Chapter Text
Chapter 1
The dogs make it easier for Will Graham to tolerate the enduring ugliness of his soul. Their sensibilities aren’t offended by the craven curve of her spine, they don’t begrudge the hairy shoulders above her gaunt face, or the low hips that lend a skulking edge to her movements.
His daemon, Loumalous, is a Brown Hyena. When she speaks, she has a rich rasping voice; the only thing about her that Will considers pleasant. Other people don’t find her voice appealing, can’t separate it from the offensive hunchback posture and the hungry eyes; they find it menacing.
When Will goes out in the world - to work, to the shops - she stays quiet. Even so, with all her efforts at slinking beneath the attention of strangers, she’s an almost unbearable burden. In the periphery of his vision he sees people shudder, their lips curl in distain. His students studiously avoid looking at her, their daemons darting cautious glances in her direction. Children's unsettled daemons will flash into small concealable creatures that scrabble out of sight, or erupt in spikes and curl into the defensive posture of porcupines. Parents will glare at him for frightening their delicate offspring, and each time Will hates himself a little more for being so abjectly objectionable.
Sometimes, when the dogs romp with Lou, free from the judgemental gazes of the rest of humanity, he will consider the stripes on her legs, or the white ruff she sports about her neck. On rare occasions, with the artificial heat of bourbon in his belly, he thinks she may have a sweet face; sweet, but ugly. A plaintive bear-dog face, that sinks its teeth into the rotting carcasses of other people’s crimes.
Sitting on the porch in his pyjamas, the muted autumn sunlight is less forgiving than the haze of whiskey.
“Who’s eyes are you looking at me through now, Will?” Lou asks him, extracting herself from Harley’s playful buffeting and walking up the porch steps to circle behind him.
He winces, hunching his own shoulders, refusing to look at her. Of course, Lou can feel it when he starts hating himself, it reverberates up and down their link. There's no getting away from your own soul.
- - -
Walking through the BAU, Will unhooks his gaze and lets it drift in the middle distance, acknowledging neither the hyena at his side, nor the varied but consistently unpleasant range of reactions she garners from those around her. Trained professionals all, with barely a microexpression shared between daemon and human, Loumalous sees through them anyway, and transmits it seamlessly to Will. If only she wouldn’t, because once he sees their perspectives it’s very hard to unsee them.
He reaches Jack Crawford’s office, nearly on time, and knocks with the kind of relief that is found when two anxieties swap shifts; Jack’s unpleasant reaction to Lou is to want to use her, but at least the contempt is well hidden.
The almost-relief becomes a nasty shock when he opens the door to find Jack has company. He half closes the door again, instinctively sticking his foot out to block Lou’s progress into the room. “Sorry – I thought-”
“Come right on in Will, I want you to meet Dr Hannibal Lecter. Dr Lecter, this is Will Graham.”
“Doctor…” Will almost tries to repeat the name, it sounds more like a daemon name than a human one.
The doctor seems to take this as a greeting, because he stands smoothly and offers his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr Graham.” And Will is still dithering in the doorway like an idiot, so he reluctantly opens the door all the way, meeting his daemon’s reproachful eyes, then walks forward to shake Lecter’s hand with a noncommittal hum. He keeps the contact as brief as possible.
“Pleasure’s mine.” He murmurs back, without warmth. Behind him he feels Loumalous sidling cautiously into the room, she shuts the door with a gentle swing of her heavy head. Her entrance is not met with the usual recoil of distaste, but rather an open curiosity, and Will flicks his eyes down to find the man has the soul of an African Wild Dog. She is a beautiful creature; long limbs, golden fur painted with splashes of black and white, dark satellite-dish ears swivelling to catch the noises in the offices around them, eyes the colour of dried blood.
“Nice of you to join us.” Tanith, Jack’s grey wolf daemon, drawls, looking pointedly at the black mug of half drunk coffee in his hand.
“Didn’t know it was a party.” He grumbles back, setting the offending receptacle onto Jack’s desk.
“There's no party, and nothing to celebrate.” Jack answers for his daemon, a growl beneath his words. “Eight dead girls, and a new one likely in the crosshairs.”
Tanith, the only one of the pair with any latent tact, adds, “We need all the help we can get.”
Jack and Will both grunt in acknowledgement of that, and Will sags into the available chair.
“Dr Lecter was recommended to us by Dr Bloom, he is an expert in clinical psychiatry. I’m sure you’ll both have different approaches to working up a profile, and we’ll move faster if you work together.”
“Right.” Why fight it? Just roll with the punches. He contributes nothing while Jack continues to fill the psychiatrist in – surely they could do this part without him?
Lecter walks to the victim board while he listens, and Will glances at his daemon, who stays where she is, still watching Lou with bright interest; surely a worrying sign. Will squirms slightly.
“Anything to add, Will?” Jack directs at him, having followed Lecter to the board.
“Not yet.” Will answers vaguely.
“Tell me then, how many confessions?” Lecter queries.
“Twelve dozen last time I checked…”
Tuning Jack out as he begins to talk again, Will flicks his gaze to the clock. Jack had assured him this would be a quick meeting, hence why Will had agreed to meet just thirty minutes before he was due to give a lecture. His class now starts in fifteen minutes, this is not the moment for he and his new co-profiler? to try getting into the killer’s head. What’s Jack hoping to get out of this?
“Tasteless.” Loumalous’ voice cuts through the white noise around Will, and he jerks to look at her. He should be glad that one of them is paying attention, but he’s mainly mortified that she’s spoken at all.
“Do you have trouble with taste?” This from Lecter’s daemon, still avidly watching his hyena.
“My thoughts are often not tasty.” Lou is apparently on a roll. She’s just out of casual reach, it would be too obvious if he were to smack her from here.
“Nor mine. No effective barriers.” Lecter’s daemon appears set on encouraging her. There has to be a way to stop this.
“I make forts.” He interjects, with a tone that implies the conversation is concluded. He takes a pointed sip of his coffee.
“Associations come quickly.” Lecter chimes in, as persistent as his daemon.
“So do forts.” He grumbles back. Goddamnit, he is trying to end the conversation, not get in the last word.
“Not fond of eye contact are you?”
Oh Jesus Christ. Fucking psychiatrists. Alana is the only halfway tolerable psychiatrist Will has ever met, primarily because she seems afraid to be caught alone in a room with him. He rambles off a tangential stream-of-consciousness response that deliberately veers so far from the topic they’re here to discuss that Jack will surely seize the conversation and steer it back to their killer. Will even calls his name to give him his cue, but instead, the man prevaricates in the corner, conveniently occupied by the board again. Lecter sees right though the chaff and flare to make a direct hit.
“I imagine what you see and learn touches everything else in your mind. Your values and decency are present yet shocked at your associations, appalled at your dreams. No forts in the bone arena of your skull for things you love.”
What the fuck is this? It feels like an attack. Why is single-minded Jack letting this conversation veer – oh. “Who’s profile are you working on?” he glares at Jack. “Who’s profile is he working on?”
The look of total innocence that crosses Jack’s face provides enough confirmation, without the psychiatrist trying to cover for him - without actually denying the accusation, he notes.
Anger at both men’s presumption fires him to his feet, and he grabs his coat and bag off the floor as he leaves, forgetting his coffee, and realising too late that he’s made a reference to the Incredible Hulk.
The blast of cold air as he leaves the Forensics building lifts some of the claustrophobic tension around his shoulders, and cools some of the flush from his cheeks. “Well, I think you handled that beautifully.” Lou snipes as they cross to the academy building, shoulders level with his mid-thigh, mouth level with his knee.
“Just- just shut up.” He manages to keep his voice down. She snickers at him, and he remembers why he hates her. She goes quiet then, and he’s pleased, but it’s a bitter kind of pleasure. It hurts him too.
- - -
The dream shatters into antlered fragments as reality intrudes in a sharp series of knocks. Loumalous is looking up at the door with instant alertness that Will can only envy. Seems unfair his soul should be so quick to rise while his mind is left thrashing about in the surf.
Sunlight blinds him and, oh look, it’s Jack’s new friend. Christ it’s bright. Why is Jack’s new friend here, asking to be let into his motel room?
“Where’s Crawford?”
“Deposed in court. The adventure will be yours and ours today. May we come in?” He seems to be holding food. It’s probably a kind of peace offering. His daemon sits neatly behind him, the open cups of her large ears pointed towards him expectantly.
He sighs gracelessly and steps out of the way.
“This is Jevgēņjia.” Lecter introduces, as they enter Will’s temporary shelter.
That’s gonna be a tough one to remember, Will thinks. He gestures to his hyena standing awkwardly by the unmade bed. “Loumalous.”
The African wild dog marches smartly up to Lou and gives her a familiar head-swipe, before casually walking off to inspect the rest of the space. Lou’s astonished eyes go to Will and they exchange their surprise. Lecter is busy laying boxes and plates out on the table. The food smells amazing, and his stomach rumbles treacherously. Loumalous licks her lips, which strikes him as a little strange, because she doesn't eat.
- - -
The Hobbs girl’s blood won’t be contained, won’t be held back, it sprays through his fingers, sheets out beneath his palm, and her father is dying in the corner, trying to talk to him, trying to reach him. Loumalous’ teeth are in Hobbs’ bobcat’s neck. A shiver of suspense travels through the link, then she gives up her restraint and engages her powerful jaw muscles. The bobcat daemon bursts into Dust. In the corner, the man’s head drops.
The girl is dying beneath him, her slow loris daemon clinging to her hair and crying, and he can’t-
Hannibal’s hand comes to replace his own with conviction. Immediately, Will can tell he knows what he’s doing. Calm emanates from him, defusing the mounting panic building in his chest and throat, the radiated confidence and surety a sudden balm that affects him physically. He falls back to give them space, and sees the sensation is less ephemeral and has a specific origin. Jevgēņjia’s flank is flush against Loumalous’ body. The African wild dog’s head rests across Lou’s low hanging neck, jaw tucked behind her ears.
His hyena stares straight back at him, and the sight of her eyes drives a spear through him; Lou is shaking, dazzlingly vulnerable, dark eyes shining with a multitude of emotions, many of which Will can’t begin to parse right now. Shock and guilt sit high on the list, grief, horror, yes, but also... triumph. He had felt a moment of exultation there, as her jaws had crushed the bobcat daemon’s vertebrae. Is it the taking of a life that has her trembling, or does she look guilty because she enjoyed it?
Staring at each other this way could trigger a negative feedback loop that might cycle and build viciously. Jevgēņjia nudges in closer against Lou, who has to shift her weight to keep upright and breaks the eye contact before his thoughts can spiral. It’s a relief.
When the ambulance comes, Hannibal never leaves the girl’s side. The African hunting dog stays pressed supportively against his daemon until Hannibal climbs into the ambulance, then, with a whisper in Loumalous ear, she runs to follow him before the doors close.
Will stands by his car. The whole world is sprayed with red, big blotches on everyone’s faces, on the ground, in the sky. Loumalous is shaking without the other daemon’s comforting presence. She looks at Will; Will looks back at her, then quickly looks away.
He hears her heave a heavy sigh, and clenches his teeth to stop himself from snapping at her. She is so goddamn pathetic.
- - -
The nurse and his skink daemon point Will to Abigail’s hospital room, and he slopes in the designated direction. Finding Hannibal asleep by her bed surprises him, but his usual wariness grants him a reprieve, and he quietly ushers Loumalous inside.
Rapidly shifting his attention to the unfortunate girl, Will’s heart quails at the sight of her pallor. Her daemon, still in its loris form, has been wrapped in a sling for safe transportation, and placed in the bed with her; it, too, sleeps like the dead.
Lou ambles closer to Jevgēņjia who opens an eye and inches forward in greeting before setting right back into dozing. Loumalous shifts her weight on her feet uncertainly, then lies down midway between Will's chair and the other daemon. Will notes this with a raised eyebrow, but doesn't have the energy to fight her on it, and wouldn't want to wake Hannibal with their bickering.
As a rule, Will doesn’t sleep very well, and yet, despite the clinical smell of the hospital and the harsh light, there is something soporific about this place. The room is warm, filled with the gentle breathing of two other people and the reassuringly steady bips of Abigial’s heart-monitor. His eyes close, and he doesn’t expect more than a brief reprieve for his eyes.
Will wakes to find Hannibal watching Abigail thoughtfully while Lou and Jevgēņjia converse in hushed tones. He rubs at his bleary eyes, and replaces his glasses in time to see the doctor smiling fondly at him. Fondness? That seems… incongruous and unlikely. Probably just some practiced psychiatry mask, and yet, he’s seen some of this man’s masks; this one looks genuine.
He offers back a smile of his own, though he’s not sure that his lips manage more than a slight tic. “You saved her life,” he acknowledges, sitting up straighter in his chair.
“So did you.” Hannibal counters mildly.
They hold eye contact, sharing this truth; with the broken girl lying comatose between them, it doesn’t feel like a victory.
- - -
Alana approaches through a stream of departing students, her aardwolf, Angus, trotting gamely at her heels. His pointy ears twitch in greeting at curious daemons passing him by.
Her warning of an ambush serves little in the way of advanced notice, but provides him with the satisfaction of Jack’s irritation as he comes to stand behind her. “Traitor.” Tanith mutters to Angus, and Angus gives a semi-apologetic wag of his bushy tail.
First Will must endure Jack blowing smoke up his ass, and then comes the real kicker. Back in the field, psych eval… oh hell no.
And then Hannibal’s name is mentioned, and Will’s resistance derails. Loumalous has brought up the subject of Hannibal and ‘Jia’ numerous times since the hospital. The pair are on her mind almost as often as Garret Jacob Hobbs.
He maintains his objections for appearances sake, and then finds himself anticipating the meeting for the next two days. In that time he doesn’t see Hannibal at the hospital, but he sees evidence of his visits; small posies of fresh flowers that are most certainly not shop bought. Plucked from the man’s own garden, Will would put money on it.
“You still won’t tell me what you two were talking about?” He asks, as Lou sniffs around for trace evidence of Hannibal and Jevgēņjia.
“I don’t see why I should.” She responds tartly. “It was private.”
“But…” But what? We’re the same person? She knows he’s loathe to admit it. Why should he care anyway? Still, it plays on his nerves. “Were you talking about me?”
She scoffs, turning her black bug eyes on him. “Not everything is about you, asshole. She’s nice to me. If I tell you what we talk about, you’ll only ruin it.”
“What? No I won’t.”
“Yeah you will. You’ll over-think it, and reach some horrible conclusion about it all, and frankly, I don’t want to hear it.” She stares him down, and he drops his eyes away, guilt crawling up his spine.
There was a time, when he was a kid, that he and Lou were best friends. She would jump from creature to creature, soaring in the air as a gull, jumping the waves as a porpoise, cuddled around his neck as a fluffy tabby cat.
Now she reflects the monster inside him, bowed under the weight of all the perspectives he carries.
Too bad. There's no changing what she is. No changing what he is.
