleeing man by the small outcrop of trees, the branches dark against the dark sky.
“I didn’t want to do it,” Webber is sobbing. He’s a big man, sturdy like a wrestler, his broad shoulders heaving as he cries. “But she was a monster, they told me. I didn’t know what she was.” He looks wild, shaking his head repeatedly like he’s trying to deny his actions while he’s implicitly admitting to them.
Williams is standing right in front of Webber, seemingly unaffected by the man’s distress. James comes to a stop opposite Lewis who is standing to the side and together the three of them have Webber surrounded.
“It’s okay now,” James says, trying to calm Webber down. He has his gun out but pointed toward the ground. “Let’s just go to the station and you can tell us all about it.”
Lewis takes out a pair of handcuffs, cautiously stepping closer. Webber flinches like he’s been hit. It’s obvious that no matter how ignorant he’d been about Lisa’s true nature, he recognises Williams and Lewis for what they are.
“No, no, it’s not okay. Too late now, too late,” Webber babbles. There’s a desperate look about him, his eyes so wide with fear James can see the whites even in the waning light. “We’re all dead and you don’t even realise it! Helping them... blood traitor!” he spits at Hathaway, his thick lips wet with spittle.
“No one is going to die tonight,” James says, exchanging a worried glance with Lewis. They both know that a cornered man with nothing left to lose is a recipe for a disaster. Williams is still just standing there, staring at Webber with his unnerving eyes and James wills him to back off as his silent present is only adding to the tension.
“David,” Lewis says softly, as if reading Hathaway’s thoughts. “Maybe you should-”
Webber pulls out a gun. “We’re all going to die, we’re all going to die,” he chants. His hand trembles almost uncontrollably and despite the cold he’s sweating like it’s the middle of the summer.
“Put your weapon down!” Hathaway commands. Lewis has drawn his own gun and both of them are aiming at Webber. The situation has just gone from bad to worse and Williams still hasn’t moved or said anything, is simply exuding threat like a statue waiting to come alive.
“I know,” Webber says, ignoring James in favour of addressing the two dragons. “I know what you are. I know what’s coming.” He laughs; a high hysterical giggle that reminds James of the sound icicles make when they fall and shatter on the hard ground.
“What’s coming?” Hathaway asks, trying to engage Webber, to distract him. And because he needs to understand what makes a man like Matt Webber so very afraid he’s shaking like a small child in a dark.
“The Great Wyrm.” Webber’s aim swings toward Williams, his finger tightening on the trigger.
What happens next is over so fast James has no time to process it until after.
In that split second before the hammer hits the striker inside the gun, Williams finally makes his move. His arm extends forward, almost as if he’s trying to push Webber in the chest, to knock him over. However, instead stopping there, it just keeps on going, the hand turning to a giant claw, curved and sharp like scythe as it cuts straight through Webber’s coat and skin, muscle and bone, the scream on the man’s lips freezing before it gets out.
James would think he’d imagined the whole thing if it weren’t for Webber’s eviscerated body on the ground, blood slowly spreading under him.
“He was going to shoot,” Williams says matter-of-factly, wiping his once more human seeming hand on the trunk of a tree.
James can’t contradict that because he has no doubt that given the opportunity Webber would have fired the gun.
He just doesn’t think that’s the reason the man is dead.
***
“Wait!” Lewis’ voice follows him out of Innocent’s office and down the hallway. “Hathaway, wait!”
James ignores him, too angry to care that they are making a scene. No doubt the gossip mill is already gearing up and soon the tongues will be wagging at the canteen about how the resident reptile and his posh book-smart serge were having a blazing row.
Hathaway marches through the CID without even pausing to collect his coat, takes the stairs down to the ground level and finally pushes open one of the fire exits, tumbling out into the parking lot behind the building.
The winter sky hangs low and heavy, everything grey in the diminishing afternoon light. Hathaway breathes deeply, his teeth hurting from the sudden shock of cold air. He kind of wants to hit something but there is nothing but concrete walls and other people’s cars around and he’s not stupid or selfish enough to punch either of those.
“Will you just stop, lad,” Lewis says from behind him, the fire door slamming shut. James had been standing perfectly still but now he starts walking again, heading to the gates.
“James, please.”
It’s the utter shock of hearing Lewis use his given name that finally makes James turn around.
“Thank you,” Lewis says, sounding like he means it. A few quick steps and he’s caught up with James, the two of them standing between someone’s rusted Fiat Punto and the metal bars of the fence. The traffic noise is drifting in from the other side of the building but apart for that it’s quiet, no one else around.
“The IPCC investigation found no-”
“I know what they said!” Hathaway snaps. “Self-defence, necessary use of force. Bollocks! IPCC are dancing to NDA’s tune in this and because Webber had no next of kin, no one fucking cares!”
“You care,” Lewis says softly. And then he adds: “I care. And so does Innocent and Dr. Hobson.”
James lets out a slow breath. “Then why aren’t you arguing this? What Williams did...” He shudders at the memory, the enormous claw ripping through Webber’s chest and stomach like they were nothing but paper. “There was no need for it. He could’ve just knocked the gun out of Webber's hand. Or even knocked him out.”
Lewis nods. “I know,” he says. “I know. And I’m sorry but I cannot let you pursue this. Not now.”
“Why not?” The words are angry and bitter, because that’s how James is feeling right now. That and betrayed. “Are you scared?” It’s meant as a taunt, unthinking and childish, but he can see the way it hits its target, Lewis’ face crumbling, just for a second.
“Yes,” he admits, voice tight. “For you.”
There is nothing James can say to that, too shocked by the truth of it, mind reeling from the implications and the questions he knows Lewis won’t answer, not right now, maybe never. The tension drains, leaving him feeling exhausted and hollowed out, and when Lewis curls a hand over James’ arm, he steps closer, not away.
There is a shift in the air, in the quality of light, and James can smell the snow just as it starts falling.
Fin.
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