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Tate Langdon (
2016-07-10 05:49 pm (UTC)
Tate's self-conscious laugh is soft, if not a little tired, and the response he's reacting to has his eyes back on the floor at the toppled books. A 'sorry' is on his lips but it stays there, unsaid, because Hannibal is turning away to leave and, well, maybe Tate will get it across by picking them up once he's gone.
So he says nothing, nothing until Hannibal stops at the doorway and speaks again. "Mm?" he sounds, stopping in his few steps towards one reference book, head tilted consideringly at it until the doctor has him looking up at him again.
From there, he stops, eerily frozen. Doesn't matter what tone Hannibal used to say what he just said; Tate looks stricken regardless.
A pang of alarm, like a flashbomb, hot, embarrassed, nearly angry. Tate's brows bend toward each other and he looks like he's just been caught sneaking a cookie from the jar. He remembers flinching, he knows exactly what Doctor Lecter is talking about -- but why the fuck would he address it? And like this? He knows, at least he
he knows, that Hannibal would never do that...he never expected him to...
Tate swallows, clearly unbalanced and scrabbling for his focus. "I-- I know that," he insists shakily, defensive but lacking the strength necessary to be truly argumentative. He says it shaking his head, eyes panning the floor. "...I know."
He wonders why he suddenly feels so hot on his face and neck, and doesn't realize that his face is growing red in panic.
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