'' Repeating History ''

'' Coping Mechanism ''

Bowie hesitates for some time, continuing to wipe tears from their face, though soon Hannibal collects the box of tissues on the table between them, standing and approaching the trembling detective, offering them the box. They hesitantly take it. Using one of the soft white sheets to dab away the salty droplets running down their glistening and rosy cheeks.

     “It is alright to cry. If you need a moment to do so, please take this one,” he says in a gentle, reassuring manner. Attempting to let Bowie know that they’re safe to cry here; even if he’d previously been violent toward them when they cried in front of him. However, now they had reason to, so he supposes that he doesn’t mind.

They stare at him for a moment, clearly suspicious, though they can’t be bothered to protest, taking a tissue and gently blowing their nose before hanging their head and allowing themselves to cry, if quietly.

The taller man stares down at them in stony silence. Contemplative. His gaze shifted over toward the office door. Left slightly ajar. He doesn’t believe anyone will be near, nor enter anytime soon. With one glimpse at the clock, seeing they have roughly forty-five minutes left before their time would be up, he makes his mind up about what to do next.

He removes his jacket, walking to a place where he can safely set it down, before beginning to unbutton his vest and shirt. Bowie watches him do this, getting wide-eyed and staring at him with concern, their face growing hot.
     “I want to show you something, Bowie. Share something with you, as you have with me. And in turn, I should hope you feel we are more honest with one another,” he explains with the utmost casualness, as though he wasn’t currently undressing.

     “Hannibal, what are you doing?” the young detective breathes, watching him turn around, their eyes lowering on his torso until they lock onto something significant, and their expression eases.
     “You see now, yes?” the psychiatrist questions, and watches them as they nod.
Eyes softening, they speak in a shaking whisper, “Who did that?”

They watch him approach with all the fear of a small child, looking upon the boogeyman. Their eyes glued to the scar on the right side of his abdomen, below his ribs. A bullet wound. They knew the look. Lots of people at work had them.

     “Francis Dolarhyde,” Hannibal replies. Staring down at Bowie with soft eyes and a gentle smile.
     “The Red Dragon,” they whisper. Their tone is so soft it’s almost as though they hadn’t meant to say that out loud. The way their breath hitches in their throat tells Hannibal that they know more than enough about the case revolving around ‘The Red Dragon’.

     “That was the night you and Will–” They pause, visibly tensing. Looking up at the psychiatrist as though expecting something. When he only gives them an amused smile, they lower their gaze again.
“When you and Agent Graham went missing, you were presumed dead. But your body was never found. And with you now standing before me–shirtless as you are, which is making it hard to look at you–it’s not hard to see why you weren’t found.”

Hannibal’s smirk widens into a gentle smile and he hums, reaching out and touching their hand. Turning their right palm face up and running his fingertips along the thick, dark scars there. They flinch, their hand beginning to shake more noticeably as Hannibal makes physical contact with them.
     “And what of the night you got these?” he questions. Shifting his touch to the other hand and turning it over just the same to caress the remnants of such a violent, life-threatening injury.

They take a deep, shaky breath. Debating whether or not to tell him the truth. A painful truth it is. A memory which they wish they could entirely forget. But they know they never will. Forced to live with constant reminders of what had happened to them almost five years ago.
     “I don’t think we have enough time to get into that today, Hannibal.”