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.

Part 13: Blinding

Epliogue

No kiss, no gentle word, could wake me from this slumber,
Until I realized that it was you who held me under
Blinding – Florence + the Machine

It took nearly five minutes for Will to calm Spencer down, and five more minutes for him to dig Lounds's phone from her bag and call Aaron Hotchner. After that, everything happened very fast.

Cordell Doemling disappeared. No one found out what happened to him. Mason Verger's body – what was left of it – was cremated and interred in his family plot.

There was a large spread in the news for all of the victims and everyone involved. Freddie Lounds would've been proud of how famous she had become – her headshot placed alongside all the other victims of the notorious Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Everyone said she was lucky she died so quickly.

Will Graham was a hero again, which was not all that different from the other time he was a hero. The man who caught Hannibal Lecter became the man who killed Hannibal Lecter. After the investigation was officially closed and all loose ends tied neatly away, Will Graham disappeared and no matter how hard he tried, Jack Crawford was unable to locate the man again.

Clarice Starling was a martyr. Her smiling face was plastered across the news programs for weeks, the story of her daring to go up against two brutal killers and sacrificing her life to save Spencer Reid went international for a while.

Spencer Reid, of course, became a tragic victim, caught between a serial killer and his brutalized victim. He spent a week in the hospital before being moved to a psychiatric ward, where he was held for nearly two months. Only his teammates pulling strings kept the media away from him. His name was kept out of the news for as long as possible.

It took him a while to readjust to living in the real world again. He reconnected with his team, his mother. With Maeve. Slowly, he remembered how to be Dr. Spencer Reid again, how to live without Hannibal Lecter or Will Graham. How to have freedom again. Freedom was a terrible burden. One he took great pains to embrace.

Spencer splashed water in his face, keeping his eyes closed against the bright bathroom lights. He was shaking, breathing too quickly, and his long fingers wrapped around the edges of the sink as if he was trying to hold himself together.

"Spencer?" Maeve's voice was raspy and groggy as she appeared in the doorway. Her hair was a mess and her nightgown was rumpled. She squinted against the light and pushed her bangs from her face to see him better.

"You alright?"

He nodded and dried his face quickly, straightening up. Unconsciously, his fingers rubbed along his shirt at the scar that was throbbing underneath.

"I'm fine," he assured her, kissing her softly on the mouth. Even after being back home for a month, he still couldn't get used to the wonderful feeling of having her again. Talking to her, laughing with her. He might even have said he was happy if it weren't for the nightmares and the sickening pangs of guilt and longing he felt whenever he thought about Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham.

"It was just another nightmare," he said, guiding her out of the bathroom. They were in her apartment; Spencer hadn't gotten a new place. He wanted to stay close to Maeve and she had no objection, even though he spent most of his nights on her couch rather than in her bed. Just knowing she was down the hall did help.

She smiled sadly at him and reached out to grasp his hand with her own. He fought back a grimace as their fingers laced together and he felt the conspicuous absence of her index finger. Memories flashed through his mind and he shoved them away, returning her smile when she leaned up and kissed his cheek.

"Early morning tomorrow," she said lightly, "You should get some sleep. I'm sure the FBI is happy to have you back."

He nodded, "I know. I'm gonna get a drink and then I'll be back, alright?"

She let her hand fall away and nodded, disappearing into the bedroom. He waited until he heard the bed creak beneath her to head to the kitchen and pour a glass of water. He didn't drink it, just stared at it for several minutes while his thoughts ticked slowly on.

He was going back to work the next day, but not in the same capacity he'd been before. The thought of actually going into the field was more sickening than he could put words to. Even looking at crime scene photos gave him flashbacks, the memories popping up at the most inopportune moment. Nights of blood and murder and fear and violence and sex smashed together with the conflicting feelings of danger and excitement and wonder and terror.

His team had been supportive when he'd told them he wasn't going back to the BAU, though they were a bit dubious about him deciding to teach at the Academy instead. They thought he wasn't getting far enough away from the triggers, but he told them they could sit in on his classes any time they wanted if they were worried and they seemed to accept that.

Tapping his fingers against the counter, Spencer closed his eyes, thinking back. He lifted the glass and gulped the water, suddenly feeling exhausted and tired as the memories from the nightmare drained out of him and left his body weak.

Maeve was already asleep when he returned to the bedroom. He smiled softly at her and slid in beside her, kissing her hair before settling down and drifting off.

The next morning Dr. Spencer Reid stood up in front a podium, looking out at all the faces before him – most young, some old and right in the front a pair of familiar faces. He smiled faintly at Penelope and Derek, but didn't acknowledge them in any other way.

His hands felt shaky as he committed the other faces to memory. He'd taught classes before – some even larger than this one – and it wasn't stage fright that had him feeling sick. In the middle section of seats a young woman sat, pale brown hair and a sharp chin. Her eyes were bright and eager. She looked like Clarice Starling and for an illogical moment Spencer thought he was seeing a ghost.

He heard Hannibal's voice dance through his thoughts and closed his eyes, mentally shaking himself as he looked at the clock. Two minutes and seventeen seconds fast. He smiled out at the faces that were starting to blur together in his effort not to attach any feelings to them.

He cleared his throat, "Good morning. I'm Dr. Spencer Reid. I'll be teaching you how to get inside the minds of violent criminals for the next several weeks…"

On a dock on the east coast of Florida a man sat with his legs dangling in the water. He wore dark sunglasses over his eyes and a hat pulled down to hide the hideous scars that marred his face. In one hand he held a half empty bottle of Scotch. Another bottle – empty – sat to his left. His other hand was resting in the dark fur of the little dog that had laid her head on the sun bleached wood.

His fingers scratched the dog's ears lightly and he smiled down at her. She wagged her tail and looked up at him, tongue lolling out happily.

It was a quiet life he'd made for himself, right there on the beach in a small little house made of boards that were worn from years of exposure to wind and salt water. The white sand went right up to his front door. The garbage can that sat outside was overflowing with dark brown bottles.

There were rumors about him – he was an escaped convict, a foreign spy, a widower who'd lost his family in some awful tragedy. None of the neighbors knew his name, just that he split his time between drinking and fixing boat motors and introduced himself as Graham.

His property was often overrun with dogs – big dogs, small dogs, stray dogs and missing pets. Some he kept, others wound up in the pound or returned to their owners if they came looking for them. He didn't seem to mind. Some neighbors said the only time they ever saw him smile was with those dogs.

The little dog at his side yapped eagerly and hopped to her feet, taking off toward the house. He watched her run off and then turned his attention back to the horizon. The sun was setting and the sky was streaked through with pinks and oranges, the light glittering on the water.

A shadow fell over him but he didn't look up. A man sat beside him, wearing overlarge sunglasses and an ill-fitting shirt with a crooked tie. He still didn't look at him.

"It's been a year,"

Graham turned his head just slightly, "Only a year?"

"Jack thinks you killed yourself," he said matter-of-factly.

Graham snorted, "Good. That means I won't be getting any more calls to consult, will I?"

"I thought you were dead too… You didn't even say goodbye."

"Cut all ties, Spencer," Graham said. "That's what I did. Easier that way."

"For who?"

"Me,"

Spencer frowned, "I won't tell them where you are," he said, "But… I'm going to keep tabs on you. Thought you should know."

Graham snorted, "I heard you weren't an agent anymore, Doctor," his words were slurred. "How do you plan on keeping tabs on me?"

"I've still got friends in the FBI, Will," Spencer said. He was staring at Will with a sad look on his face. He stood and reached out, like he wanted to touch him, then pulled his hand away and sighed heavily.

"There was a murder last week," he said quietly, "Someone stabbed a bartender to death. I don't want what I'm thinking to be true… but if there are more bodies I can't ignore it."

Graham's scarred lip curled and he shrugged.

"Guess I can't help that, can I?"

Spencer sighed again, "If you need anything…" he trailed off and looked down. He didn't say anything for almost a minute and neither did Graham. Then he turned and walked away. Graham listened to the sound of his footsteps until they faded into nothingness.

He lifted the bottle to his lips and unceremoniously gulped several mouthfuls. He was already drunk, but he liked to be sober as little as possible. His thoughts wandered as he lowered the bottle and his smile fell away as he got lost in the past.

"Do you feel unstable, Will?"

Hannibal is standing very close to him, practically pressing against him. Will can feel the heat from his body and it makes him lightheaded. He doesn't meet Hannibal's gaze, staring resolutely at Hannibal's tie, distracting himself by trying to decipher the pattern.

Warm, rough fingers cup his face and tilt his head up.

"Will, I asked you a question," Hannibal whisperers.

Will's mouth falls open and he finds himself staring into Hannibal's dark, smoldering eyes. For a moment he gets lost in them, forgetting his spinning head and racing thoughts. Forgetting how his world is crumbling down around him.

"I… I feel… I feel uncertain…"

Hannibal's hand slides away from his jaw and down to his shoulder, gently squeezing. Will is pressed back until he's flush against the bookcase. His eyes are still too wide and he can't seem to look away from Hannibal's gaze.

"Uncertain about what, Will?"

Will stutters. He sucks in a harsh breath and shakes his head. "Uncertain about… everything. Who I am. What I'm doing… I don't know anymore."

Hannibal is staring at him. Will feels pinned and he isn't sure why there's a faint voice in the back of his mind screaming at him to run. If he weren't so terrified perhaps he would do that, but he's scared and frozen and he doesn't want to stop feeling the easy weight of Hannibal's hands against his shoulder.

Hannibal moves closer and he's pressing right up against Will. His other hand comes up to caress his cheek and before Will can do anything, warm, soft lips are brushing against his. For just a moment his world stops. Everything stops. Everything except the feeling of Hannibal's lips as they move against his.

The kiss is over all too soon and Will is dumbfounded. He clutches at Hannibal and his eyes linger on Hannibal's mouth, tracing the curve of his lips and wanting them back on his mouth again.

"Do you feel uncertain about that?" Hannibal asks, his voice soft and gentle.

Will shakes his head and Hannibal smiles, pulling him away from the bookcase. Will follows obediently as he's led further into Hannibal's home than he's ever been. Up the stairs and down the hall and into a bedroom fit for a king.

Thunder quakes outside and for the first time in many months Will Graham feels like maybe he isn't going insane.

That night he unwittingly sells his soul to the Devil.

And I... I tried so hard to let you go.
But some kind of Madness,
Is swallowing me whole
Madness – Muse

FIN