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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."

Sinric slips off his shoes and tucks his feet up under him on the couch.

"Ah, that makes sense. Such a warming drink must belong to a cold place." He reaches out to very gently stroke Hannibal's hair, his motions languid as alcohol and exhaustion kick in.

Hannibal carefully cleans and then covers the injury, Sinric's blood drying on his lips as he works.

"Done," he finally announces, his maroon eyes peering up into Sinric's.

Edited 2016-11-05 15:43 (UTC)

Sinric's eyes are soft and a little hazy. He doesn't drink as much as he use to and the whiskey was good and strong.

He reaches down to smooth his thumb over Hannibal's stained lips.

Hannibal licks at the soft tip of the thumb. then closes his lips around it.

Sinric sighs warmly and presses his thumb a little deeper between Hannibal's lips.

He withdraws it slowly, using the dampness of his skin to wipe the smudge of blood off Hannibal's lips.

There's a sleepy, dreamy quality to his expression.

"Bed," Hannibal says, putting an arm around Sinric.

It's not far from the sofa. Nowhere is far in this room.

Sinric nods and rises with all of his natural grace. He steps away for Hannibal, giving Hannibal his back and all the trust that it implies.

He undressed slowly, revealing his slender but scar marked body in flowing increments as he slips out of each piece of clothing. A deliberate dance of sensuality.

"I will take you up on that in the morning," Hannibal promises in a low voice, taking off clothes of his own.

Sinric looks back at him, his lips curled in a soft half smile. "Lay with me? Let me sleep in your arms."

"Yes," Hannibal says. "That's the idea. I'll be happy to be your pillow tonight."

Sinric stretches out on the bed, almost methodically. As if making himself aware of his body before settling against Hannibal's side.

A calming mechanism perhaps.

Hannibal puts his arms around him, and the blanket over them both.

Sinric rests his head on Hannibal's shoulder, his hand splayed over the turn of his ribs. "Thank you."

He closes his eyes, letting sleep take him swiftly.

Hannibal stays warm and close all night.

Sinric wakes at dawn but for once he doesn't slip away to the roof or an east window. Instead he lays still, eyes closed as he listens to Hannibal breath, to the beat of his heart. He brushed his fingers softly over Hannibal's stomach, following the soft trail of hair there.