OOM: Treating Sinric's ankle

[cook_the_rude]

 Hannibal's office is dimmer today, the windows largely covered by dark grey blackout blinds to keep out the summer sun, while two lamps, one by the couch, the other stooped over the drawing table, provide islands in the soft gloom.

The prints on the wall, still mostly Istanbul, and harem scenes, have now been joined by a series from the 18th century depicting Farinelli in different operatic costumes that all have ridiculously huge and long plumes on the helmet or hats in common.

Hannibal puts down the exhausted Sinric on the couch and then fetches his medical bag from the closed bottom part of the book case.

Comments

[cook_the_rude]

"Not while I'm reading or working," Hannibal says. "I lived in this room for over a year while the bar refused to let me go."

[thewidewideworld]

"You were trapped here? I did not know that could happen. I have known myself that the door is fickle but I thought that only from without, not from within."

[cook_the_rude]

"From within as well," Hannibal says. "They call it being Bound; that doesn't just happen to dead people."

He finishes wrapping the ankle.

"There -- safe for a bath or shower. I'll reapply some heparin gel to the other bruises before we sleep."

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric rises and kisses Hannibal's cheek very tenderly. "I know not what I have done to deserve the care you show me but I will strive to be worth of it."

He makes his way to the shower, making sure he is clean all over before entering the doctor's bed.

[cook_the_rude]

The doctor has pulled out the bed, which is large and generous and looks nothing like an improvised folding bed, and is sitting up in it already, reading a small book.

On the glass table beside the bed, two glasses of water and the heparin gel are ready.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric returns after only a short time, enough to cleanse himself and wash out his hair. He returns naked, having set the torn stola aside to repair later, his long hair twisted up in a swift braid.

[cook_the_rude]

"Come here," Hannibal says, putting the book aside and reaching for the gel. "Let's make this quick, and then we can sleep, and you can recover from the blow you had, both physical and emotional. Sleep is good for that."

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric nods and goes where the doctor directs him, careful of his ankle thought the hot water has taken some of the ache from it.

His eyes are already heavy and he moves with an exhausted sluggishness. He touches the doctor's shoulder lightly as gel is spread on his bruises, carelessness muttering his thanks in Greek.

[cook_the_rude]

The doctor puts the gel aside and opens his arm to Sinric.

"Lie on your side beside the covers," he says, "so the gel gets to dry; I'll cover you up if you fall asleep."

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric goes to him gladly, like a tired child. But the view as he stretches out on the bed is anything but child-like.

From behind, half turned, he is a vision of androgynous beauty. His small, heart-shaped buttocks, the sweep of his back, the fall of his golden hair in its long braid swept over his neck. He should have been a grecian muse or a renaissance model rather than a Byzantine slave.

He's sleep almost at once.

[cook_the_rude]

He'll wake up in the morning, safely covered and held in Hannibal's arms, comfortable against his chest.

[thewidewideworld]

It is a relief to wake in the arms of someone he trusts but he wakes knowing what he must do. He slips as silently out of bed as he can, gathering his clothes and seeking the means of leaving a note.

[cook_the_rude]

There are paper and pens on the desk.

[thewidewideworld]

He leaves the note in English, his handwriting ornate and careful.

Forgive me, sir. I must seek Earl Ragnar and tell him what has befallen his steward.

Your care of me is beyond measures and my thanks poor but you have my gratitude everlasting.