Chapter Text
Spencer nudged his sunglasses more firmly in place as he gathered his bag and tried his best to ignore the angry throbbing behind his temples. The headaches had started a few months ago and only seemed to be getting worse. He was already taking more aspirin than was recommended, which wasn’t really helping. He was eager to get out of the office and have a couple of days off. Maybe if he got a good night’s sleep he’d feel better.
“Hey, Reid!” a hand caught him gently around the wrist before he could finish packing up and he blinked, his head jerking fast enough to increase the pounding. The hand fell away and he looked up to see Ashley Seaver standing there, smiling softly at him.
He thought she had a nice smile, soft and pretty without being timid or awkward. Despite her youth, Seaver was incredibly confident. It was interesting.
“Any plans for the weekend?”
Was she asking him on a date? The thought flitted through his mind and he shifted nervously, nodding and immediately wishing he hadn’t as the pain intensified.
“Uh, yeah, I’m going out to Baltimore tomorrow morning. I won’t be back until Monday night.”
“Pretty Boy, I thought we talked about this,” Morgan was suddenly behind him and Spencer jumped. How was everyone managing to sneak up on him lately? Were his headaches effecting him that much? Maybe he should talk to Hotch…
“What’s in Baltimore?” Seaver asked curiously. It took Spencer a moment to remember that she hadn’t been around during his last trip to speak with Hannibal – it felt like a lifetime ago though it was less than five months.
“Dr. Hannibal Lecter,” he answered promptly, starting to move away from them and hoping that they would take the hint and leave him alone.
“Wait,” Seaver quickly fell in step beside him with Morgan on her other side, “Hannibal the Cannibal? The Chesapeake Ripper? I thought he never talked to profilers.”
“None but our resident genius,” Morgan said, his voice sounding sour as he frowned at him. Seaver picked up on the disapproval quickly.
“Is his talking to Lecter a bad thing?”
“No,” Spencer answered immediately, “Everyone else is just worrying about nothing.”
“He’s been talking to him for over a year,” Morgan said, “Unofficially. And he’s got squat out of him.”
Spencer scowled, “I got him to tell me that he’s killed outside of the US,” he said, “Garcia was able to find almost two dozen new kills that could be linked to him.”
“Could be,” Morgan said, “You asked him point blank if he killed those people and he refused to tell you. He’s leading you on, Reid. He just wants someone to toy with. You’re walking a dangerous line.”
Reid scowled, “Let me be the judge of that,” he snapped, increasing his gait to get away from them. This time they didn’t follow and Reid was almost grateful that he wouldn’t have to carry on a conversation any longer.
“Spencer,” Hannibal’s voice swam in his mind as he rubbed his eyes. His headache was worse than it had ever been before and he couldn’t focus on anything. Images were swimming through his mind and he could swear he heard a distinct ringing in his ears, the thrumming beat of drums echoing somewhere behind the violent crescendo of his pain.
“Spencer are you alright?” the concern in Hannibal’s voice was what pulled his attention back to the other man. He was eighty percent certain the concern was fake – Hannibal was a psychopath, after all. He was capable of feeling, but generally not for other people’s well-being.
“I’m sorry,” even to his own ears his voice sounded strained. He also wasn’t sure why he was apologizing. “It’s just a headache…”
He forced his eyes open and looked at the doctor, taking a steadying breath. The pain simmered down to something slightly more bearable, but it continued to throb incessantly at his temples.
“You were saying?”
“I don’t think our previous conversation is important right now, Spencer. Tell me, how long have you been having these headaches?”
Spencer’s jaw tightened and he shrugged, “Not long. A few months, off and on.”
“Spencer…” there was a strange warning note in Hannibal’s voice and he immediately felt a spike of fear at his tone. He answered without thinking.
“I had the first headache two months and eighteen days ago,” he said, “This is the fifth one and they’re growing in severity.”
“Hmm, have you seen a doctor about it?”
“One,” Spencer sighed and let his head drop into his hands. It was too much work to keep his head up.
Hannibal watched him massage his temples, his long fingers going white as they pressed against the sides of his aching skull. Again his mind went to Will and all the times the other man had been in a very similar position, head throbbing, hands pressed against his face, shaking slightly.
Of course, this wasn’t encephalitis and Spencer wasn’t Will.
That didn’t make the comparison any less meaningful to Hannibal.
It took Spencer a moment to realize that Hannibal was still talking and then another moment to crush the irrational guilt he felt for ignoring him. For some reason, he felt bad for being rude.
“Sorry,” he forced himself to sit back up, “What did you say?”
Hannibal sighed, but didn’t seem irritated, “I asked what your doctor told you, Spencer,”
He stiffened and shook his head, “I think we should stay on topic, Dr. Lecter. We were talking about you.”
“Yes,” Hannibal nodded, “We were talking about me. Now we’re talking about you. Specifically, these headaches you’ve been having. What did the doctor tell you?”
Spencer sighed. He knew well enough by now that he would get nowhere with Lecter if he didn’t answer the question. With Hannibal everything was a game of give and take; he gave and Hannibal took. Sometimes it was more akin to chess. Spencer was good at chess, but he had a sinking feeling Hannibal was better.
“He said there was nothing physically wrong with me,”
The break in his voice made Hannibal smile and he leaned forward, eyes bright, “Physically?”
Spencer closed his eyes before answering, “He suggest that it was psychosomatic,”
Only Hannibal’s impeccable control stopped him from grinning widely. It was like playing the game with Will all over again, only with a different set of rules and a few new players. The added restriction of his cell only made things more interesting.
“Your mind playing tricks on you, Spencer?”
His jaw was tight, “No,” he said, “It’s something physical. I know what mental illness looks like and this isn’t it. I’ve seen it. I grew up with it. There is something wrong and it is not mental. It’s not.”
He sounded desperate, his words a burst of anger mixed with fear. He had to wonder if Spencer was even aware of how much his words echoed Will Graham’s. It was astonishing the similarities that were beginning to make themselves known. God must have been smiling upon him when he delivered Spencer Reid to him. Or perhaps that was Satan; Hannibal couldn’t say for sure and didn’t really care.
“Or,” Hannibal said, gently, “perhaps your mind truly is slipping, Spencer. Schizophrenia has been known to be hereditary and you are at the proper age for it to present itself. A shame that such a bright mind would be addled with such a terrible mental illness –”
“It’s not schizophrenia!” the words were nearly shouted and if there was ever a time when Spencer hated him, it was then. His fists were clenched tight and shaking and he met his eyes with a blazing fury that surprised even Hannibal.
“I am not hallucinating, Dr. Lecter. I am one hundred percent lucid.”
“As far as you are aware,” he said. His voice was still gentle and it was difficult for Spencer to hate him when he spoke so calmly and carefully. As if he regretted saying what he was saying.
“You could very well be dissociating without ever knowing it. You know as well as I do that it is possible that you -”
“Shut up!”
The words were harsh and abrupt and Spencer was breathing too heavily. He was standing and glaring at him, his chest heaving with the hard inhales and exhales.
“Just shut up,” he said more slowly, his eyes closing for a moment as he gathered himself and carefully rebuilt the wall he’d started building up to keep Hannibal out. It was a flimsy wall at best and Hannibal could see through the cracks. A waste of his time, really.
“I’m not an idiot,” he said, “I know what you’re trying to do, Doctor and it isn’t going to work.”
“Isn’t it?” Hannibal smiled, flashing his teeth for a moment, “Spencer have you ever considered that for all of your intelligence you’re really quite naïve? If you continue to delude yourself you’re only going to make it easier for me to harm you.”
Spencer just stared at him, lips folded together tightly, eyes swimming with tears. Hannibal wasn’t sure if they were from the pain, the anger or the fear but they were beautiful all the same. The tears made his hazel eyes shine so brightly, sparkling behind the pain that flashed within them.
“You don’t scare me, Dr. Lecter,”
“You’re lying,” Hannibal said, “I can smell your fear, Spencer. I can see it in your eyes. You fear me and you fear that I’m right. You fear that these headaches are indicative of something far worse happening in your mind and you don’t want to admit it because fear makes you weak.”
Spencer inhaled sharply and turned to leave, “Goodbye, Dr. Lecter,”
Hannibal smiled, “I’ll you see tomorrow, Spencer,”
Spencer paused, jaw tight and shook his head, “No you won’t,”
Hannibal simply inclined his head, waiting until Spencer was farther down the hall to whisper, “But I will, Spencer…”
His headache was slowly dissipating by the time he got back to his hotel. He pressed his head against the coolness of the door for a moment before sliding the keycard into the lock and pushing it open. He tried to let every thought evaporate from his mind, leaving him floating a bit as the pain eked away.
The door clicked shut behind him and he opened his eyes to see a small, neatly wrapped box sitting on his bed with an envelope embellished with familiar handwriting.
His heart thudded in his chest. This was impossible. Dr. Lecter was locked up in his cell; there was no way that he’d delivered this. No way.
And yet…
His hand shook as he picked up the envelope first, mindfully keeping his fingers around the edges as he sliced it open. He expected a letter, but what tumbled out was a very carefully folded drawing of him. His heart felt stuck in his chest as he studied the drawing.
He looked utterly broken and though the entire thing was done in charcoal pencil, he could tell the dark splotches on his hands were meant to be blood. There was a strangely real, wild look in his eyes and he was doubled over on his knees, bleeding. There was a gaping hole where his heart was supposed to be.
He bit his lip and quelled the urge to crumble the portrait, instead setting it aside on the table beside the bed and turning his attention to the box, his heart thrumming very painfully against his ribcage. He didn’t want to know what was inside, but he knew that he needed to open it. He needed to know what it was.
He was careful as he cut the paper wrapping, wishing for a moment that he had a pair of gloves to put on. As the plain brown paper fell away he saw an ornate, old box that was a bit withered with age. He bit down on his lower lip hard as he reached out and flipped the golden latch, taking a step back quickly as the lid slowly tipped open.
He stomach turned as he stared down at what was inside, trying to figure out what he was seeing. It didn’t register for a long moment and when his mind finally accepted it, he was already halfway out the door with his cell phone in his hand.
“Hotch, you need to get to Maryland. Now,”
He didn’t wait to hear Hotch’s question of what was going on or why he needed to be there. His voice pitched high in his panic and he was barely aware that he was stepping into the elevator to go to the lobby.
“It’s Dr. Lecter,” he said, and his voice still sounded all wrong. Too high, too quick, too absolutely terrified.
“He just sent me a human heart…”
Spencer was early the next morning and Hannibal smiled, closing his eyes as the young agent practically stormed down the hall.
“How did you do it?” Spencer’s voice was sharp, angry and determined.
Very slowly, he opened his eyes to look at the young man. He was a mess – the dark circles under his eyes more prominent than ever, his skin paler and his hair a disheveled tangle of curls. He allowed himself a tiny smile at Spencer’s expense.
“How did I do what?”
Spencer had never seemed quite so angry, “I’m not in the mood for games right now, Dr. Lecter. Whose heart was that?”
Hannibal’s eyes sparkled, “Ah, that,” he nodded, “Did you enjoy my gift? I thought it was a tad inappropriate but I didn’t want to give you something mundane or dull so heart is was.”
“Whose heart, Doctor?”
“I’m sure your labs at the FBI can figure that out soon enough for themselves,” he said, his tone still pleasant and utterly unruffled. Spencer, on the other hand, seemed to be growing more and more agitated.
“How did it get in my hotel room? Who did you send to put it there?”
“Who says I sent someone, Spencer?”
“Who did you send?” Spencer’s teeth were gritting together and he was obviously in pain on top of his anger and fear. “This isn’t a game.”
“I disagree,” Hannibal said, “Just because you’re losing at the moment doesn’t mean this isn’t a game. I’m rather enjoying myself, Spencer.”
“Tell me who you got to deliver that package!”
It was a harsh, angry burst that Spencer instantly regretted, his eyes dropping from Hannibal’s to stare at his hands as he took deep, harsh breaths.
Hannibal’s face hardened at the outburst, his eyes going dark and cold for a split second, the truth of his mask slipping out enough to make Spencer shudder.
“No,” he said, “I don’t think I will, Spencer. The entertainment in here isn’t particularly good and I have become fond of watching you squirm.”
Spencer’s mouth opened and closed several times, like he was trying to figure out what to say or how to respond. Before he could Barney, the only guard in the place Hannibal had any fondness for, appeared.
He looked curiously between the two before turning to Spencer, “Dr. Reid, your team is here. They’re waiting in Dr. Chilton’s office.”
With a brisk nod, Spencer turned and followed Barney down the hall without a word to Hannibal. Hannibal couldn’t help but think that Spencer was being extremely rude. He would have to address that the next time they spoke.