'' Repeating History ''

'' Coping Mechanism ''

The psychiatrist frowns. Glancing at the clock and then pondering for a moment just how much there could be to the story if it cannot be told within the remaining half hour of their session.
     “Then perhaps over dinner?”

Bowie’s jaw drops, mouth falling open slightly as they take in his suggestion. He was inviting them to his home. Their mind immediately wanted to blurt out a sharp ‘no’ without any consideration, but they bite their tongue as their jaw snapped shut and they remained silent for a time.

Hannibal maintains his smug-looking smile as he gazes down at the tiny detective sitting before him. Watching them fight with themselves over whether or not to accept his offer. When a full thirty seconds have passed and they’ve yet to reply, he clears his throat and turns, walking to where he’d left his coat as he buttons his shirt once more.

     “Perhaps I shall simply give you the address and allow you to show up on your own should you so choose?” He throws a glance over his shoulder at Bowie as he speaks. Seeing them still staring off mostly into space. He muses with a soft hum at the thought that perhaps he’d accidentally broken them. More so than they were already broken.

“Shall we cut things short for now then? I get this feeling like I won’t be getting much more out of you at the moment, and I’d rather not risk overwhelming you by trying to pry further,” he says.

Bowie nods a bit, standing and putting their coat back on. The thick fabrics swallow their small body almost entirely. They seem a bit disheartened, and Hannibal averts his gaze from them to focus on redressing himself.

“However,” he starts. “I would like to praise you for getting as far as you did today. You’ve opened up considerably, and I’m looking forward to continuing your therapy.”

With that, Bowie finally looks at him again, a gentle tint of red rising on their cheeks as they stare at him. Their eyes shifted from spot to spot on the back of his head, then away entirely as he turned again and nearly locked eyes with them. He almost immediately notices how red their face has become, and he hums an amused laugh. They leer at the floor as he does. Their embarrassment is quite obvious.
     “I’m not doing this because I want to, Hannibal,” they remind him bitterly.

Hannibal’s smile drops into a disappointed frown upon hearing their words. Reminded both of their hostility toward therapy, and that they were forced to come here. How unfortunate. He would have to work harder to earn their trust and allow him to further treat them. An effort he doesn’t mind making.
     “But of course, Bowie. How could I forget?” he replies in an almost mocking tone of voice, writing his address on a piece of paper for the detective.

Even when they’re doing their best to be so bitter and angry at him, he can’t help wanting to play with them and their emotions. Trying to see just how much he can rile them up before they finally snap. Thus far they’ve failed to see the anger that Agent Carter had warned him of, and it seems to him that there would be a lot more effort required than originally thought to draw out that rage in the timid detective.

    “Whatever,” they breathe. Rolling their eyes at him slightly.

Hannibal approaches and hands Bowie the folded up piece of paper with his address written on it, waiting with a small smile aimed down at them as they stare at the paper in contemplative silence for a time. As they snatch it from his hand and start to walk out of his office, his smile spreads slightly wider.
     “At eight tomorrow. Should you choose to come,” Hannibal says as Bowie disappears out the door.

They walk as quickly as they can back to the lobby, where they find their boss waiting. They don’t speak to him. Merely walking past him close enough for him to see them. After a moment of surprise, the man jumps to his feet, wishes the receptionist a good night and then follows Bowie out of the building and back out to his car.

“Well that was fast. How’d it go?” he questions as he walks around to the drivers side of the vehicle and climbs in as Bowie does.

He turns to them when they don’t reply, and gives them a brief once over. Concerned by how agitated they look. Their brow creased. One hand pushing into their curly hair, holding their head up as they glare out the window. Not saying a word. Their lips pressed into a distasteful pout.

     “Look, if you’re still mad at me for bringing you here–” Bowie lifts a hand and holds it near their boss’s face. Silencing him, though his jaw remains slack with surprise at their sudden interruption of him.
“Bowie,” he starts sternly. But the younger detective just shakes their head at him. Though not looking at him.
     “Just take me home, please.”

Carter stares at them for a moment longer before sighing. Relenting and putting his seatbelt on as he turns his attention toward the task of getting them home. He knows better than to press them too much. Though that doesn’t stop him from wanting to. He only wanted to be sure that they were alright and that the therapy was working out for them. It would take time, he supposed. But he wasn’t sure how much he could give them before it was too long.