'' Repeating History ''

'' Open Case ''

I shriek, roaring in pain and hitting him in the face. The knife rips free. It feels like fire in my gut, bubbling and burning. Pouring out of me and splashing on the snowy ground. I hit him again as he stumbles back, watching him fall to the ground. The knife clatters off to the side. Its blood-stained edge reflects at me like a grim grin of jagged teeth.

I dive for it, picking it up and feeling its weight in my hand. Scarlet droplets sling every which way as I whip my arm back, rotating and in one violent slam, stab the knife into the chest of the man.

The noise he makes isn't human. Isn't a noise of pain. More that it is a baited, muffled breath, barely even a grunt. This makes me angry. Why it makes me angry I haven't the faintest clue, but I drew the knife back and then plunged it in again. Over and over until the snow around me was more red than white. Panting. Sweating. Out of breath and my head spinning as my vision swims. I reach out a shaking hand to the mask, gripping it tightly, and pulling it off.

I gasp sharply and go rigid. Doctor Lecter's cold, lifeless face staring up into the winter sky with clouded eyes. Blood on his lips and a single streaking tear on his cheek. No. It wasn't him. This wasn't him.
My stomach churns with nausea and hot bile bubbles into the base of my throat. Retching, I vomit. Something about it being Doctor Lecter made me suddenly sick. Had it been anyone else, even someone I knew, I don't think I would have been so nauseous. I'd dreamt of killing people before, and I had killed one person before. If only by proxy.

I sit, back against the car, staring at the deceased doctor's face, my mouth tasting sour and tears on my face alongside the spatter of blood coagulating and darkening on my freckles. Almost as though trying to add them. Soaking into my skin. I close my eyes and shove my hands over my face, hanging my head.
Throbbing pain continues to pulse through my side, but it's long since become an afterthought, shadowed by the image of a mutilated Doctor Lecter now plaguing my mind. ''

Suddenly, the feeling of a hand grasping their shoulder jolts Bowie into action, flailing and letting out a strangled grunt of surprise and fear. Their right hand connects with something solid and they hear several gasps from a little ways away. Collecting themselves, they look around, realizing they're still in the hospital waiting room. Looking up at the figure standing over them, they meet the stern gaze of Doctor Lecter. Rubbing his jaw they'd no doubt just hit him.

Their mouth falls open slightly as they stumble over their words, just making noise at the man until he lifts a hand to silence them. They snap their jaw shut and look down at their lap awkwardly.
"It was more surprising than painful, I assure you," Hannibal says in a soft tone.
Bowie nods, rubbing their tired eyes. "What are you doing here?" they question. Trying to brush past the awkwardness they felt after just having a dream about murdering him, even if they didn't know it was him when they killed him.
"I was called to collect you and take you home."
"So then Carter is okay?!" Bowie suddenly blurts, practically jumping out of their seat and looking around for some kind of staff they can ask about the condition of their boss.

Hannibal gently grasps Bowie's shoulders, causing them to tense, but they don't try to pull away. Looking up at him with a furrowing brow and hardening glare, confused and angry but knowing better than to lash out right now.
"He's not currently awake. The only thing he told the hospital was my phone number, and that I would come to pick you up. You can visit him tomorrow. I'll even drive you, after our session of course."

Bowie frowns. They'd completely forgotten about their session with Hannibal the next day. They'd become so accustomed to him just dropping in on him, that the days they actually had appointments became blended in with all the rest.
They brush Hannibals hands from their shoulders and nod, relaxing. They felt sore from sleeping in that chair, and Hannibal smirks with vague amusement as he watches them stretch and rub their back.
"Come along," Hannibal coos, heading toward the exit with Bowie trailing close behind him.

The ride to Bowie's apartment is drawn out by awkward silence between the detective and their murderous psychiatrist. Bowie fidgets, bouncing their legs and rubbing their scars deeply despite the dull throb of hot pain it sends through their arms. As they enter Bowie's neighborhood with the sun setting on the city skyline, Hannibal stops for a while too long at a stop sign. Bowie knows he's staring at them. They can feel those dark, hungry eyes boring into them.
"What do you want?" they ask sharply, looking at Hannibals' hands as they grip the steering wheel.
"What were you dreaming about when I woke you?"
The question had caught Bowie off guard. They figured he'd be curious about it, but with their appointment tomorrow, thought he'd save it for then.
"Oh, uhm. Nothing important, really. Just a dumb nightmare," they say, trying to play it off, but they'd already begun to sweat.
"You seem to have a lot of nightmares, detective," Hannibal says in an accusatory tone as he finally pulls away from the stop sign and continues toward Bowie's apartment building.

Bowie glares at Hannibal the moment his gaze returns to the road, brow furrowing deeply with frustration. Hannibal only ever called them 'detective' in front of other agents or when he was suggesting something about their psyche that he knew they wouldn't want to be bothered with.
"What's that supposed to mean?" they snap bitterly at him.
"Nothing really. It just has me thinking, do you ever write your dreams down?"
Now that was a surprising question. Not because Bowie hadn't expected it, but because they almost had. Hannibal had repeatedly hinted at or vaguely suggested that they should keep a journal of some kind. Never so boldly, but he had.
"Yeah, actually. I have a journal at home that I write down all of the uhm. Interesting thoughts and dreams I have in," they murmur, figuring that if they were discussing the topic openly now, that they might as well mention their journal.

Hannibal let our a soft hum as thought he were amused by this prospect.
"And how long have you been keeping said journal?" Hannibal asks.
Bowie takes a moment to think, then just shrugs. "A few months? I'm not sure exactly, but a while."
"Would you mind me having a look at it? Only if you're comfortable, of course," the psychiatrist requests almost too casually. Bowie was of course suspicious of his intentions. He'd been seeing them as a patient for two weeks now, but he was still a manipulative and sociopathic serial cannibal. Bowie hadn't forgotten about that crucial and not so little detail.

"I don't think I am, to be quite honest with you," Bowie says in a low tone, watching their apartment building grow closer as the car moves up the quiet street.

Although Hannibal's criminal past and Bowie's knowledge of how manipulative he can be was the driving reason for their refusal, there were other reasons they didn't want him to read their journal. Some which pertained to him, and others which not only had nothing to do with him, but would reveal more about themselves and their past than they were ready to share now, and more than they thought they ever would be ready to share in the future. With anyone; not just Hannibal.

The car stops outside the front steps of the tall brick apartment building, and Hannibal stares at Bowie as they unbuckle their seatbelt.
"Shall I walk you up?" he asks politely.
Bowie frowns at him, hand resting on the door handle, waiting for Hannibal to unlock the car so they could get out. It didn't take long for him to get the message that they didn't want to be bothered with him any longer than they already had been.
"Of course. Goodnight, detective."

He unlocked the doors at last, and Bowie quickly got out of the car, though as Hannibal watches them walk around front of his vehicle, something catches his attention and he steps out, calling after them as they get across the street.
"What happened to your jacket?"

Bowie stopped in their tracks, suddenly aware of the fact they were only wearing their button-down, now covered in blood. No wonder they felt so cold. They look at Hannibal for a moment, mouth slightly agape as they try to come up with some kind of explanation, but all they can manage to say is,
"I gave it to someone who needed it more than me."