'' Repeating History ''

'' Coping Mechanism ''

Eventually, they stop talking. Sitting there looking a bit dumbfounded. Staring off into space as sweat coats the back of their neck. Hannibal smiles, tilting his head at them slightly with bemusement.
     “Well, that certainly all sounds very stressful. Agent Carter seems to be lacking in empathy, doesn’t he?” he says, tone low and cautious. His dark eyes focused on the young detective’s distressed facial expression.

     “For as long as I’ve known the two of you, he’s been pressuring you to see a psychiatrist. Perhaps he believes it will be a ‘quick fix’ to the stressors causing you to perform in a less than satisfactory manner at work,” he adds, leaning back in his seat, hands folded over the notepad which rests in his lap.

     “What? My work is fine. Did–” Bowie trails off, eyes darting about with conflicting emotions as their mind races. Anger and confusion, as well as guilt and uncertainty mix behind their eyes.
     Hannibal is quiet, eyebrows slightly raised as he waits for them to reply, wondering if perhaps he’d said the wrong thing.

     “Did he say that? That my work is subpar?” they finally ask. Voice breaking and trembling with increasing distress as they slowly lift their tearful gaze to the psychiatrist’s face, not making eye contact, but still looking at him more directly.

Hannibal looks down for a moment before meeting their gaze, a small frown playing on his lips. He had indeed said the wrong thing. But perhaps he could work with this.
     “I won’t confirm whether or not those were his exact words, but instead could I ask; why do you think he so often pushes you to the point of breaking?”

Bowie’s eyes narrow at him. They’re obviously suspicious of him. Overly cautious even. Fully expecting everything he says to be some kind of manipulation tactic. A paranoia that would almost certainly get in the way of actually treating them, or allowing them to get anything out of their therapy.

     “Because he knows that without me, he’d have a hell of a lot more work to do and a lot less chance of actually solving half of his cases,” they sneer. Their voice low and growing thick with anger lacing each word.

Hannibal smiles, writing something down. Bowie glances down at the notepad, then back at his face. Their stern expression suggests that they’re unappreciative of whatever he just wrote.
     “I would have to agree with you, Bowie. I believe that Agent Carter is overusing his authority. Especially given the fact that the two of you have a rather personal relationship, extending beyond work. Correct?” he hums, and Bowie nods.
“When we last spoke of your relationship, you alluded to an abusive father figure in your childhood. Do you ever feel, or perhaps worry that Agent Carter will become yet another abusive father figure to you?”

Hannibal’s question catches the detective slightly off guard. Sweat coats the back of their neck and sides of their face. Their mess of curly hair clinging to the sticky, hot flesh. An aching lump burns up in their throat as they stare at the man in front of them, slightly wide-eyed. Their lips parting as they consider their response, but no words can come out. Did they ever feel that way?
     They never really thought about it; but now that the question was asked so directly, they couldn’t help but to consider it. There were times when their boss reminded them of their father. But he wasn’t abusive. At least not in the same way. Yet, something does feel quite familiar in the abuse they do feel from him.

     “I suppose. Sometimes, maybe,” they finally say, just barely above a hoarse whisper. Tears falling from their eyes. They sniffle sharply, rubbing their face and wiping away the tears. Head hung low now. Their dark eyes glued to the floor.

Hannibal gives a small smile. This was going surprisingly well now that he’d broken down Bowie’s guard some. If they’re showing emotion this clearly, he knows they’ll be more open with him going forward.
     “Why don’t we take a break from the present, to focus on the past,” he suggests, making another short note in the notepad before looking up at Bowie again. His expression is soft. Upon seeing them nod, he hums to himself, continuing,
“Tell me about your family. All of them. And what happened with your father,” he requests, making himself comfortable in his seat.