'' Repeating History ''

'' Open Case ''

"I just spoke with Agent Carter on your behalf," he starts. Gaining Bowie's full attention immediately.
"He's agreed to let you come back to work. He wants you in at one this afternoon."
Bowie pulls on a pair of black jeans and starts to fasten their button-down shirt, approaching the door and opening it. Staring up at Hannibal with some level of suspicion.
"What's the catch?"
Hannibal chuckles, trying not to look at Bowie's exposed chest. "He wants you to bring coffee. And you'll be stuck on paperwork duty for a time I believe."

Bowie groans. Clearly disappointed, but begrudgingly nods.
"Better than nothing I guess," they breathe with a sigh.
"I thought as much myself. It's already growing close to time for you to be heading out, and I would hate for you to be late. Shall I give you a ride? I would even be willing to pay for coffee," Hannibal offers.

Bowie thinks for a moment, but can't see any reason not to accept the offer. He was right, they shouldn't be late. And they certainly didn't want to pay for coffee. So they nod.
"Sure, thanks, Hannibal. Just give me ten minutes to finish getting ready."

The man nods and stays in the hall outside their room just looking around the apartment in silence, respecting Bowie's ability to dedicate to the turn of face. He'd seen patients in the past who would try and fail at recovering from their bad habits and messy living situations. But Bowie was trying, and succeeding. Something he'd never have expected from them given their demeanor when they'd met. At least, not so soon. But then again, their recovery wasn't the only thing moving fast between the two of them.

Hannibal had been trying to rationalize his sudden infatuation with them as being sprung from the fact that they looked so much like Will Graham. However, he swiftly came to realize that wasn't the only thing about them that he was drawn to. He'd never seen an opportunity to indulge in his desires with another person present itself so readily since Bedelia Du Maurier. She'd entertained him for a time, humored him when no one else would have. And although Bowie is much more like Will in regards to tolerating him until they can turn him in, he knows he can break them before they get the chance.

"What's with that look on your face?" Bowie abruptly asks. Making Hannibal suddenly aware that he'd been spacing out while lost in thought.
"Apologies. I was just thinking about how far you've come in only a few short weeks," he replies with some sense of pride in his tone, a thin-lipped smile spreading across his face.

Bowie couldn't help but blush, pausing with their hands on their untied tie. Hannibal steps closer to them and gently takes their tie in both hands, helping them to tie it. He'd been vaguely disappointed at how poorly they did it themselves the last time he saw them with it on, and wanted them to look suitable for their return to work. Bowie seemed a little embarrassed by his assistance but said nothing of it.

Hannibal's hands linger a moment as he tightens the tie up their neck, but he pulls away when Bowie gently pushes them away from their throat. He catches the look of slight fear and concern that they give him and frowns.
At the beginning of this odd and complicated relationship, he believes he has with Bowie, he would have reveled in watching them look at him that way. But now he wasn't sure how to feel about it. Sometimes he enjoyed it, like when he made sly remarks about wanting to eat them. But most of the time he doesn't. It's a constant reminder of how they feel about him. That they're terrified of him.

"Will you wear the new coat I got you?" Hannibal asks.
Bowie shoots him a stern glance over the shoulder. They'd been firmly against him buying them anything, but he insisted on getting rid of that awful coat they'd been continuing to wear.
"Not until you tell me how much it cost you," they reply bitterly.
"You can't pay me back for it, Bowie. Not only is it out of your budget, but I won't take your money."
Bowie frowns and shakes their head disapprovingly as they go back to styling their hair.

They'd been fond of a half-up half-down style lately. Their hair is getting quite long. It had only been to their shoulders when they met but was now at least an inch or two longer, and in Hannibal's opinion, they wear it well.

When they're done, Hannibal makes his way outside. Waiting for Bowie in the car. He's pleased to see them wearing the coat he bought for them when they come out. They say nothing to him as they climb into the passenger seat and put their seatbelt on, so he doesn't say anything either.

He drops them off at work with the coffee they'd picked up, and they stand there on the sidewalk outside the building staring up at it with wide, anxious eyes. They felt so odd being back, but they were also somewhat excited to be looking up at the massive building they'd spent so much time in over the last two years.
After taking a deep breath, steeling their resolve and mentally preparing themselves to face their boss again, they start walking up the front steps.

Inside, they're greeted by their fellow agents as they pass each other in the halls, getting a mix of nonchalance and glee from various people. They honestly didn't expect so much attention from all of their coworkers. Bowie was used to feeling as though they didn't exist to others around them, but now they began to wonder just how much they were actually acknowledged by their colleagues.

They reach Agent Carter's office and knock on the doorframe as they gaze in at him. They can see that he's stressed just based on the expression he's making, and how he leans over his desk with his head in his hands. When he looks up, and his eyes meet theirs, they immediately lower their gaze and lose their words. Silence lingers between them for a moment before Carter finally says,
"Come in. Shut the door."

Bowie swiftly steps into the office, carefully shutting the door behind them and then approaching the desk, setting the cup holder with the coffees down.
"Hannibal told me that you-" he cut them off,
"Hannibal told me that you've been doing a lot better lately."
Bowie is quiet, but they nod. Looking at his lips rather than his eyes as he speaks to them.
"Good. You look good. How do you feel?" he asks. Taking the hot coffee and sipping it slowly. Staring at Bowie almost judgmentally.
"I feel fine. Better than usual but I'm still getting used to the whole 'being a person' thing," they admit in a timid, wavering voice. They didn't like feeling like they were being analyzed.

Carter leans back in his seat and nods solemnly. Something intense stirred behind those icy eyes. Bowie knew the look. That uncertain and yet entirely too thoughtful look he gets when something serious is going on and he's not sure what to do about it.

"What happened?" Bowie asks after a moment, taking their iced coffee and gently bringing it to their lips. The sweet smell was almost nauseating on their empty stomach.
"We have a serial killer in the area," Carter finally says after a moment of hesitation.
Bowie stopped just short of taking a sip of their drink, lowering the cup and staring at their boss with slightly wide but stern eyes.
"And you're just telling me this now? You know that with my empathy disorder, I could have sniffed out this guy's M.O. and behavior before they killed anyone else!" they exasperate. Almost offended that Carter hadn't thought to call them.
"No offense, Boe. But you weren't exactly in the right state of mind, and I didn't want to. Well."
The senior agent had begun to trail off. Stuttering and stumbling over his words. Bowie knew exactly what he was going to say though.
"You didn't want to get me involved in another serial case after Pasadena," they whisper in a slightly agitated tone. But they understood his concern.

"I can't risk putting you in another situation like that, Boe. You could have died."
"But I didn't," they snapped sharply. Brow furrowing.
"He broke into your hotel room in the dead of night. If you weren't such an insomniac you probably would have, and I don't think I could live with the knowledge that I put you in a situation that led to your death, Boe."

Carter spoke to Bowie as if he were their guardian or something. He'd been like a father to them since they met, but as of late Bowie didn't feel that same bond, and they weren't appreciative of Carter's sudden concern for them after his aggressive dismissal of them from their job. Thrusting them into the clutches of Doctor Lecter hoping that he would 'fix them'.

They furrow their brow and shake their head at him.
"Carter, I'm fine now. And we can be more careful. I won't get so close this time. But please let me help. Before more people die," they plead sternly.

Carter stares at them for a long moment before sighing and lowering his head.
"Alright. Come on then," he says, standing up and collecting the keys from his desk in his free hand. Still holding the hot cup of coffee in the other.
"Where are we going exactly?" they ask, following him out of the office with raised brows.
"CSI is still at the most recent crime scene."
"Most recent? Carter. How many victims?"
They stopped walking at this point. Half shaking, but mostly just glaring at Agent Carter distastefully. A look that when Carter saw it, told him just how much Bowie had changed, and how angry they were with him in that moment.
He opens his mouth to speak, make up some kind of excuse, or sidestep the topic, but he can't think of anything to say, so he just sighs. Lowering his head slightly and then gesturing for Bowie to follow him.
"Just come on. We'll talk in the car."

Bowie reluctantly follows him, and once in the car, they stare him down. Waiting for an answer to their question. Carter doesn't even look at them as he gets the car moving and starts their way to the crime scene.
"How many?" they repeat after several minutes of silence dragging on between them.
Carter gives them a brief sidelong glance, his expression contorting slightly with agitation.
"You can't blame me, Bowie," he snaps at them.
"But I can. And I am. Answer the question."
"What do you think you're going to get out of being angry with me? It doesn't change the fact that people are dead, or that I'm taking a big chance on letting you back on the field, let alone anywhere near a serial case!"
Carter was yelling now. Barely paying attention to the road as he repeatedly looks at Bowie, who's glaring out the windshield angrily. Their dark eyes dart about slightly as they focus on literally anything other than Carter.
"You could have stopped things at victim one, maybe two. This wouldn't even be a serial case if you had just called me in!" Bowie barks back, rubbing their wrists.
"I'm not going over this again with you, you know why I-"
"Jesus fuck!" Bowie abruptly shouts, lunging for the steering wheel and swerving out of the way of something but side-swiping it anyway. Whatever they hit bounces up on the windshield and rolls off the car. Carter slams on the brakes, tense and holding his breath without realizing it.
The two sit there, releasing their breath and panting as their hearts race. Bowie still half leaned over their boss, clutching the steering wheel.
"What was it?" Carter asks, his eyes glued to the empty stretch of road in front of them. Woodland is on either side of them. Bowie is wide-eyed. Staring into space. Staring at the driver-side mirror. Sweat trickles down their neck and face. They were shaking.
"Boe, please tell me it was a deer," the older of the two pleads, his voice starting to strain with increasing anxiety as the situation becomes suddenly emergent.

He turns his head to look in the side mirror and Bowie puts their hand on the side of his face, turning it away. Turning it toward them. Looking up at him, still breathing hard and shaking.
"It wasn't a deer."
"Oh fuck."
Bowie scrambles away from him, thrusting the door open and getting out of the car, running back up the road toward whatever it is they hit. Not a deer. But it wasn't much bigger than one. They stand, silent as they stare down at the cadaver on the road. Face down turning the two inches of snow on the ground scarlet. Hair fanned out in every direction. She was half curled into herself like she had tried to shield herself from the impact of the ground. Was she dead? Bowie couldn't tell from where they stood. They hoped she wasn't.
Carter was soon behind them, staring down at the young girl as well. Both are silent for a moment before Carter takes out his cell phone and calls for an ambulance. She couldn't have been older than sixteen. At least Bowie thought not.

Bowie crouches down, gently placing two fingers against the girl's jugular vein. They draw in a sharp breath, retracting their hand and swiftly turning the girl over onto her back, ripping their coat off and sitting her up, wrapping her in it tightly. She hadn't been dressed for the cold. She was wearing a baby blue nightgown and didn't have any socks or shoes on.
"She's still alive!" they exclaim, though they swiftly notice something. Blood staining around her nightgown in a specific area more so than any other. They look up at Carter, mouth slightly agape.
"I think she's been stabbed," they breathe, placing a hand over the wound and applying pressure.
Carter raised his eyebrows in disbelief, kneeling to get a closer look at the girl.
"Oh shit," he whispers sharply, suddenly standing and drawing his gun, looking around frantically, and then starting to run off into the woods following the blood trail and her footprints through the snow.

"Where are you going?!" Bowie shouts after him, only getting a stern,
"Stay with her and wait for the ambulance!" in response.
They furrow their brow in confusion and frustration, looking down at this young girl half resting in their lap as they keep pressure on her wound.

When the ambulance arrives, they take over care for the girl, and Bowie runs off into the woods after their boss. They didn't have a gun or any kind of weapon for that matter, save for the hunting knife that was holstered to their belt. But what good would that do them?

"Carter!" they call out into the trees. The sounds of the emergency crew back on the road fade into the distance as they plunge themselves deeper into the woods. They'd left their coat with the girl, but the adrenaline pumping through their small body left them shaking and kept them warm. The misty breaths from their lips blended into the endless white in front of them. Only broken up by the dark pillar-like trees which surround them.
"Agent Carter!" they scream, straining their voice as their panic increases, growing fearful for their superior. Where had he gotten off to in such a hurry? How far could he have gotten that he couldn't hear them calling his name?

It began snowing. Lightly, but enough to create more visual distraction. They follow the path made by the two different sets of tracks. Fleeing in opposite directions. It gave them a clear idea of where to go.

They continue calling out until their throat becomes sore, and then call out even more in spite of the pain. Determined to hear a response, or find their boss safe.

They come to a clearing. Almost a perfectly circular clearing. The mid-day sun shone down through the gap in the canopy and reflected off of the snow. Nearly entirely white, if not for the trail of blood staining its purity. They stop there, panting heavily. They were out of breath, both from running and from calling out for their boss. Still not getting any answer as they scream again for him.
"Carter! Please answer me!"

They collapse against the nearest tree. Closing their eyes and struggling to catch their breath. They clutch at the stitch in their side and shiver as the sweat on their body freezes in the cold.
A snapping branch gets their attention. It sounded so close.
As they open their eyes and snap their head in the direction of the sound, they grip the handle of their hunting knife. Ready to use it if they have to. But instead, they find themselves face-to-face with what feels like a bad memory.

A stag. Tall, strong. It stares at them in a stiff silence, and they stare back. Their heart races in their chest, threatening to burst forth and bury itself in the shin-deep snow they currently stand in.
This creature felt like a bad joke. A nightmarish reminder of an action which would haunt them for the rest of their life. A pure example of a nightmarish creature which taunts them in their dreams.
"All your fault," they echoed aloud, echoing the words of that creature. "It's all your fucking fault."

A gunshot. It wasn't far and swiftly followed by another. The elk ran, and so did Bowie.
It felt like a fire igniting inside of them as they began pushing their body again, almost to its limits, calling out again, screaming into the trees as they ran toward the gunshots.
They were so frantic that they failed to pay attention to where they were going. Running right off of a small ledge, and tumbling about twenty feet down the side of a hill. They groan in pain and frustration, picking themselves up and looking around.

They could see Carter now. Some man standing over him, wearing some kind of animal skull. A boar. They recognized it. They'd seen one before.
"Get away from him!"
The words left them before they even had the thought to speak.