'' Repeating History ''

'' His Care ''

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Summary:

Hannibal invites himself back into Bowie's home the morning following their awful nightmare, hoping to tend to them. But after things grow violent and he finds himself unable to stomach the sight of them, he offers for them to come to his office and leave them to themselves.

Notes:

Content Warnings: Depictions of paranoia and anxiety, firearms being pointed at another person, technical home invasion, physical violence, verbal abuse/shaming.

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Waking the next day, the exhausted detective finds sunlight pouring into their room through the curtains, which had been left wide open. They shield their face from the intruding glow and sit up, confused as to what had woken them up, while not yet questioning the time despite knowing they need to be at their office eventually.

Just as they were sitting up, about to slip out of bed and get up to piss, they'd hear movement from elsewhere in the house.

Tensing up instantly, they look around a bit, spotting their handgun and slowly getting out of bed, avoiding the creaky floorboards as they go for it, practically on their hands and knees as they take it out of the holster on their pants. Unfortunately, their belt, which was still in the pants, would jingle from being moved.

They freeze up, listening intently and then hearing footsteps approaching their room. They fumble with the gun a moment, wrestling it free of its holster and falling back, barely left sitting up by the burning of their non-existent abs as they aim the gun toward their bedroom door, eyes wide and hands trembling.

The moment that doctor Lecter steps into the doorway, their shoulders drop, tension mostly releasing from their body, though it immediately returns and they tense their finger on the trigger as they question how the hell he even got in their house to begin with.

"Well. I certainly wasn't expecting to have a gun pointed at me this morning." The cannibal would say softly, standing rather calmly in the doorway, a small smile spreading across his face.

"How did you–"
"Get in? You left the door unlocked. I brought you that soup I mentioned. No meat. Just like you asked." He hums, looking rather smugly down at the trembling detective.

There's a moment of silence before the psychiatrist's smile drops and he looks Bowie over with mild confusion.
"Are you quite alright, Bowie?" He questions softly, as though the answer wasn't clear enough given their shaking and hesitance to lower their gun.

When they fail to respond to him, he slowly steps into the room, approaching them calmly as they tense up on the trigger, sniffling and whimpering, starting to sob a bit. He pauses briefly, putting his hands out in a display meant to put the detective at ease.

"You're okay, Bowie." He says softly as he slowly kneels down in front of them, the guns barrel now pressed right against his sternum as he looks down at Bowie, sweaty and shaking.

A small smile spreads over his lips again and he gently grabs the gun, palm against the side, fingers wrapped over top, his other hand gently grabbing Bowie's right arm, pressing his thumb into the humeroradial joint until they release the gun.

The moment it falls from their grasp and they're left defenseless, they release a breath they hadn't realized they were holding, then inhaling sharply and beginning to sob openly.

"I'm sorry." They'd murmur shakily as they cover their face, looking away from him.
"There's nothing to apologize for, Bowie." He reassures them, standing upright and moving the gun to a safer place away from them.