Phoenix Place, Wednesday evening

[sharp_as_knives]

Hannibal's throat was nearly healed, just a faint shadow of bruising and a very slight hoarseness left. He was feeling much better overall, thanks to friends who insisted upon doing whatever they could. His wrists were still a mess, but only time would heal that.

More importantly, his kitchen was nearly completed! After far too many false starts and reorders of things, all that was left was the center island counter, which was still bare wood. If he was careful and his knives were sharp (they always were), he could finally manage to cook again.

The dining room was still waiting on paneling, plants, and a table, but he wasn't too proud to eat elsewhere.

So he was sitting on the sofa with his plate on one of the end tables, eating and listening to some of the Rob Dougan that Jono had left for him. It wasn't a bad evening.



[OOC: Open post!]

Comments

[gunslingerpose]

"Prolly for the best," Nikolai decided with a knowing sort of nod. "I'm gonna remember fuck-all from this, pretty sure. My head's twisted up like I've been partying with Charlie Sheen but with fewer half-dressed women."

A beat.

"Feelin' kinda cheated about that, Doc, not gonna lie."

[sharp_as_knives]

"Unless the island decides to play one of its pranks on us, you will have to make do, I'm afraid," Hannibal answered. He tipped Nick very carefully back to lie on the bed. "Why don't I help you with these boots, and you can get a good night's sleep, hm?"

[gunslingerpose]

Oh, horizontal. This was a definite improvement on all of that vertical bullshit, right here.

"Hey, there's an idea. My brain's half made 'a gauze, sleep's sounding better by'a minute. Losin' the boots is damn near genius. I got the shades just fine myself, or should I leave 'em on? They won't stay anyhow..."

He had no idea where this train of thought was headed, but at least his mind kept helpfully laying down more track.

"... maybe a blindfold."

[sharp_as_knives]

Hannibal stepped away long enough to pull a robe and towels from the top dresser drawer and set them on the chair on top of Nick's coat. There were pajamas in there, too, but he somehow didn't think either of them were up to undressing and redressing him.

He came back to the bedside with a black satin sleep mask. "Or this. Close your eyes, and I'll put it on." He suspected Nick might poke his eyes out if he tried.

[gunslingerpose]

Yeah, Nick didn't really do pajamas anyway. He might have opted for something that wasn't jeans at right that moment, but that would involve getting up again, and - ha - no, he was pretty much hell-bent on sleeping forever, now.

"Closed," he dutifully reported. "S'safe."

And then pretty much all of his focus was going to be on keeping his eyes closed. It'd be pretty shitty of him to take a hit from the guy who just put his arm back in.

[sharp_as_knives]

It would be, yes.

Hannibal carefully removed Nick's glasses and folded them. "They will be on the nightstand next to you," he advised, then slipped the mask on. "I would ask if you're comfortable, but I suspect sandpaper would be at the moment," he said, grinning.

[gunslingerpose]

"... Bed's not actually sandpaper, is it?"

It was not intended as any slight to Hannibal's hospitality that Nick was running his fingers over the bedsheets for a moment, just to be sure. He was really, really on the good drugs now, and the lack of searing pain in his shoulder meant that the sharp thing to focus on was gone, too. He was free to drift and be sort of stupid about it.

"Nope. Not sandpaper."

In case Hannibal was worried about that. Nick had this shit handled.

[sharp_as_knives]

"That is good to know," Hannibal answered gravely.

Considering Nick currently had lidocaine, morphine, and valium in his system - not to mention a mild concussion - Hannibal was surprised he was still forming sentences. He started on Nick's boots, making bets with himself if Nick would still be awake when he finished the first one.

[gunslingerpose]

Nick was a tough cookie! And not completely human. Or maybe extra human, depending on how many hits he'd taken. Three or four or twenty humans? Plenty.

Didn't matter. His tier had just dropped down to nada.

In any case, he was a heavily sedated cookie with a mild concussion, and now a sleep mask blotting out even the little light that his shades had let through. Hell, he didn't have much of a reason to stay awake, and since he'd ascertained that the bed was, in fact, not sandpaper, sleep was seeming more and more like a better option.

"S'tough to check without eyes, yanno," he mumbled, edging merrily on into well and truly incoherent. "Should get a... a star... or... Yeah..."

Halfway through the second boot, then. He'd made a valiant effort, indeed.

[sharp_as_knives]

Hannibal wasn't entirely sure what a star had to do with checking that his bed wasn't sandpaper, and somehow he didn't think Nick would, either. So instead of asking, he just let him drift off, set the boots down in the bathroom (after wiping them a bit), put away the medical kit, checked Nick's vitals once more, and went to clean his carpeting.