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It was late the next time Spencer showed up outside of Hannibal’s cell. He hadn’t been expecting to see the young agent and was pleasantly surprised when he took in Spencer’s disheveled appearance.
The purple bruise-like circles under his eyes were darker, his hair was wet and messy and he tugged off an overcoat that was heavy with water. His shoes and the edges of his trousers were splashed as well.
He ran his hands through his hair and tugged at the sleeves of the shirt he wore – a white button down this time, underneath a black sweater vest. Spencer’s shaking fingers – likely cold from the rain, though Hannibal suspected something else might be causing the trembling – quickly unwrapped a thin purple scarf around his neck and Hannibal took in the sight of his pale, slender throat bared for just a moment before the young agent ducked his head.
He didn’t say anything at first, raking his fingers through his dampened hair again. The wet curls were slicked back away from his face and stuck out at odd angles. It took him a moment to compose himself, letting his hands drop to his lap, fingers still tugging nervously at his shirt sleeves.
“It’s very late, Spencer,” Hannibal said, watching the young man curiously. “I didn’t expect to see you for quite some time.”
“I didn’t expect to be here…” his words came out fumbled a bit, pitched oddly. Hannibal had never seen him so agitated.
“W – my team is here,” he continued. Hannibal realized that Spencer had yet to look at him, instead focusing very carefully on his fingers, plucking at his sleeves.
“We’re working a case…”
“I’m still confused, Spencer,” Hannibal spoke gently, not wanting to startle him and make him run again. “Is it my assistance you’re seeking?”
“No,” the word was clipped and a bit harsh, but Spencer finally looked up at him. “No it’s not… No.”
Hannibal decided that he liked watching Spencer all flustered and shaken. It was the first time he’d seen the young man almost come completely undone and he quite enjoyed the panicked, wide-eyed fear in those eyes. Even if he wasn’t the one who had caused it.
Spencer buried his face in his hands and shook his head, taking a ragged sounding breath.
“I don’t know why I’m even here…”
His face was obscured by his elegant hands and fallen curls, his thin body trembling like he was about to explode. Hannibal took the moment to allow himself a feral, hungry sort of grin that Spencer couldn’t see.
It was such a beautiful, captivating sight. He needed to know what had caused it.
“Spencer,” Hannibal spoke very softly and if the young man recognized the steady, even tones of a psychiatrist, he didn’t comment on it. “I don’t know what you expect to happen if you don’t talk to me.”
Very slowly, Spencer allowed his hands to fall back into his lap. Hannibal watched as his right hand swoon swooped up to grip the crook of his left elbow, long fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. It looked painful, the way he held himself.
“I don’t want to talk…”
“Then what do you want, Spencer?” Hannibal was genuinely curious at this point. Something had clearly startled his Spencer and whatever it was, it was eating away at him, gnawing at his conscious mind.
Hannibal would be lying if he said he wasn’t pleased that Spencer, finding himself close enough to the hospital whenever whatever had happened occurred, had run right to Hannibal. Spencer might not realize it on a conscious level yet, but at least subconsciously he was beginning to trust the doctor.
“I -” Spencer faltered, his lips tugging down in an uncertain frown. “I… I don’t know. I should… I shouldn’t even be here. I need to go…”
He stood to leave, but Hannibal could not let that happen. He wasn’t about to let this brilliant opportunity pass him by. Spencer’s vulnerability was screaming at him, begging to be take advantage of and Hannibal needed to keep him there. Just long enough to have him talking.
As Spencer wrapped the thin scarf back around his throat and bent to pick up his coat, Hannibal studied him more carefully, more openly than he would have normally for fear of disturbing the young man.
He was wet from rain and still trembling. He hadn’t slept in at least two days, judging from the heaviness of the circles under his eyes. His skin was layered in a thin sheen of sweat underneath the rain. Hannibal could smell it on him. Though Spencer was an unusually pale young man, his skin was different now. Sallow, tight against his bones. He’d lost weight as well as sleep.
He wore the pallor of death over him and his twitching, anxious hands were still fumbling with the rain-heavy coat.
In that moment, Hannibal understood and had to say, he was yet again surprised by the brilliant, beautiful young agent. His interest piqued, he called out just as Spencer turned to hurry down the hall.
“What set off your cravings?” he asked, his voice calm. As if he’d always known. He grinned as Spencer froze, stopping dead. His breathing quickened and his fingers clutching at his coat, lips quivering.
“Was it a crime scene? A body? Did someone harm you? A nightmare?”
Very, very slowly, Spencer turned around and walked back to the folding chair. He didn’t remove the coat or sit this time, however. He simple stood there, staring at Hannibal, his hazel eyes wide and terrified.
Hannibal said nothing, waiting for Spencer to speak. It took him a long time to finally unstick himself, but he sat, those pretty lips still pressed together tightly.
“I’ve been clean for almost a year…”
His lilting voice sounded tiny and he quickly looked away from Hannibal’s eyes. He expected Hannibal, much like anyone else who knew of his addiction, to judge him. Hannibal would imagine it would be difficult to hide any sort of addiction from a team of profilers. He wondered how they had reacted to Spencer’s.
If they saw him as the vulnerable, hurt young man he very much appeared, Hannibal doubted they would condemn him, but he knew they would still have judged him. Pitied him, even.
Spencer didn’t need that and it was very obvious he didn’t want that either.
“You are worried that you will jeopardize your sobriety,” Hannibal said, his words still even and gentle. “You fear it will make you appear weak.”
It took a second, but Hannibal smiled as his words and the way he said them clicked in Spencer’s head. He could see the moment he understood, his lips parting slightly, his brow puckering angrily. He went from shaken and terrified, to angry very quickly.
“I’m not your patient, Dr. Lecter,” he said, his words stiff. More like he was trying to convince himself than he was Hannibal.
“Of course not,” Hannibal still spoke gently, placating him. He held back his grin as Spencer’s fists clenched angrily. He didn’t want to be coddled or treated as a child.
“And yet you found yourself coming to me in your time of need rather than one of your friends…”
Spencer’s anger deflated at those words, his head dropping as he sighed heavily. “I can’t go to my team about this…”
“Because they will think you are weak,” Hannibal stated, “They will think less of you.”
“No, they wouldn’t… I… Yes,”
He sounded so very broken. Hannibal wasn’t fond of being the young man’s resort simply because he was all that was truly available, but for now, he would gladly accept it.
“I do not think less of you, Spencer,” Hannibal assured him.
Spencer’s answering laugh was bitter. He shook his head and scoffed, “Comforting,” he muttered, “A serial killer doesn’t think I’m a horrible person for having an addiction to narcotics.”
Hannibal smiled, reminded very much of his Will. Spencer didn’t usually share Will’s biting sarcasm, a much more reserved and gentle being than Will. But they each carried so much feeling within them. It was fascinating to watch those feelings play out across Spencer’s face.
He wasn’t surprised, knowing how Spencer absorbed and held onto so much, that he had developed an addiction. He imagined that the drugs helped ease the pain of violent memories and vicious nightmares.
“You cannot speak to your teammates about this, but you knew you needed to speak to someone, so you found yourself coming to me,”
Spencer hesitated, but nodded slowly.
“So talk to me, Spencer,” Hannibal said softly.
When Spencer hesitated again, Hannibal leaned forward, his eyes locked onto Spencer. “What set off your cravings this time, Spencer? Why are you struggling?”
For a moment, it didn’t seem like he was going to answer, but then Spencer took a shaky breath and closed his eyes.
“I’ve been… going to NA meeting for the last month because of the cravings,” he stumbled over the word ‘cravings’ and his throat convulsed. His hands weren’t shaking as badly, however, and Hannibal watched them as they clenched and unclenched in his lap.
“But this case… I’m not sure… It was just, the way their bodies were mutilated…”
And Spencer talked. Hannibal was amazed at how much Spencer talked, his voice cracking and pitching oddly as he struggled to contain all of the overflowing emotions that were leaking out of him at every opportunity.
Hannibal had never seen so much of Spencer. He’d never inhaled the sharp scent of Spencer’s fear and desperation so clearly before. It was one of the most beautiful things Hannibal had ever seen and he wanted more than anything to know what Spencer Reid - in all of his coiled, needy, desperate feeling - tasted like.
-end-