Title: Conversations with a Cannibal

Rating: T

Warnings: Violence, swearing, dubious consent, discussion of drug use, non-consensual drug use, murder, gore, cannibalism, forced cannibalism, heavily implied rape, fade-to-black rape, torture, psychological torture, dangerous medical procedures, sexual situations. This story is potentially triggering. Proceed with caution.

A/N: This fic in its entirety is also posted on my AO3 account, as a series of steadily darkening ficlets culminating in one huge clusterfuck. I am posting the entire series here under its series name as one story. Just so there isn't any confusion: I didn't steal this, I am the original author. Aside from trying to clean up typos and errors, the two fics are identical.

Chapters will be posted once a week on Monday nights, EST. If for any reason I cannot post on a Monday, I will either have the chapter up Sunday night or Tuesday morning.

As of right now the rating is "T", but it will go up to "M" eventually. I will post a note making sure that that is clear when it does. This started out as a fun little one-shot for a friend and warped into a monstrous thing that I am quite proud of. Warnings are mostly for later in the story, but I will try to remember to warn you of when certain things care coming up.

Enjoy.

Reviews are greatly appreciated.

Part 1: Doomed From the Start

Hannibal heard the steady, sharp footsteps down the row of cells long before they neared his cell. He wondered, briefly, who the FBI had sent this time. It wasn't the first time that an agent had been sent to interview him and it certainly would not be the last.

Over the years there had been many visitors. A collection of boring, over-eager psychology students, hardened FBI profilers sent by Crawford, and a handful of fresh-out-of-training Academy agents. They all tended to blur together—tediously over-zealous, fidgety things with appallingly romanticized views of his crimes.

Hannibal never spoke to any of them. They weren't worth his time and certainly not worth his wasted words. They never stayed longer than a few minutes, uncomfortable under his steady gaze and cool silence. It amused him to think that they believed themselves intelligent enough to comprehend a mind as complex as his own. There was only one person whom Hannibal deemed capable of understanding him, and he doubted very much that he would ever see Will Graham again.

After a while, Chilton stopped allowing most visitors. Hannibal would have been grateful for that if he weren't annoyed at Chilton for deciding to take away the minimal entertainment he got from watching them fidget and twist in fear.

But the footsteps he could hear were not like those other, quick-tempoed, anxious steps of fresh-faced college students. They were steady and unhurried. Likely an older profiler, then. Someone looking to prove themselves by trying to crack into the mind of the infamous Chesapeake Ripper.

When the agent came into view of the glass cage, Hannibal found himself pleasantly surprised at the man's youth. He was far younger than any hardened FBI agent—in his late twenties at the very most—yet he carried himself with the unterrified assurity of those older agents.

The young man only glanced at Hannibal before taking a seat in the metal folding chair. Hannibal took in his appearance hungrily.

He was too thin, gawky and awkward with long limbs and slender fingers. He had beautiful hands, Hannibal thought. His skin was pale and he had deep, purple shadows under his eyes. Hannibal found himself wondering if this young man suffered from nightmares like his dear Will. The thought enticed him further.

The agent's eyes were hazel and emotive, a beautiful mixture of greens and brown. His dark hair was a bit too long, curled slightly and very messy. It reminded him again of Will and Hannibal wondered if Jack had sent this young man specifically to remind him of what he could not have.

He dressed like a child playing at being an adult: a dark grey vest over a deep purple shirt and a matching, but crooked and improperly tied, tie. His dark slacks were a bit too short for him and his shoes were worn and old. His socks did not match: one a pale purple argyle, the other black with varying spots of white, purple, and navy blue.

He didn't seem outwardly nervous, but Hannibal could easily spot the slight increasing of the pulse in his neck. He was very good at concealing his fear, but he was scared nonetheless. Hannibal knew in an instant that he was not the first serial killer this young man had sat across from.

He didn't speak right away, something that was refreshing as far as Hannibal was concerned. All those other young students would quickly blunder through their introduction, wide-eyed and stuttering like children. Instead, Hannibal found himself speaking first, a surprise to even himself.

"And who has the bureau sent this time to hastily fumble their way into my head?"

He leaned forward, catching the young man's gaze and holding him there. He didn't look away, keeping his eyes steadily trained on Hannibal—very different from his Will. Hannibal could read the fear in his eyes so well, but above the fear was a shield of interest and confidence.

"I'm Dr. Spencer Reid," the agent said, and his voice was as young as his appearance. Lilting slightly, a bit more eager than his calm exterior. "It's nice to meet you, Dr. Lecter."

Hannibal didn't try to hide the hungry smile on his lips as he studied Dr. Reid.

"A doctor?" he asked. "You're rather young, aren't you?"

Reid's lips quirked slightly into a smile and Hannibal catalogued the image so that he could capture it later on paper. It was a beautiful smile.

"I went to college young," he said. "I work with the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit." He paused briefly and then looked down at his hands in his lap before looking back up at Hannibal.

"We know this isn't the first time you've been questioned by the BAU,"

"Indeed it isn't," Hannibal inclined his head; "Tell me, Spencer," he enjoyed the way the young shivered at his name, though he tried to hide it, "did Jack Crawford send you?"

If he was surprised by the question, he didn't show it.

"Actually, no," he said. "I don't work with Agent Crawford's team. Agent Hotchner is my supervisor."

Agent Hotchner… Hannibal only knew of him by name; he'd never met the man before, though Will had spoken of him a few times in regard to cases he had worked. He would have to thank Agent Hotchner for allowing this new and interesting agent to come into his line of sight.

"Ah," he said. "Then I have to ask, Spencer, why this new interest in me? I've been locked in this cage for more than two years. I believe public interest has faded a bit."

"I think we both know that's not true," Spencer said, his eyes sparkling a bit. "The less the bureau knows about you, the harder they'll try to figure you out."

"Is that why you're here?" Hannibal asked. "To 'figure me out'?"

"I don't think that one meeting alone is going to tell me much of anything," Spencer said. "Nothing I don't already know at least. Some killer's minds are easy to see into, others are more complicated."

"Then why bother coming at all?" Hannibal asked, "if you do not expect to learn anything new?"

Spencer took a breath and hesitated, debating whether or not he should answer honestly.

"Partly to see if you would talk to me," he said finally. "It's common knowledge among the BAU that you don't speak to anyone who interviews you… Another agent told me that I have a tendency to attract serial killers and I decided to find out if he was right."

Hannibal had to wonder what had happened to make someone tell Spencer he attracted murderers. He found that he didn't quite like the idea of another killer harming the young agent, though he himself was already imagining what he would look like spread out and covered in delicious, red blood.

"But mostly," Spencer continued, "I came here because my boss asked me to." He kneaded those long, graceful fingers into his knee and Hannibal eyed the movement with interest. "He felt I needed something to do to feel productive. I'm not currently allowed in the field."

"An injury?" Hannibal watched the fingers, still massaging the knee, "Perhaps you were stabbed in your knee?"

The fingers stopped and Spencer looked down as if only just realizing what he was doing. He pulled his hand away and nodded slowly.

"I was shot," he corrected him.

Hannibal could imagine it in his head—the bullet piercing the flesh and scraping the bone. The hot blood rushing out of the wound as Spencer stumbled and fell, unable to support himself. Maybe he pressed a hand against the wound and his fingers came away covered in the sticky, wet blood. He inhaled sharply, almost able to smell the adrenaline and blood and the hot waft of gun and metal. Delightful.

"You would rather be in the field than sitting in this dark hospital speaking to me," Hannibal said. It wasn't a question, but Spencer nodded anyway.

"I would," he said. "Here, I'm not really doing anything productive. You've already been caught. We know what happened to your victims. You aren't going to reveal anything to me. In the field, I would be helping to find a murderer."

Hannibal watched him with a ravenous look on his face. He had so many questions to ask. He wanted to know if the circles beneath those expressive eyes were from nightmare-plagued nights. He wanted to know if Spencer were as haunted by the ghosts of monsters as his Will was. He wanted to know why Spencer felt such a duty and obligation to save people, and why he chose to do so by delving into the minds of madmen.

He wanted to consume Spencer Reid.

"Is it my presence that makes you uncomfortable here, Spencer, or is it the mere fact that you are in a hospital for the mentally unfit?"

He licked his lips hungrily when Spencer flinched. He tried to hide the flinch, but he wasn't able to and it was a beautiful thing to see him truly hurt. He didn't answer the question, his lips tightening just a bit, and he carefully avoided looking at Hannibal for a long moment.

"Does it bother you?" Spencer asked. Hannibal raised a brow curiously and the young man gathered his courage, meeting his gaze again with a surprisingly angry one of his own.

"Does it bother you that they put you in here even though you aren't insane?"

It was rare that Hannibal Lecter was truly surprised, but he had certainly not expected that. He smiled wide and truly amused as he studied the agent in front of him and it was at that moment that he knew, just as he had known when he first laid eyes on Will Graham and just as he would know years later when he first saw Clarice Starling, that Spencer Reid was doomed.

A/N: First chapter down. Hope you guys enjoyed it. This is just the beginning of a very slippery slope for Reid. Be warned.

[also posted on AO3]