'' Repeating History ''

'' A Dinner For Two ''

Turning to face them, he pauses. He'd not taken a moment to drink in their appearance when he first let them in, but as they removed that horrid winter jacket, he took more than a moment to do so. Staring at them almost hungrily. He takes their coat from them after a moment too long of them staring at him in turn. Visibly sweating as they lock eyes with him. Though they do their best to suppress that awful, involuntary reaction of theirs, he can see when their body flinches under threat of regurgitation.

"You look different. In a good way."

Bowie rolls their eyes at him, watching him hang their coat up in the closet.
"Thanks, I guess," they grumble in a half-sarcastic tone. Not particularly appreciative of his words, as genuine as they seem on the surface. That awful look he gets in his eyes when he looks at them makes them sick to their stomach.

"But of course. I should hope you don't mind that I included meat in tonight's menu," Hannibal hums, walking around Bowie in a slow, methodical manner. Predatory. They shiver, gaze lowering as they watch his feet, rather than his face.

"What kind of meat is it?" They ask, almost breathing the words as opposed to speaking them.

Hannibal smiles. Stopping in front of Bowie and staring down at them and taking a slow, deep breath. "Something tells me that you won't believe anything I tell you," he says in a low tone.

They take a deep breath in turn, clearing their throat softly. "Whatever it is is right."
Hannibal smiles, gently reaching a hand to give their shoulder a firm pat. They groan.
"Come. I just need to set the table," he says. Making his way toward the dining room, he beckons Bowie to follow, and though reluctant, they do so.

"So, what did you prepare?" they ask, perhaps against their better judgment.

"Nothing too fancy. I know your tastes are rather simple, and I'd hate to broaden your palate," Hannibal teases them. He can't see the death stare they're giving the back of his head.

"Very funny." The sarcasm in their tone is evident.
Hannibal pauses, turning to face them with a soft frown. "You do not appreciate my humor?" he asks, feigning surprise at such a concept.
"Would it be rude for me not to, Doctor?" Bowie asks in turn. Watching Hannibal's eyes soften and that small, smug, thin-lipped smile returns to the man's expression.
"I don't believe so. Your sense of humor is different from mine after all."

With that, he finished making his way to the dining room. Gesturing to a chair for the young detective to sit in, which they do. Hannibal disappears into what Bowie assumes is the kitchen for a moment before he comes out to set the table. His gaze never lingers on his guest for too long in his focus, even as they all but stare him down whilst he's setting things up.

He brings wine, asks Bowie what they prefer, is disappointed when they have no preference, and picks one himself. When he finally brings the food, he sets down the two plates, and the intoxicating aroma of the seasonings mixed with the scent of freshly cooked meat has the young detective almost drooling.

It was pretty rare that they got to eat anything of substance, and this was more than substantial. Some kind of meat, resembling steak–and god they hoped it really was steak–was seared and drizzled in some kind of golden brown glaze or sauce, and paired with equally well-seasoned vegetables.
They have to contain their hunger for a moment longer to seem polite whilst Hannibal pours each of them a glass of the wine he chose. Something deep-red and smooth.

"I thought you said it wasn't anything fancy," Bowie says, watching Hannibal sit down. Staring with relaxed eyes at his face until he looks up. They lower their gaze softly, really trying to remain as calm and cordial as possible despite their internal conflicts and hunger swelling.
"It's not. As I pointed out earlier, your palate is very simple."

They give an awkward smile and lift their silverware, stabbing into the juicy cut of meat and sliding the knife back and forth over the browned flesh, watching the pink meat within reveal itself; juices pouring onto the plate and soaked into the vegetables. It really did look like steak, but they still couldn't help feeling that intense paranoia around even the idea of meat prepared by Hannibal. No matter how good it looked or smelled.

They could tell he was watching them. Watching them smear that piece of meat into the glaze that was on the plate. Watching them lift it to their parting lips. Watching them trust him, and take that first bite. Watching as they chewed. Slowly. Tentatively. Studying the flavors and textures not out of appreciation for the food, but fear that they might find something that doesn't match what they expect out of what they pray is actually in their mouth.

By time they swallow the silence has grown deafening. They look up just enough to see that Hannibal is looking at them without meeting his eye. They clear their throat softly and have a sip of wine.
"You're staring."
The psychiatrist sits further upright and cocks his head at Bowie. "I prefer the word 'observing'," he started, then continuing after a pregnant pause, "How do you like it?"

Bowie was uncertain of how to respond. Sure, they liked it. They liked it quite a lot actually. But to say that, would be to risk saying they liked the taste of human flesh, should their fears become real.
"It's alright," they finally choke out. Their throat feeling tight.
"Just alright?" Hannibal questions. Almost sounding offended.
Bowie's posture stiffened and they cleared their throat, eyes shifting around slightly before sheepishly lifting, meeting his. They feel bile rising in the base of their throat and look down again.
"Okay fine, it's good. I really like it, thank you," the blurt in an exasperated whisper.

Hannibal is quiet for quite some time. Studying Bowie in a contemplative silence. Watching as they slowly continue to eat. He's trying to decide what's got them acting so oddly, but can't seem to land on one singular idea. Bowie is so odd and skittish that any number of things could be bothering them.
Deciding that he's stared at them for long enough, he too begins to eat. The tension surrounding the table and the two of them is almost palpable. Fear and curiosity intermingled in a dangerous cocktail of emotion.

When Bowie has finished, they collect all of their dishes, finish their wine, and stand. Hannibal looks at them rather sternly for a moment, catching their attention, though he looks away just as fast.
"What?" they question him bitterly.
"Nothing. Where are you going in such a hurry?"