'' Repeating History ''

'' What Once Was Normal ''

"Right. Well, you're free to go home after filling out your report. I suggest you and Doctor Lecter here talk as well though. I believe he can help you with your uhm. Problem."

"Problem?" Hannibal questions curiously, and Bowie shoots their superior a harsh side eye.

"Problems. Plural. And I don't need help." They sneer, heading out of the office to go to their own and get this stupid paperwork done. Unfortunately, the psycho psychiatrist is following right at their heels.

"Would you mind shedding some light on that for me? I like knowing what to expect going into things." He hums, practically leaning over Bowie's tiny frame.

They walk faster, grumbling a bit with frustration and almost falling over as they enter their tiny office and turn fast, trying to shut the door behind them before he can slip in, but he catches it in his large hand, looking down at Bowie with amusement in his eyes.

"That was very rude of you." He says calmly, not trying to force the door open at all. Merely holding it. Though that was enough for the short detective to stop trying to shut it.

Their body trembles slightly as they look up at him. Sweating slightly as their dark eyes focus on him, shifting around constantly as they try not to make eye contact with him. He seems to notice this and his smile softens.

"You're avoiding eye contact." He says calmly, making the detective blush slightly with embarrassment.

"Look, I don't wanna throw up on you, that suit looks expensive, so I'd suggest you do the same." They grumble, relenting and releasing the door. They go to their desk and sit down, rubbing their face and groaning with frustration.

"I see." He hums, entering the room and mostly closing the door behind him, which Bowie takes notice of.

With them staring daggers at him through the curly locks of their brownish black hair that had fallen in their face, and him not paying them much mind right away as he examines the small space, they're able to create a physical profile of him in their head.

Caucasian male, six foot in his late forties or early fifties, somewhere between forty-nine and fifty-two. Strong build, but not entirely muscular. His silhouette is rather unique with the combination of broad shoulders and oddly slim waist. He has brownish red eyes and a strong facial structure. Short dirty blonde hair. His hands are pretty big. Yes. His hands are big.

Their mind starts to wander as they stare at his hands, a deeper blush rising on their face as their brain hyper focuses on that one specific detail, down to the way his fingers and veins twitch or flex, and the way his knuckles look slightly bruised.

"You're staring." He says abruptly, and their gaze shoots up to his face, only to immediately shoot away again as they look down at their hands, then up at their computer, logging in and trying to get to work despite their mind still being a bit distracted.

"I like to create a physical profile of people, I apologize." They murmur, shakily clicking away at their keyboard, but constantly slipping up and having to go back as their fingers hit all the wrong keys.

"I see." Hannibal says softly, and Bowie can both see him in their peripheral vision, as well as feel the way his eyes are burning holes through their head with how hard he's now staring at them. And they assume he's now also creating a profile of them.

"Is there any particular reason that you're so nervous, Bowie?" He asks, keeping his distance for now, though the detective senses the tension in the room growing thicker.

They slowly stop typing and slowly look over toward him, focusing their gaze on his lips for now. Taking a shaky breath, they sigh and say, "let's not pretend we don't both know who and what you are, Hannibal."

His smile widens ever so slightly and they shiver with discomfort, turning their gaze away again.

"So then tell me. Do you plan on reporting me?" He asks, being eerily calm. Although, from what Bowie had read online, this was relatively normal behavior for the man to exhibit.

"No. Even if I was, people tend not to believe the word of someone who's constantly hallucinating and getting in the headspace of killers." They say snappishly, rubbing their face more with stress and hanging it slightly.

"Oh. Then this is quite the interesting situation we've found ourselves in, isn't it? I never thought I'd ever meet anyone who exhibited the same talents as my last curiosity-"
"And yet here we are. It's like the universe handed you a do-over on a silver platter and told you, 'don't eat so fast this time'." They say, their voice no louder than a harsh whisper as they glare up at him, their eyes shifting between his as he stares back into theirs.

Though, after only a moment more of that, they were leaning over their trash and vomiting the McDonald's cheeseburger they ate for breakfast.

"I wasn't expecting that comment to be so literal. Are you alright?" He'd ask, and they groan, wiping their mouth and then sitting up as their body tremors, weakly returning to typing up their incident report.

"Don't ask me that as if you actually care." They snap at him, though lacking the courage to look at him again after emptying the minimal contents of their stomach.

"You're right. I will refrain from asking you questions like that in the future." He says, though his tone suggests some air of sarcasm.

The detective rolls their eyes and just tries to focus on typing without falling asleep right there at their desk.

"Do you intend on driving home after this? You're struggling to stay awake. I don't think that would be a wise decision." He says, stepping behind the detective, making them tense their shoulders slightly.

"I don't actually own a car." They'd reply shakily.

"No? Then how do you get to and from work?" He asks them calmly.

"Does it really matter? Or do you just wanna know how easy it'll be to hunt me down once I'm out of here?" They ask, wiping some of the sweat from their neck, which had grown slick with it, the sickly sweet smell filling the office slowly.

The man behind them laughs breathily and then sighs. "No. I do not intend on harming you." He says.

"And still somehow I feel a 'yet' coming." Bowie replies, looking hard into the corner of their eye.

"Perhaps there will be eventually. But for the foreseeable future, you and I should try to get along, no?" He hums, some level of sadistic amusement dripping from every word which leaves his mouth.

"Yeah. 'Get along'." Bowie grumbles in response, then yelping as they feel a hand on their shoulder, whirling around to look up at the cannibal who towered over them, now appearing startled.

"I apologize. I did not expect such a volatile reaction." He says, frowning softly down at the embarrassed and fearful looking detective.

Bowie couldn't even reply properly, just tremoring on the spot and staring at him wide eyed, their breathing having picked up intensely.

The man frowns deeper and averts his gaze from them, glancing towards the door.
"Perhaps I should go after all. Will you be alright on your own?" He asks, stepping slowly toward the door.

Bowie nods stupidly, before realizing the man isn't even looking at them and then stuttering out an anxious, "y-yes. Ah-I'll uhm. I'll be fine."

And just like that, Hannibal would leave them there alone.

Part of them was relieved that he'd gone, and yet some other darker part of them screamed for him to return. Of course, in reality, they only sat at their desk staring after him with horror and confusion before slowly getting back to their work.