'' Repeating History ''

'' Confrontation ''

"But I saw things only growing more frustrating for both of you. Would it not have been best to separate the two of you?" He questions.
"Even you were insistent that Gordon should leave." He adds, tone soft, calm, and as always, condescending.

"Shut up." Bowie whispers in response, keeping their eyes down on where his hands assist in cleaning their own, gently pulling the shards of their shattered mug from their flesh. Earning not much more than a wince or soft flinch from them from the sting.

"It must have felt nice." Hannibal says after a moment of silence, now just holding and checking Bowie's hands for any more porcelain shards in them.

"What?" They'd question, brow furrowing slightly with confusion at his weird statement, but still not looking at him.

"That release of pressure." He'd say, but realizing based on Bowie's expression, that wasn't clarifying anything, he'd clear his throat softly.
"When you shattered the mug."

This seems to finally give the smaller individual some clarity, and they bite their bottom lip softly as their gaze shifts from one side to the other and back, thinking. They'd eventually nod, and Hannibal smiles.

"Good. What was it that triggered you so?" He'd ask, taking Bowie to the bathroom to get something to properly clean their wounds with.

The young detective is quiet for some time, allowing the man to drag them around their own house tending to their injuries. Mind too scattered to care much if at all right now.

Thinking on it. There were quite a few things Gordon had done that triggered them. But calling them boy, and stepping to them like he would strike them certainly added some extra stress and discomfort to the situation.

"I think. When he stepped toward me–"
"You believed he would strike you, didn't you?" He'd interrupt, looking at their face calmly as they look down with shame, nodding.

"Don't look so ashamed. There must have been a reason for that reaction, no? Has he hit you in the past? Or perhaps in your childhood, a parental figure was physically abusive?" He'd question gently, applying some hydrogen peroxide and isopropyl alcohol to their wounds.

"The. The uhm. Second one." They'd reply, swaying a bit, more out of it than they'd originally thought, eyelids fluttering, struggling to stay open. They felt so tired.

"Your father?" He questions further, earning a nod. And he nods back.

"Quite unfortunate. Were you particularly afraid of him?" He'd ask, wrapping Bowie's hands tenderly, his eyes growing a bit glossy as he seems to be remembering something suddenly, and grows lost in thought.

The young detective takes notice of this and stares up at him blankly for some time, wondering what it was he was thinking and why it had caused him to suddenly zone out.

"Doctor?" They'd speak quietly, trying to keep still despite wanting to pull away immediately from him; worried he'd snap on them.

"Yes. My apologies, detective. I was experiencing a moment of deja vu." He would say, his eyes looking soft as the frown on his thin lips as he gently traces the scar along their hand, moving down their wrist to where it fades. However he makes no comment on it, nor questions its origin.

"Oh." They'd look away from him sheepishly and let him finish tending to their injuries.
"Did it involve Will Gra–"

Before they could even finish, the man was digging his nails into their wounds, making them tense and gasp sharply with pain, trying to pull their hands away as a string of panicked whimpers leave their lips.

"Hannibal, stop!" They'd yell after failing to pull away, the pain becoming too much. Tears had welled up in their eyes.

He'd release them, allowing them to bring their hands away from him and to their own chest. He'd been careful not to stimulate any further bleeding, but he knew it would hurt for a few moments longer. A fair punishment for them bringing up his last curiosity.