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Hannibal nods, gently holding on to that hand.

"You wouldn't want your friends to go after Jim," he says. "I could imagine Ragnar Lothrok might take his axe and just go."

Sinric doesn't answer at once, still holding Hannibal's hand as they head towards Hannibal's room.

When he does answer, his voice is soft and dark. "What I said to X is true. This is my haven and only home. I don't want the peace I have here broken." And Ragnar killing someone, even Jim, would break the peace.

"The one steady place for a wanderer," Hannibal agrees. "Fights here are not something you could walk away from. Which is why most people keep the laws at home, mostly."

"I hope X is true to her word. I've had no dealings with her before today but she is reputed for her plain dealings."

"Very straightforward," Hannibal says.

"Can she do as she claims? Keep him in check?"

He pauses at Hannibal's door, waiting politely for his friend's consent to enter.

And wondering what art the walls will hold this time.

It is erotic miniatures from pre-Moghul India, of course, small in the usual frames, and presented on passe-partouts of a deep oxblood red.

Hannibal opens the door and immediately goes to find the necessary medical materials. "Would you like a drink?" he offers, casting a glance towards his two-towered kitchen.

"I would be very glad of something strong if you can spare it?" He asks softly, stopping to admire the miniatures. They're beautiful. And Sinric take his time to admire them in detail. As such beautiful things deserve.

"Of course I can," Hannibal says, with a slight chuckle.

He interrupts his medical preparations to get a glass, whisky stones, and a very good pale amber whisky from the cold tower of his kitchen, to hand Sinric a glass with a double helping in.

"Thank you." Sinric's fingers brush Hannibal's in a gesture of gratitude and affection.

He sips it, savouring the smoky taste and the warmth it radiates as he swallows.

He seems to notice the medical preparations for the first time, almost forgetting the sluggish trail of blood flowing down the hollow of his throat.

"I like the pictures she gives me," Hannibal says, softly. "She knows my taste, and couldn't possibly chose better."

"They're beautiful." He touches the frame lightly, almost a caress. "Some would see obscenity in them, but I see tenderness, passion, adoration. And artist who wanted to capture that moment when pleasure is not given or taken but shared"

"Shared pleasure," Hannibal murmurs. "Yes, that's how any pleasure is best. Not just sex."

He touches the blood on Sinric's neck again.

"Pleasure is much more than just sex." He tilts his head up, exposing his throat to Hannibal, closing his eyes minutely.

"I think that's why I bother Jim so. Because he can't understand that the friendship I shared with Sherlock. Purely platonic and very simple but profound in ways he can't understand."

"Human pleasure and closeness is so much more than sex," Hannibal says. "Jim is rather limited in his views of that."

He nods and steps closer to Hannibal, setting his glass down. "Would you mind seeing to my wound, please? At least then I can be sure I don't stain your carpet with it."

Hannibal kisses the bloody throat again, then starts wiping it with disinfectant and swabs.

Edited 2016-11-05 13:40 (UTC)

He keeps his head tilted back, leaning against the wall as Hannibal cleans the wall.

There's something about the smear of blood on Hannibal's lips that makes him feel... odd. Something about the way it reflects the deep red of his eyes.

"I don't think we will need stitches," Hannibal says. "Just a bandage."

"That's fortunate." Sinric whispers, swallowing with a moment's shortness of breath.

A knife, at his throat. He's been fighting those triggers since Jim grabbed him.

"Sinric," Hannibal whispers, softly. "There is no hurry. Take another sip."

"Thank you for understanding." He lowers his chin and sips his drink, the alcohol spreading through his system. "What is this drink called?"

"Whisky," Hannibal says. "Distilled malted liquor, matured in former wine casks."

"It tastes of smoke and earth. But it warms like fire. I take it whiskey comes from a cold climate?"

He gestures to the couch, asking permission to sit.

"Yes, do sit," Hannibal says. "Of course!"

He kneels down beside the sofa.

"It's from Scotland -- Caledonia, in your time. Quite close to where your friend Athelstan is from."