open those gates (bear those flames)

"Well, this didn't pan out like I planned," Hannibal says, hanging from chains in the ceiling and slowly spinning in a circle over an open flame. It is, thankfully, a pretty weak flame; it doesn't even reach his bare feet, but his shoulders are starting to hurt and he's pretty sure eventually they'll dislocate which. Yeah. Ouch. Not looking forwards to that.

"What was your plan?" Drake asks, lounging on a throne and sipping blood out of wine glass like a guy right out of a vampire movie, shirt open over his chest and the sparkly jewelry drawing Hannibals' eyes right to it every time he spins around in that direction.

"Kick in the doors, go in guns blazing and kill some weak vampire bitches. You know, like normal people do." Hannibal tries to shrug, is rewarded with pain splintering up his arms and wrists, and holds in a hiss through the power of his amazing—absolutely top of the line—willpower.

The spin is slow enough he's not particularly dizzy, but he is plenty aware that he's mostly nude, only left his briefs because he threatened to pee on the vampire undressing him and apparently that was just too gross a chance to risk or something. Weaklings. Hannibal would totally nake-ify a vampire even if they peed on him, if that was something he needed to do. Granted, he can't think of many scenarios where that'd be necessary, but that's surely only a failure of his imagination.

Drake hums. The sound echoes in the chamber, a shiver running down Hannibal’s spine, his hands clenching in their grip on the chain. He’s not sure how long he’s been hanging out with the guys, but his mouth has started to dry and the smell of the flames has burrowed deep into his nostrils, becoming inextricable from reality itself.

He hungers. For what, he’s not sure. Smoothies, maybe. Something like strawberries or cherries. Anything to remove the dry, musty feel in his mouth, like it’s full of cotton candy and syrup, slowly gluing his mouth shut.

A true travesty.

He faces Drake again. “Seriously, is this it?” he can’t help ask, a whiny tone in his voice that’s only slightly exaggerated, his eyes slipping from side to side, examining the dark space and the few vampires forced to linger here.

Look, it’s been a while and the fear has given way to boredom.

“Impatient,” Drake notes, not moving but to swirl the blood in the glass. His expression is smooth, eyes half-lidded, and he doesn’t say another word. Hannibal scowls, his skin crawling from the gazes of the other vampires in the room. He’s not sure what they’re doing around; it’s not like they’re needed to guard him when the big bad is here himself, and if they were going to torture him he sure hopes they’ll start soon because he’s begun to freeze, nipples pebbled by the contrast between the cold air around him and the warmth below.

A minion tosses more wood to the flames. Briefly the fire climbs up and he hisses audibly, doing his best to pull his feet up in a gut reaction, even though he knows it can’t reach him.

The movement increases his spinning speed.

“Damn.” Hannibal shuts his eyes to erase the rest of the world, trying to force his heartbeat to rest again. He’d gotten it down to such a comfortable slow beat only for it to be ruined by those cursed vampires again. Scowling, he tilted his head back, the movement straining his shoulders and displaying his throat.

He heard more than one growl.

Hah.

“Look, nobody’s coming to rescue me, so whatever it is you’re gonna do, why don’t you just do ir already,” suggests Hannibal, licking his lips. He moves his head again, resting it against one of his arms and exhaling at the brief relief.

“You seek your own doom,” Drake observes, but Hannibal can’t see him, facing the wrong direction again. And anyway, he’s got no intention of opening his eyes right now, head heavy and limbs stiff and aching. His stomach has started to ache too, and he’s not sure from what; hunger, or need, or the knowledge that everyone can see the old cattle brand he’s still got.

It’s not his favorite part of himself, but it’s also not something that can be gotten rid of easily. Not tattooed over, not cut away; it’s some kind of vampire magic, the ink mixed with both vampire blood and his own.

Drake’s eyes on him are scorching. In the dark dungeon that temporarily houses him, Hannibal has very nearly gotten used to it, hanging here for what must be hours. Even his impeccably trained body is beginning to fail him, muscles sore and achy and ultimately useless in this position, hands clasped together above him, nothing but a chain holding him up. He almost wishes for a collar—at least then he’d have something else to split his weight between.

“Do you think if I peed I’d put out the fire?” Hannibal asks, straining in his bonds, the urge to pee boiling inside him again.

“It’d be a good attempt,” Drake says, “But I would only set it again.”

“Really?” Hannibal frowns, looking downward. “Even with wood covered in pee?”

“You are crass, but all humans bodies are. It is nothing to be concerned about.”

Hannibal’s tired eyes flick around, his eyelids heavy and weighing him down. “They don’t seem to agree.”

“They are weak.”

Hannibal laughs. “Preaching to the choir, buddy.”

And he spins around again.

Hannibal is eventually let down from the chains, crumbling to the floor and splaying out like a starfish as soon as he’s dumped in narrow, dirty a cell. Eyes shut, concentrating on breathing and keeping his nausea down, he doesn’t move for what seems to be hours, the stink of blood and filth tickling his nostrils.

Even falls asleep.

It’s a mistake; his muscles ache even more when he wakes up, skeleton stiff and bony, and when he tries to move his finger he groans, inhaling sharply through his nose. Blood is a smell he's well-used to, and his own eve more besides, a well-worn nightmare he doesn’t much care to revisit, and so he forces himself through the uncomfortableness; sits up with another groan and a whimper.

For a moment, he moves not, focusing on breathing steady.

Then he opens his eyes.

Yeah. It’s a cell. As expected. A pretty big one, granted, with what seems to be an actual mattress in a corner. It’s got very suspicious stains, sure, but it looks intact, and so he crawls over and face-plants on it, moaning from the pleasure of something soft bearing his weight for him, eyes falling shut once more.

And he sleeps again.

So. Yeah.

The plan kind of went to shit.

Hannibal’s job was the distraction; make lots of big booms while Blade and Abigail went off to get their blood of the progenitor and get their miracle virus fixed. And while it’s not like Hannibal doesn’t think it’ll work, he somehow doubts it’ll spread very far even if it does. There are lots of vampires that aren’t in America, that are isolated where humans can’t go for some peace and quiet, and anyway, the other vampires will just kill all those that are infected before it can spread too far.

He doesn’t think that’s occurred to the others. But obviously, the bloodsuckers aren’t going to waste time on cures or running away or something. They’ll just kill the carriers, and that will be that. If they’re lucky, the virus will take out the vampires in a couple of cities first, but their resources are limited and they can’t release it everywhere all at once, so even with Drake’s blood, this is never going to lead to the complete annihilation of the vampires.

It’ll hurt like a bitch, thought. Get their numbers down to something manageable. Force them to let go of their chokehold on human society in favor of protecting themselves, meaning things like the human blood farms will need to be abandoned. With less familiars, less allies, less blood bags and resources and money and politicians and police in their pockets, fighting vampires could actually be sort of doable.

For a time, anyway.

Hannibal doubts he has very much of it, for some strange reason that can’t possibly be related to the fact that he’s stuck in a cell, utterly ignorant of the mission’s success. His bad feeling is probably completely unrelated; maybe it has something to do with the patterns he’s seeing in the cracks in the stone ceiling. He’s practically a regular old fortune-teller.

Anyway. The plan went to shit and Hannibal got caught. He doesn’t know what happened to the others; he’s not seen them or head anything about them. He’s completely alone in his cell, not even a guard outside the thick iron bars, and through them he can only see more empty cells. So he lies on his mattress with his hands crossed on his bare, cold, stomach and stares and matches patterns in the ceiling, and he tries not to worry even as his finger taps a rhythm on the back of his hand.

He’s fed old bread and beer; not a stellar combination, would not recommend.

But at least it's human food.

One sleep later, he’s dragged out of the cell—it’s a proper dungeon, dark and with narrow halls, filth in every corner and spiderwebs on so many places he thinks at this point it's gotta be a aesthetic choice—by a very annoyed, silent guard that won’t look at him or respond to his very tasteful jokes. Pouting, Hannibal does his best to keep up on trembling legs because he’s still only in his briefs and if he gets dragged around he’s only gonna get hurt—there are nails and dust and filth on the floor he doesn’t especially wanna get dragged through. It can’t be good for his health.

“Wait here,” the vampire says, shoving him down unkindly and tying him securely to a chair, wrinkling his nose at his smell. Hannibal doesn’t know what the dude expects; he’s been trapped for at least two days in filth and blood, it’d be weirder if he didn’t smell gross.

He tests the bonds, of course. But they’re thick and coarse and tight, digging into his skin and for a second he’s a little worried they’re gonna cut off his blood flow. But it seems they’re not quite that tight, and he exhales, occupying himself instead with studying the new room.

Hannibal isn’t in the same building as the one they attacked. That was clear from the beginning; he remembers waking up in a tiny, claustrophobic (not that he’s claustrophobic) little space, getting bumped and jostled around which wasn’t great for his already protesting muscles and head and stomach, and then getting pulled out of the trunk of a car a little while later.

This is a proper castle. With a moat and everything. And towers. And a fancy gate. And the room he’s in now looks like something out of a storybook, or a museum. Maybe a historical movie. The windows are big and heavy drapes hang before them, something red and satin-looking. There’s three chandeliers in here even though the room isn’t that big, comparably. A large dining table with ten chairs around it, some kind of rug on the floor and a lit fireplace in one corner, a mural of a garden on the ceiling and paintings on every wall.

It’s peaceful.

Until Drake strolls in.

Hannibal tenses, tracking Drake’s every move. He’s feeling more awake after his pretty good sleep, a little restless from the beer, and he’s not going to miss a single clue as to his fate.

Though, if he’s going to die, he’d kind of prefer to go out swinging. Or sleeping.

One of the two, for sure.

Drake is coming toward him, and Hannibal says, “Aww, missed me?” while Drake grabs his chair and drags him over to the fireplace. It’s a rough ride, the chair protesting loudly, and his stomach swoops from the move that he’s got no control over, and he stares up at Drake instead of the other vampires who briefly go into the room and does something behind them. They leave again, anyway, so it’s probably not crucial information.

Drake leaves the chair not far from the fireplace, angled so he’s facing a very comfy-looking armchair that Drake then sits in, spreading out and sighing, cracking his neck. The fire reflects in his eyes, glittering in the otherwise dark and shadowed room.

Somehow, when Drake’s sitting, it always looks like he’s artfully lounging. Like something out of a semi-erotic old painting.

“What do you want with me?” Hannibal asks, deciding to stop skirting around the bush.

Drake stares at him. Drinks him in. From the top to the bottom, and Hannibal wasn’t particularly bothered by his bared state when there other vampires with them or when he was alone, but now that it’s just them? Yeah. He shudders, tries to hide it, fails probably from the slight uptick in Drake’s expression. “What could you possibly want from me?” Hannibal murmurs, then, looking into the flames instead and allowing himself to be hypnotized.

He still feels Drake’s gaze on his skin. Goosebumps rise, and his next breath hitches in his throat, the warmth in his chest hopefully nothing more than his imagination. His fingers curls around the chairs uncomfortable armrests, and he barely manages to resist the urge to bit his lip. Wherever that dark urge came from.

“I don’t need anything from you I can’t get from a thousand others,” Drake says at last, voice deep and gravely and resounding in his skull. In the darkness, the firelight dancing over him, he looks far more human than is wise, Hannibal’s brain stuck between fifty bad options.

“Then why am I here?”

“Because I wish for it.” Drake picks up a bottle of wine from the small table beside armchair and reads the label, paying it so much attention Hannibal is almost jealous, and then pours it into a tall glass. He holds it up to his nose, breathing it in, and exhales. “And I always get what I wish for.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Emperor, but that’s bullshit.” Hannibal tilts his head, watching Drake swallow a sip of the wine. His throat doesn’t move for a long moment, so long that Hannibal is almost staring to think he’s gonna spit it out, but he does at last. “And that doesn’t seem to be very good wine.”

“It isn’t,” Drake agrees, putting the glass away on a low wooden table. He stares at Hannibal again, gaze cutting and deep both, and Hannibal swallows. Exhales, as steady as he can. Breathes in the smell of the fire and the musk of the ancient castle, allowing it to dig deep into his lungs and burrow there, build itself a home and hunker down.

After a minute of being stared at, Hannibal breaks. “Seriously, why am I here?” and he can’t quite keep the exhaustion (as well-rested as he definitely is) out of his voice.

Nor the distrust. The anticipation of pain, really.

Because really, how else is this going to go?

Drake blinks. It’s the first time he’s blinked, Hannibal realizes. It sets him into motion in a strange way, like it flips a switch in Hannibal’s hindbrain still panicking and catching on the predator, predator, predator thing. “You are here because I want you here. No more, no less.”

“And if you didn’t want me here?”

“Then you would not be here.”

“So…” Hannibal wets his lips and tries to ignore the ancient vampire staring at the movement, “What you’re saying is I can annoy you into letting me go?”

Drake huffs on a minute laughter. “I do not let my toys go when I am done, or annoyed, with them. When I do not want you here, you will simply not be.”

That… sounds kinky. And also bad for him. And kinky. It can be both at once, he thinks. Shaking his head, he says, “Sounds like a bad deal for me.”

“Probably,” Drake agrees.

Hannibal stares at him. Drake really is very good-looking. Too good-looking. He doesn’t look like a vampire, is the thing. Doesn’t have that pasty complexion, those teeth that never manage to bite deep enough on the first crunch. Drake looks almost human, just one step off, and his attraction is all the worse for it.

Because. Well. The thing is, Hannibal has never been attracted to anybody’s who’s good for him. His taste lies in other places, and he sure suffered for it. But Danica is nothing compared to Drake, an ant beneath his boot, and Hannibal supposes that he shouldn’t be shocked at where exactly his thoughts are going at a time and place like this. Because he’s tied down, and very nearly naked, and there’s an attractive, powerful man staring at him. Telling him that he’s presence is wanted when for so long it’s felt like he’s anything but.

Really, how could he be not get hard?

“You should sweeten the pot,” Hannibal suggests.

“I could,” Drake says, gaze landing on Hannibal’s direction. It’s distractedly obvious and Hannibal inhales deep into his stomach to corral his thoughts into something presentable. Something logical. But surely this is logical?

It’s not like he has many other, better, options.

“So…” Hannibal draws the word out, looking from Drake to himself to Drake again, trying to figure out how to subtly convey his suggestion. He wiggles his eyebrows. “You interested?”

Drake laughs.

Crossing his hands over his lap, drawing Hannibal’s eyes to the vampire’s powerful thighs and then back up to the tantalizing glimpses visible of his bare chest, Drake says, “I am very interested.”

“Good, good.” Hannibal nods. He doesn’t quite know what more to say; on the one hand his mind is blanking from being around somebody who is the inhumanly handsome, and on the other hand the days of imprisonment and light (was it light? All he did was hang there, but that bit did go on for quite a while, and his entire body is still sore) torture has left his body weak and his mind eager to latch onto distractions. And Drake is a very tempting distraction.

He’s going to have to escape, of course. Find a way out, try to find out what happened to Abby and Blade and Zoe, and if there’s anything he can for them. If there’s anything they can for him. But in the meantime, a hot distraction? Precisely what the doctor ordered.

Licking his lips, Hannibal is gratified when Drake’s smoldering eyes follow the motions. “You think you can untie me and we can—” Hannibal wiggles his eyebrows again.

“You’re surprisingly forward.”

“I know what I want and I don’t see a reason to hesitate.” Hannibal shrugs. He eyes the heavy drapes behind Drake; the view outside is only of mountaintops and distant skies, a setting sun coloring the very tips of the mountains gold, nothing that gives any indication of where he is. Is he even still in America? It’d be foolish to hatch his hopes on that. He’ll need money, objects he can trade for services, ideally jewelry, he thinks. And he needs to figure out what the weather is like here.

“Impressive, if short-sighted,” Drake says.

Hannibal snorts. “Why would I worry about planning long-term when you basically said you’ll kill me when you get bored?”

“Indeed,” Drake nods. He is looking at Hannibal far too much, Hannibal is beginning to realize. The attention is—heady, heavy, hot. It scorches his skin, goosebumps rising in its wake, and it hollowing, too, in a way. It sees far too much, he thinks.

The Nightstalkers were… a lot of things, but observant wasn’t necessarily one of them. Outsiders, mostly, outcasts in some way rejected by society, and it wasn’t just the hunting vampires thing, it was that they were all, kind of, sort of, just weird people. Not in a bad way, necessarily, but in a gently off-putting way that meant making friends with normal, not vampire hunting, people was kind of difficult.

And Hannibal… look, he knows himself. He didn’t want to be observed after turning back into a human. There are things he doesn’t want to remember, things done to him and things he did to others, and it was just easier to toss himself head first into something else. Something radically different than the misery his existence was once steeped into, and he couldn’t very well do that if the other Nightstalkers realized…

Yeah, so Hannibal probably should have gone to therapy or something.

In hindsight, sitting here having a pretty pleasant conversation with a vampire while in nothing but boxers, the part of his body not facing the fireplace kind of freezing, seriously contemplating doing something incredibly unwise, even for him, yeah. In hindsight, he probably should have given therapy a shot.

But Drake sees too much, he thinks again. Is too observant, and it’s unsettling. Hannibal isn’t used to vampires genuinely observing their prey for more than their greatest fear so they can taunt you with it. It’s kind of insultingly crass, actually, but most vampires are, he’s found. (Probably he was insultingly crass, too.)

“You’ll go back to your cell now,” Drake says, rising from his seat. On cue, the door opens and a new vampire toddles in, going to untie him and drag him back.

Hannibal is somehow blindsided by this. “But— why? We were making such good progress! We were bonding! I was really proud of us, coming together in friendship like that!”

Drake laughs. It is a deep laughter that sends shudders down Hannibal’s spine, and his shiver when he’s pulled to his feet isn’t only because of protesting muscles and the cold air striking him undeserved. “You need some time to think about it,” says Drake, strolling out the door without commenting on any of the inadvisable things Hannibal calls to his strong, departing back.

When Drake is entirely gone, Hannibal sighs and goes limp in his captor’s grip.

At the very least, this vampire does him the favor of carrying him back to his cell.

So Hannibal thinks—really thinks—about it.

On the one hand, he’s kicking himself for forgetting to ask about any of the others. Something about Drake took over his thoughts, tossed his good sense to the wind. Possibly it’s because he’s so hot, possibly it’s because Hannibal is so hopelessly outclassed here, his entire continued existence completely dependent on Drake’s good will. Possibly it’s even just because Hannibal was sleepy.

His rest is not particualy restful these days.

In the dirty, dark cell, far from civilization and his fellow humans, Hannibal paces. He crosses the short distance over and over on aching feet for what seems to him to be hours, almost wearing new grooves in the stone floors, and he thinks. Considers. Ponders.

Performs questonably accurate simulations in his head of the actionable outcomes here. Because he has only so many options, and none of them are very good. Some hot sex (hopefully Drake is good at man on man action) is really the best potential situation here.

Granted, Drake could take far more than he’s willing to give. Drake could utterly ruin him, and not in the fun way. Drake could take his trust and destroy it, destroy him, do far worse than Danica ever dreamed of. But. Well. If he doesn’t do this, if he resists and left to the tender devices of the other vampires, if Drake decides to torture him. Well. The thing is, Hannibal can withstand a lot of shit. He wouldn’t be here if he couldn’t.

But he’s not certain he can do it all over again.

Because Danica will turn him.

She’s right about that, just like she’s always right about that and last he saw her she was still walking. She’ll turn him the first chance she gets; hates him enough that she’ll probably even go around Drake’s orders if she gets the chance. She wants to rule the world, after all, and Drake stands in the way of that.

So she won’t be curtailed by him forever, regardless of how outclassed she is.

Between Danica and Drake, Hannibal thinks he’ll always choose Drake.

He sleeps, again. Don’t much remember it when he wakes, but he knows it wasn’t much good because he’s shivering his ass off when he opens his eyes, curled up into a tiny ball in a futile attempt to retain some meager measure of warmth.

Blinking, he groans and rubs his eyes, nuzzling the dirty mattress for a second. The ache of his body isn’t as bad as it was yesterday, but with the cold and the freezing and the hunger deep in the pit of his belly it almost doesn’t matter, he still feels just as shitty. Rubbed raw, every nerve hypersensitive and every breath just a beat too late, just a smidgen off-rhythm.

He sits. Brushes his hands over his face, smacking his shoulders and legs to get some blood flowing. Massages his tired feet and spend way too long wondering if he should cut his nails.

They’re getting pretty long.

Hmm. Something’s moving outside the cells, in the dark, long hallway that entombs the many empty cells. Eyes narrowing, Hannibal forces himself to his feet and sways for a second, widening his stance and breathing deeply, then approaches the freezing iron bars. They’re only a few inches a part, and he curls his hands around them, hisses at the cold, but at least it shocks his system out of the persistent shivering.

Exhaling, he rests his forehead on a bar and calls out, eyelids heavy, “Anybody there?”

Nothing.

Frowning, he strains his gaze to its utmost limit, angling his head to see as much of the long hallway as possible. He hears nothing, but he can feel something watching him, attention that weighs his body down. He’s well-used to it these days, and he’d rather say that his perception ability is pretty darn good, even if Blade would disagree.

But also like, that seems like a guy who disagrees with everything just on principle. So. Who’s actually winning here, right.

“Hello?” Hannibal calls once more, voice tilting when it nearly gives out on him. He coughs, clears his throat, and inhales deeply. “I’ll have you know I’m a very dangerous person to peep on!”

He waits. Takes another breath. The sensation of eyes on him deepens, and the darkness very nearly seems to be moving in the hall, but he can’t make out anything signifying a person. No eyes, nothing to indicate flashy and very uncool clothing. Eyes narrowing, he muses, “If you’re an animal come to eat me I’m telling you now I’m not afraid to kick puppies. You don’t stand a chance against me.”

“Is that so?” Drake drawls.

Hannibal’s eyes widen. He bites down on a gasp, clenches his jaw for the briefest glance of a second. Drake stands on the stairs leading to the cell’s floor, half-hidden in the darkness, light from the medieval torches reflecting in his eyes. Leaning against the wall, the shirt unbuttoned so far there’s something scandalous about it, Drake gazes quietly at Hannibal without twitching a muscle.

Scowling, Hannibal tightens his grip on the bars. “I’ve kicked lots of puppies in my days,” he declares, and it’s true, too; he did a lot of things he’s not proud of when he was a vampire, but kicking puppies ain’t one of them. Those days were back in high school, when he made some not particularly well-chosen friends and they made some ill-advised choices. Like tracking down a dog-smuggling ring and getting attacked by a herd of murderous puppies.

Those scars are gone, now. Vampirism is good for skin-care, at least (as long as one isn’t bothered by being pasty white).

“And I thought you were a proper hunter,” Drake comments.

Narrowing his eyes, Hannibal scoffs. “Well, if you ask Blade i’m basically a kid with a toy gun, running around playing games and making a joke of the whole profession.”

“And are you?”

“I try not to dwell on questions like that. I find it isn’t good for the soul.”

Drake laughs, stepping fully into the light and sauntering over to Hannibal’s cell. Stands, only a meter away, and Hannibal very nearly steps back on reflex, every instinct he has screaming danger, danger, danger at him. He doesn’t listen, of course. He’s very good at not lsitening to that voice.

His gaze dips, briefly, before he forces it back up to Drake’s face. Only to make eye-contact, and it is searing, burning right through him and leaving him breathless, aching lungs seizing in his bare chest.

Drake smirks. “Are you cold, hunter?”

“Obviously,” Hannibal rolls his eyes. He gestures to his battered, “Have you seen this?”

“I have.” Drake blatantly looks at what is so freely offered and licks his lips. Hannibal doesn’t blame him; he’s hot even when he’s freezing his ass off and covered in days-old bruises. “Would you like clothing?” Drake asks.

“I feel like you’d get them off me before I could properly put them on,” Hannibal points out—Drake’s smirk only growing—and is it arrogance, to assume that Drake does in fact want him like he wants Drake? Is he simply projecting his own desires to distract himself from a sucky situation?

Ughh, that’s the kind of psychoanalyzing that makes his head hurt.

“But yeah, I’ll take some clothing.”

“It’ll be arranged.”

Hannibal’s eyes drift downward over Drake again. He eyes the strong lines of his body, the flexing of his muscles that must surely be for show because the vampire has shown a tendency to be so still he becomes almost unnoticable, which for a man like him is no easy feat. Hannibal’s eyes go up again, somewhat, and catches on Drake’s lips. He wonders what they taste like, what they feel like. Hedges said something about a thousand little bones like snakes, and Hannibal sure is curious to know how that would work during sex, if it’d have any effect at all. Actually, don’t snakes have two dicks? He feels like he remembers reading that somewhere.

His stomach growls. Hannibal lets go of one of the bars to press his hand to it, and feels the hollowness within. Licks his dry, chapped lips, and drags his hand thourgh his hair before he grabs the bar again.

Drake’s nostrils flair, a tiny movement that Hannibal wouldn’t have caught was he not looking so closely. “You need food,” the vampire states, and Hannibal isn’t about to disagree with him.

“Yeah,” he raps, gaze dipping once more. “I need a lot of things.”

Humming, Drake pulls a hand out of a pocket, a keyring in his hand with a bunch of keys dangling, and Hannibal’s gaze zeroes in on it so fast he getts a dizzy spell. Narrowing his eyes, he stretches a hand out between the bars and makes a gimme motion. Drake smiles, saying “Pretty please?” in a voice that has no right being that husky.

“Pretty please,” Hannibal drawls, and doesn’t manage to sound anything but like a brat.

Drake tosses the keys up and down in his hand, gaze digging deep beneath Hannibal’s skin, and it is cutting, to be observed so closely, the unfamiliar sensation shivers down his spine. Hannibal licks his lips, tries to focus his thoughts again, but they’re slipping through his fingers like sand, and he doesn’t quite know how to reset this conversation to get a steadier grip on himself.

He’s tired, and achy, and cold. Despite this, desire burns through his veins, warmth pooling in the pit of his stomach, pulse racing with just a look from Drake. Despite his dry through and drier lips, saliva stinks to the inside of his mouth when he gazes at the prime specimen of vampire before him.

“I think not,” Drake says, putting the keys back in his pocket to the no doubt annoying tune of Hannibal whining and pouting. But Drake hums, staring right into his eyes, and adds, “Not yet.”

They’re damn fancy clothes.

Hannibal holds them up in the air, doing his best with what little light he’s got. But even in the dim light of the flickering torches right out of a medieval movie, it’s clear these clothes are of another breed (hopefully not literally). They’re so soft he nearly cries after days of roughness and hurt and cold, and he shoves his nose in one of the shirts, inhales until his lungs hurt and holds it there until his automatic breathing system takes over when it, perhaps accurately, judges him as not doing a particularly good job of this whole staying alive thing.

His next breath is so big it seems to fill his whole body, and he shoves another piece of clothing at his nose, eyelids fluttering at that distinctive new clothing smell (granted, mixed with some general yuck he assocations with vampires these days).

It’s a whole box of brand new brand name clothing, and he drops onto the worn mattress, hugging the clothes to his body for one breathtakingly long moment.

Then he gets dressed.

On a whim, he chooses the fancy suit, elects to get dressed up just for himself. Smooths his hands over the fabric, marvels at the perfect fit, fiddles with the tie for longer than he should. Wishes he had a mirror so he could see just how dapper he surely looks now.

Well. Maybe not. After all, he hasn’t showered or shaved in days, and it’s certainly left a mark. He aches for a good bath, to get all this grime off him, and he mourns the clean state of the clothes now that he’s got them on.

Hannibal struts around in his cell for a bit, like he’s a model on a runway, and feels pretty damn good about himself. This is blatant manipulation, yes, but he’s not above taking advantage of that. And besides, if he left these clothes alone in their box he thinks he might actually cry. They’re so soft, smell so nice, and the thick socks are warm and comfortable, and he flexes his muscles and thinks Drake must have gotten these clothes especially for him. They fit too well, otherwise.

Flopping back on the mattress, he stares at the ceiling. Counts his breaths. Tries to keep his smile from showing, lest with his luck a vampire will right by his cell and figure out his weakness.

And he maybe does a pose or two on the bed, just to really break in the clothes.

“Would you like to see her?”

“Who?” Hannibal furrows his brows and tilts his head.

Drake shrugs, an particularly elegant motion when he does it. “Zoe. I understand you’re friends.”

“She’s alive?” Hannibal rasps after a long, long moment.

“Yes.” Drake looks at him, studies him. “I would have thought you’d been told told by now,” he comments, sounding musing more than anything and if Hannibal wasn’t currently filled with so many emotions he feels on the edge of bursting he might be annoyed or offended at the levity Drake holds for such fucking important information.

“Nobody’s told me anything,” and it’s telling how hoarse Hannibal’s voice is there. Normally he does a better job of keeping his emotions under check, and it grates on him that he lost it so quickly in this vampire’s presence, but. Well. It’s Zoe.

“That’s regrettable,” remarks Drake, not particularly bothered by this. He raises an eyebrow. “I see you like the clothes.”

“Yeah, I-” Hannibal pauses, reassessing what conversation they’re having now, the change in subject too abrupt for his battered brain. He presses a hand to his eye, takes a deep breath, and says, “Yeah, they’re nice. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Drake smiles. “I’m glad you like them.”

Biting his bottom lip, Hannibal worries his lip until it surely glistens, even in the faint light. He lets it go, slowly, and straightens up a bit, bending his head to rest it against a bar and clearly displaying the long line of his throat. Flexing his fingers on the bars, he hums and is gratified, satisfaction ballooning his chest, when Drake inhales deeply through his nose. Partly in shadows, and handsomeness only elevated by it, Hannibal's eyes go half-mast for a second.

Then the nose wrinkles, and Hannibal rolls his eyes. “I know I stink, buddy. But have you seen this place? It’s a miracle I’m still this pretty.” And he gestures at himself, playing up the motion of his hand to convey a bit more fragility than he’d usually do.

Something special just for Drake.

“A bath would do you well,” says Drake.

Hannibal huffs a laugh. “I agree one-hundred percent, and frankly I was starting to worry about your sense of smell.”

“Worry not about me,” Drake says, tilting his head and gazing at Hannibal from top to bottom again. It’s already the third time he’s done this today, and Hannibal is starting to feel pretty flattered. And the flutters in the pit of his stomach grow ever more reckless, senseless, breath hitching when Drake’s burning gaze makes eye-contact.

Drake smirks, and Hannibal scowls. He pushes off the bars and takes a miunte step back, crossing his arms over his chest. “So did you only come here to make me aware I stink or…?”

“Would you like to meet her?” Drake repeats.

“You know I do,” Hannibal snaps, rough where seconds before he’d been so warm it’d made his whole feel loose. But he draws himself up now, squares his shoulders and curls his lip into something resembling a growl. “Zoe isn’t a part of this,” he says, slow and clearly.

Drake raises an eyebrow. “Isn’t she?”

“No,” Hannibal says and he doesn’t much emphasize it, doesn’t put much weight on it, but it only makes it heavier. “No, she’s not.” 

Drake looks at him. Doesn’t say a word, expression blank, and Hannibal waits. Patiently. Watches the vampire in turn, studies the soundless, motionless existence before him. He doesn’t know what Drake is thinking; if he pushed too far, if he ruined whatever game they’re playing, if…

“She’s not a part of this,” Drake agrees, then, evenly, steadily, and emotion bleeds back into his expression as the unnerving, eerie stillness vanishes like smoke.

Hannibal doesn’t bother to hide his exhale, loosening shoulders and unwinding tension. A little vulnerability is good for the soul, or something, and Drake doesn’t much look like he minds. “Then yes, I want to see her.”

“I won’t bring her down here,” says Drake, something of a musing tone to it, and before Hannibal can protest, adds, “I’ll bring you up.” Hannibal’s mouth parts on a shaky breath, and Drake laughs. It sounds like victory, like Hannibal’s given something up, but Hannibal is pretty sure he isn’t the only one losing here, so he only smiles in return.

They can both lose, can’t they?

Maybe that’s the best outcome of this game of theirs.

“Bring something nice to wear. You’ll bath, first,” Drake instructs, and pulls out the key-ring again. Hannibal steps back, hesitates for the barest second, and then nods. Goes to the corner while Drake plays with the keys and finally deigns to unlock the door, Hannibal on his knees before the box and scrounging through it.

The sweats he’s wearing now are so comfortable he almost regrets changing them for something else, but he does wanna make an effort for Zoe, something fun that’ll reassure her. If she’s here, right here in this castle on it’s lonely mountain, then there’s nothing of normalcy around her, and that can’t be good. He doesn’t want to imagine Drake hurting her, doesn’t want to think of what might have been done to her, and so he focuses on something silly, something soft and gentle and kind.

Something properly distracting.

The dress is clearly meant for males, and Hannibal bunches it up in his hands, holds it close to his chest when he stands and turns and finds Drake less than a step behind him. He almost steps back out of reflex, swaying on his feet, but Drake's hand reaches out and grabs a hold of his arm, holding him still.

It’s the first time Drake’s touched him since that fight in Vance’s office.

It burns. Scorches. Hannibal’s eyes zero in on the hand holding him, his breath hitching and heart skipping a beat, and by the satisifed air in Drake’s expression, he doesn’t miss either.

Clearing his throat, Hannibal looks away first. “Come on. Let’s go.”

The bath is the definition of luxury. It’s clearly been remodeled fairly recently, majestic and ginormous, and Hannibal slows as he steps inside, inhaling the smell of something lovely on the wind and feeling the warm air embrace him. It’s softly lit, lamps on the walls providing more than enough light without ruining the cozy vibes, and Hannibal licks his lips and stops on the tiles, trying to take it all in for a moment.

Drake rests a hand on the small of Hannibal’s back, Hannibal pressing back into the motion, and he takes a step forward when Drake gently pushes him on. Gaze tripping down to the beige tiles, some kind of pattern engraved in them, he allows himself to be led over to a coat hanger standing on the floor, one of impeccable style; black iron and twisted into patterns with iron flowers on the spikes.

“Get ready,” Drake murmurs behind him, skimming a finger up his spine before he steps back, and Hannibal doesn’t bother to hide his shiver.

Hannibal gets ready. Pulls his clothes off without any hesitation, modesty already a lost virtue, and walks over to the edge of the bath. There are two large pools of sparkling water, one visibly shallower than the other, and he dips a toe in, sighs at the warmth, and is pulled back before he can proceed further.

“Shower first,” Drake says, strong hands on Hannibal’s shoulders and directing him around.

He doesn’t know where all these touches are suddenly coming from. Like something has been unlocked, Drake exibits no shyness in the way he touches and steers Hannibal around, like it’s something he’s entitled to, like it’s natural. Hannibal can’t say he hates it; not the touches and not the steering. It’s nice to know where Drake wants him to go, makes it easier to figure out what’s happening and what fights he wants to start.

And the touches are—Hannibal has maybe gone without nice, warm, intimate touches like this for too long. A pat on the back, a quick hug between bros, a ruffle of the hair; it’s not quite the same as a lingering touch, where he shivers deep in his spine and his breath hitches, the warmth a scorch-mark on his skin before the hand is even lifted. It’s not the same, and it’s been too long, and Hannibal doesn’t have the resistance he once did, worn down by time and age and some truly lackluster experiences.

So. Yeah. It’s nice, and he’s not afraid to push into the touches, too sink into the hand on his skin and lap up the warmth offered to him.

Drake leaves him alone for the shower, thankfully. Mostly it’s thankfully for his dick, because he’s a healthy man who’s about to stand under warm water for quite awhile with an incredibly hot vampire only a few meters away. A vampire who doesn’t bother pretending he’s not paying attention while Hannibal tilts his head back in the shower, entirely bare, warm water sliding down his body.

Exhaling, Hannibal shuts his eyes and relishes the warmth, the clean smell, the sensation of days’ dirt and blood and grime washing off. It’s nice, pleasant, and even the ceasless gaze on him is sort of nice. It’s attention that doesn’t mean to hurt; it might, lord knows it might really really hurt him, but it doesn’t intend to.

Hannibal might be aching for that kind of attention.

Potentially.

There’s shampoo and soap and conditioner galore, and he uses a liberal amount of each, delighting in the redness of his skin after he’s thoroughly cleaned it. Smooths a hand over his beard and wonders if he should ask somebody for a razor, but that seems like too much of a weapon to be allowed.

And he’s not going to let anyone else at it.

Warm, clean, smelling faintly like peach and cherries, Hannibal steps out of the shower, steam drifting on the wind, and walks up to Drake while pulling the fluffy towel tight around his waist, digging the edge in with fumbling fingers to get it to stay up. “Satisfied?” he asks, wiggling his eyebrows and brushing a hand through his hair, muscles shifting with the motions.

Drake smirks. “Immensely,” he drawls, nodding toward the bath. “Now, get in.” 

“Sir, yes, sir,” Hannibal salutes, waltzing over the floors on bare feet, swaying his hips just a bit more than normal, dipping his toes in the water and sighing again, dipping his head back in pleasure and feeling absolutely ravished by Drake’s unceasing gaze. It’s nice, he thinks, to be so wanted by someone so powerful.

Even if it is a manipulation tactic.

Smirking, Hannibal calls over his shoulder, “You did all this for little old me? I’m flattered, babe,” and very nearly purs on the last word. Tit-for-tat, and all that.

Tipping his head back just enough to catch sight of Drake out of the corner of his eye, Hannibal smiles. Lets the towel drop, and shudders at the sheer hunger he can almost feel emanate off Drake. It’s a heady, overwhelming sensation, all that unrivaled attention paid so close to his every move, every blink, every breath, every heartbeat.

Stepping into the bath is heaven. Three steps down and he’s the lowest he can go, water very nearly up to his nipples, and he pushes off the bottom flawlessly, floating on the water and spreading out like a starfish.

It’s nice. Warm. He can’t hear anything for the water in his ears, and he keeps his eyes shut, taking opportunity to rest on something cozier than his ratty mattress. Drake’s attention is still intoxicating, but the urgency falls away from him here, deep breaths in and out, and he floats around, feels the movement when somebody else gets in the water.

“This is nice,” Hannibal murmurs, opening his eyes just enough to confirm it’s Drake wading through the water, displacing it and sending ripples over his body, waves undulating. “Thank you.”

Drake doesn’t reply, merely leans against the pool’s wall and settles in for the long haul.

It’s possible that Hannibal lingers too long but come on; he’s never been in a pool this luxurious, in life or undeath. This is next level, and he’s not so beaten down by his captivity that he won’t take advantage, even if Drake’s perpetual stare does do something deep in his gut, an endless heat that simmers deep below the skin.

But it’s settles, in the bath. In the floating and the breathing and the warmth, the desire settles into something less feverish, less ravenous, into something slower, something more sustainable.

Drake doesn’t touch him in the bath.

He’s not particularly surprised to find himself disappointed.

“Why are you wearing a dress?” Zoe asks, tilting her head. Zoe is a darling, and he’s missed her so much.

Sitting on the floor surrounded by toys in a room thankfully at least three times the size of Hannibal's grungy cell, her cheeks’ have a healthy glow despite the situation and she gazes at him clearly, without any apparent need for a rescue. She doesn’t look thinner, and he can’t spot any wounds on what’s visible of her, scrutinizing her from behind the doorframe, somehow too scared to step inside.

Hannibal laughs, and it’s a victory it only sounds a bit wet. “Because I’m a queen.” And he leans his whole weight on the doorframe, frail as a butterfly and twice as pretty.

“Oh,” her eyebrows furrow, and then she lights up, grinning. “Does that make me a princess?”

“Abso-fudging-lutely.” Hannibal tosses a gaze at the vampire lingering behind him, standing just a bit too close, just enough that he is achingly aware of the warmth, of the body, of the fangs so close to his neck. “You are the bestest princess in the whole wide world.”

Zoe narrows her eyes at him, sensing something like she always does. She’s always been good at seeing right through him, and days of separation in a castle full of vampires doesn’t seem to have diminished this ability. “You’re being silly,” she declares, pushing to her feet and running over the pink carpet to him, attacking him mercilessly, hugging him tight around the waist. And tighter. And tighter.

“I’m dying,” Hannibal groans, gasping and falling back against Drake, who effortlessly catches him with a single hand on his back. Swooning, Hannibal groans, “You are too fierce for me, Zoe.”

Giggling, she lets him go enough that it doesn’t feel like she’s crushing his internal organs, but still holds onto the dress.

It’s a great, bold piece, and clearly made for a man’s physique. It’s got rolls and rolls of fabric, going from black at the top to white at the bottom, silver pieces of jewelry sewn onto the fabric. It’s fancy, spanning out around him, and he does honestly feel like a queen in it. The attention is nice too, both Zoe and Drake clearly fans of his superb modeling skills.

“So tell me what you’ve been up to, Zo,” Hannibal says, sitting down beside her gaggle of toys on the floor, the dress instantly drowning several of them. While rescuing them (with only minimal cursing!), he asks, putting on an exaggerated tone, “And have you gone to bed on time, little missy?”

She rolls her eyes, flipping over the dress and taking over. He’s clearly not working to her stringent standards, and he shares a look with Drake, startles at sharing a look with Drake, and clears his throat, gaze dipping back down to her. “Eating right? Showering regularly? Washing your hands after using the toilet?”

“I’m fine,” she emphasizes just a bit too much, and he frowns, but she barrels right on, “And anyway, you’re the one with bruises.”

“Yep, I do have bruises,” Hannibal agrees.

She twists her lips, grabbing at his dress and kneading it. She doesn’t look at Drake, but lowers her voice. “You’ve got bruises,” she repeats, and at his questioning noise she shrugs.

Hannibal’s mouth pulls taut, and he looks right at Drake, less on accident this time. He needs to know how many boundaries he can push, where the lines are, but he doesn’t want Zoe to be a tool for that. Doesn’t want her to get hurt for that if he crosses a line he shouldn’t. Still. Drake killed Sommerfield. Drake killed her mother.

“You know what? I think Drake has got a very important meeting right now.” Hannibal doesn’t look away from the damning gaze Drake has leveled at him, doesn’t break eye-contact even when it turns searing. Drake is close to the closed door, leaning artfully on the wall, muscles on display, and Drake looks, looks, looks.

It’s overwhelming. It’s intoxicating. It’s—too much.

“Really?” Zoe asks, craning her neck to glance at Drake without looking away from Hannibal. For a moment, Hannibal’s pounding heart is in his throat, the beating pulse sending sparks of pain down his chest, and then Drake smiles.

“Yes, I am. And I’m afraid it’s a most urgent meeting.” Drake’s gaze sweeps over Hannibal, and the smile grows. “So I can’t linger.”

“Okay. Bye-bye,” Zoe says, and Drake leaves, just like that, the sound of the lock turning loud in the sudden silence.

Eyebrows furrowing only to instantly smooth out, Hannibal gathers Zoe up in his lap and hugs her tightly, feeling her return the embrace. “I’m so glad you’re alright,” he murmurs into her hair, eyes shut. She nods against him, clinging tight, but doesn’t say another word.

That’s fine. Hannibal has more than enough words to fill the space between them.

Closing Zoe’s thick door, Hannibal presses his forehead to it's wooden surface, exhaling on a shaky, hitching breath, his hand lingering on the brass doorknob tellingly long. Raw, wrung-out, he loosens his shoulders at the now familiar sensation of Drake’s gaze on him.

“Have you been waiting here the entire time?” Hannibal asks, raspy, unable to lift his head.

“Of course,” says Drake, footsteps audible for once as he crosses the distance, steps up beside him. “Did you get what you wanted?” he asks, sounding mildly curious.

Hannibal laughs. “You can’t keep her trapped here. It’s not good for her.”

Humming, Drake places a hand on Hannibal’s back, smoothing it down the line of his spine and settling at the bottom of the back. Hannibal holds in a shiver, only half-succeeding, and opens his eyes. Stares at the dark wood of the door, tracing the patterns in the wood, and then, very deliberately, presses into the motion. “I understand the need for socialisation,” Drake says, “She won’t be left alone.”

“She’s not a pet.” Then, viciously, “She’s not your pet.”

“No,” Drake readily agrees, and Hannibal flicks a gaze to him. Drake’s expression is devoid of any traditional expression, something that Hannibal can’t read, but if pressed to guess he might just say satisfied. “But she could be yours.”

Hannibal bites down on his lip, pushing off the door and stalking off. He doesn’t think anything sound should be able to get through that beast of a door, but he doesn’t want to chance it; Zoe shouldn’t be hearing this. There's a turn in a the hallway not far off and Drake follows, effortlessly keeping up, not losing touch with Hannibal for so much as a second.

Finally, they turn the corner. No creepy vampire minion is staring at them, following them, and so Hannibal spins, smoothly stepping out of Drake’s grip, and pushes Drake back by the shoulders until the vampire hits the wall.

It’s probably surprise that allows Drake to be moved by puny human hands.

Snarling, Hannibal steps up to Drake and says, voice low and heavy, “You do not speak of her that way.”

Tilting his head, Drake asks, “Why not? You want her, and I’ll give her to you. Won’t that please you?”

“Fucking—” Hannibal digs his nails into Drake, inhaling until he stops shaking. “I will kill you,” he says, looking Drake right in the eyes. “If you hurt her. And talking about her like that? That hurts her.”

“I see,” Drake muses. He places a large hand on Hannibal’s neck, thumb smoothing over his pulse. “You love her.”

“You killed her mother.”

Drake looks at him. Looks and looks and looks, studies him so deeply he feels naked, and his thumb continues sweeping over Hannibal’s skin, digs into the dip at the bottom of his throat, smooths over his Adam’s apple, toys with the end of his beard. Finally, after what seems to be whole hours, whole universe come and gone, Drake says, “I apologize.”

“For?”

“Killing her mother.”

Hannibal’s lips tremble, and his nose stings. He breathes in sharply through it, forces composure down his throat until he suffocates, and says, “You don’t mean it.”

“Does it matter?” Drake studies him, still, tracking everything he does, and Hannibal… Hannibal is starting to think the game changed. At some point, it changed, and he’s not sure what the pieces are anymore.

Does it matter? Does it matter if Drake doesn’t truly care, if he’s just saying it to placate him? If it’s just a manipuation, if he’s only apologilizng to make Hannibal happy?

The thing is. The thing is that—well, Drake isn’t human. And he’s not a normal vampire, either. Hannibal doesn’t have a frame of reference here, doesn’t have any indication of what Drake’s instincts are telling him, what Drake is seeking out of his new existence in this new millennium.

Does it matter?

If you try, does it matter if you don’t truly care?

Hannibal’s gaze has fallen, at some point, to rest on Drake’s throat, the jewels strewn around it. They’re pretty, and they glint in the low, flickering lights—lamps, thankfully, but hardly any better for it—and he licks his lips. Does his best to ignore the simmering heat in his gut, flexes his hands on Drake’s shoulders, the tingles in his skin spreading from their point of contact, tastes the dryness in his mouth. Does it matter, he thinks, if Drake is a lying liar who lies?

“No,” Hannibal breathes, gaze rising again. He huffs on a breath, stretching his neck and rolling it gently from side to side, working out the kinks. He’s awarded by Drake’s eyes tracing the movement, dark and heavy, a heady mix that sets his blood aflame. Licking his lips again, he repeats, “No, it doesn’t matter.”

Drake smiles, caresses his thumb up Hannibal’s cheek, and bends forth. Rests their foreheads together, inhaling deeply, and Hannibal can’t help mirroring him, changing the grip on his shoulders to hang on, keeping his desires under control.

It is dark in this narrow hallway, a window in the distance displaying a view of the setting sun, the light spilling over ledge and crawling across the stoen floors, and Hannibal’s breath is shaky, unsteady, his heartbeat tripping over itself. He knows Drake knows all this, knows that he is blatantly obvious, and knows, too, that Drake is just as caught as he is.

Mutually assured destruction, maybe?

They don’t kiss. Hannibal sleeps on his mattress, dreams flashes of heat, and touch, and the taste of blood in his mouth, and when he wakes he does so with heat already curling through his system.

Hannibal is cordially invited to have breakfast with Drake and Zoe in the dining hall, and he goes dressed comfortably, close-fitting pants and a loose shirt displaying more of his chest than is strictly necessary but hey, it’s working fabulously for Drake and he wants some of that. So.

Zoe grins at him, waving from her seat at the head of the table, Drake sitting just to the right of her. “Morning,” Hannibal chirps, sitting to her left, the fancy chair for a moment shrieking when he carelessly pulls it out, across from Drake, and doesn’t look at him longer than necessary to ascertain if the emotions last night were a spur of the moment thing, the result of what might have been an emotionally gutting conversation with Zoe and his own frustration reaching the peak, an attempt to play the cards he’d been dealt to see where things fell.

But the attraction still beats below his skin, hungry in his bones, and he tears his gaze away, focusing on Zoe, ruffling her hair and laughing when she half-heartedly tries to bat him away, clearly delighted by the attention, her grin small but earnest.

Fresh from a trip to a very fancy bathroom he was shoved into before allowed to proceed, Hannibal happens to know that he smells great right now, slightly wet hair still dripping with the scent of lavender and vanilla. And Drake inhaling deeply out of the corner of his eyes is a testament to this, he thinks.

“You good, kiddo?” Hannibal pulls a little on Zoe’s hair, and she puffs up her cheeks, crossing her arms.

“I’m fine,” she declares imperiously, and he laughs.

“Alright, alright, don’t come at me those pitchforks of yours.” He can’t help poking her cheek. “You’re a vicious little kid, you know that?”

“I have a knife,” she tells him, preening.

“Oh?” Hannibal raises an eyebrow, crossing his legs under the table and nudging his foot against Drake’s. Just to see what the vampire will do, he tells himself. No other reason.

Obviously.

“Yep,” she nods. “The gnome king gave it to me.”

“Gnome king?”

She points at Drake without looking at him. Hannibal stills for a breath, then he smiles. “Did he?” he asks, glancing at Drake and tilting his head. She nods, fumbling around with shirt and coming up with a pocketknife from somewhere. The silver glints in the chandelier’s light.

“The gnome king says there’s a lot of dunderheads here and if I’m gonna be walking around, I need something to protect myself with.”

Hannibal exhales softly, ruffles her hair again. “Well, you know how to use it safely,” he says, and she grins at him, wild and free. He knows she’s not alright (how could she be, with her mother’s murderer in the same room) but… there are limits, he thinks, to what he can do. Slow and steady wins the race, and all that.

He’ll get his way, eventually.

Drake presses back on his foot, and Hannibal’s toes curl in the thin shoes a vampire underling dropped by in the wee hours of the morning, waking him from his sleep just long enough for him to understand what was happening. They’re soft, thin but sturdy, and it’s heaven to walk on proper shoes and not just socks; the stone floors are cold, and uneven, and not paricularly kind on his feet.

Zoe returns to her room with an underlining guiding her. Hannibal watches them go, sipping at his tea and trying to pretend he knows what taste it is; he doesn’t, tea isn’t his thing, but he’s having fun pretending to be super fancy at this super fancy breakfast.

There are chandeliers. An actual minion/servant topped up his tea when it ran out, and when he complained that the butter was halfway melted somebody promptly delivered a new carton, silently holding it out on a silver plate to him. And Drake looks like a model when he lounges on his chair, the soft light casting shadows in the dips of his muscles, and Hannibal doesn’t much bother pretending he isn’t paying attention.

It’s the best he’s eaten in days, if not weeks.

The food seems to melt on his tongue, every bite of substance bringing him closer to heaven. The tea is delightful, despite the ineffable taste, a sigh escaping him, and so too does he linger after Zoe has gone.

Rests his chin on his hand and leans over the table, studying Drake. There’s no way he can ever tire of it, he thinks. Drake is a beast onto his own, unlike any person or thing he’s ever met, and he can’t help trying to dissect what makes him tick; what he’s trying to accomplish; his likes and dislikes; his goal with with existence; his actual plans regarding Hannibal.

So he studies him, basks in the attention he receives in turn, their feet still nudging each other every now and then. There is a heat in his belly, a pressure in his chest he’s hard-pressed to name and doesn’t much care to think about besides, and he crooks his expression into something resembling a smile. “You come here often?” Hannibal drawls, but the pitch is wrong. It’s soft, he thinks, tilting his head in askance at his own tone.

Drake smirks. “So what if I do?”

Laughing, Hannibal hides a snort in his cough and puts down the teacup before he spills it all over himself, the quiet clink of the porcelin echoing when it strikes against the edge of his white, flower-patterned plate. It’d suck to lose his brand new cozy shirt, thick enough that it protects him from the castle’s chill, and big enough it shows just a bit more of his neck and collarbones than it strictly needs to. “Then I’ll be obligated to point out that you’re kind of a bit too classy for a place like this, aren’t you?”

“I am a king.” Drake’s eyes fall on Hannibal’s body, and Hannibal shudders, hides it with a shake of his head and another snort, taking comfort in that the dining hall is big enough and has enough odds and ends in it even the chandeliers—fancy as they are—can't light up each and every single crevice.

“And this castle was probably great once upon a time, and it’s got amazing baths, I admit, but come on. Internet? If it doesn’t have internet it might as well be a hovel. And does it get cable TV? Because I need cable TV.”

Drake doesn’t interrupt the tirade, even when Hannibal just starts saying things as a self-defense against those dark, dangerous eyes that see far too much—the vampire simply hums when he’s done and tilts his head, looking him up and down again and sending sparks down Hannibal’s spine.

“You require more sophistication,” Drake concludes after a moment of silent that trips over the awkward line and straight into flaming territory.

Hannibal drinks his lukewarm tea and agrees. “Sure, sure, the internet is for sophisticated people. And I am super sophisticated.”

Drake smiles. “You are. And I wouldn’t want you to suffer in your stay with me.”

“So…” Hannibal wiggles his eyebrows when Drake doesn’t continue, energy coursing through him. Licking his lips, he bites the bottom one and worries it, sucks on it, observes the way Drake focuses on it and a spark of heat lights up his body, tingles in his hands that definitely have nothing to do with any excitement he might or might not be feeling, nothing at all. “So…” he tries again, nodding at Drake.

“So I’ll acquire this internet here.”

Wincing, Hannibal murmurs, “Well, it’s a start, I guess.”

“You disapprove?”

Shaking his head, he sighs. Tips his head back to look at mural on the ceiling, coincidentally—obviously—also displaying his bare throat to the vampire sitting a mere meter across him. “You’re simply too old to understand. It’s a generation thing, so I’m afraid this is beyond you.”

Drake laughs. “I am the most adaptable species in existence. I will master this internet, and you’ll be forced to acknowledge your inferiority.”

“You wish.” Hannibal makes eye-contact with Drake and rises a blatantly challenging eyebrow, crossing his arms to doubly get his message across. There might be a lot of things Drake is naturally better at than Hannibal—there are some things specifically he really wishes Drake is supernaturally good at, for no reason in particular—but when it comes to the internet? Yeah, Zoe’ll beat him hands down, no contest, no competition. This old man has no chance against a kid who was browsing the world wide web before she was even born.

“I accept your challenge,” Drake says, and stands. He crosses around the gigantic table, Hannibal’s eyes following him every step of the way until, finally, Drake stands right beside him. Hannibal turns to face him, looking up at him, a certain bodily reaction of his on full display, and Drake cocks his eyebrow at him. “Now, shall we go?”

Drake holds out his hand. Hannibal eyes it for a second, grips it, and plants his feet wide. Pulls, hard as he can, and Drake lets himself be brought down, until he’s bent over, one hand on the armrest and their heads almost touching, Hannibal forced to lean back a little lest their heads connect in a really unfortunate way. Hannibal smiles, smooths his thumb over the back of Drake’s hand, and tilts his head. “Hey,” he says, soft, gentle, a bare breath. Nudges their foreheads gently together and murmurs quietly, “I’m not staying in a cell forever, you know.”

“I know.” Drake’s free hand lands on Hannibal’s neck, fingers caressing his skin and up into his hair, spreading out to get a good grip on him without hurting. Their connected hands, too, transcend into a proper hand-hold, and Hannibal will freely admit to getting a little lost in Drake’s eyes.

Just a little.

“So what are you going to do about it?” he murmurs, stretching his neck and leaning forwards, so close, so damn close that he can almost taste it, and this time when he licks his lips it’s entirely beyond his control, an involuntary reaction to the fire boiling him alive.

Drake hums. Nudges their noses together, inhaling without the barest hint of discretion or shame. “I wonder…” he muses, softly, deep voice hoarse. “Invite you somewhere else, I suppose.”

“Like your bed?”

“That can be arranged.” Drake pulls back a little, caressing Hannibal's neck as he goes, tilting his head back a little, and raises an eyebrow. “If that is something you desire?”

“It is,” Hannibal breathes, entirely devoid of hesitation. He searches Drake’s eyes, tries to find anything to indicate his choices are poor as shit—as per usual—but all he finds there is his own reflection and desire returned doubly to him.

Drake inhales deeply, clenching his jaw for a moment. His grip tightens, on the neck and hand both, and Hannibal waits, heart in throat.

Stares.

“You are perfect,” Drake says, and it sounds more like a declaration than it does a sweet nothing, tone allowing no disagreement, but Hannibal will gladly take it. He smiles, tilts his head, and lower his eye-lashes, peeking up at the vampire from below them with what can only be objectively called shamelessness.

“I know,” he gloats, and is pulled up effortlessly, held tight to Drake’s body. “You’re lucky I like you,” he adds, but it ends up sounding far softer out loud than it did in his head, and by Drake’s smirk, the vampire heard it too.

“I know,” Drake nevertheless answers with his customary apathetic tone, managing to come across entirely serious all the more for it.

Hannibal huffs. He curls his arms around Drake’s neck, hooks himself on and smirks, meeting Drake’s look head on. It’s all up to you now, buddy, he thinks, staying perfectly still and swaying a little in the warm embrace. Allows Drake to carry his weight, leaning on him, and stares, stares, stares, until, at long last, Drake kisses him.

It is, at first, just a simple touch of lips.

Hannibal stills, fingers digging into Drake’s back, and then he exhales through his nose, closing his eyes and leaning into it, sucking Drake’s lip in between his. Drake tilts his head, presses closer—as if such a thing was still possible—and takes control, getting his tongue in Hannibal’s mouth so quickly he’s not entirely he didn’t black out for a moment there.

Worth it.

It’s hot, and warm, and Drake is an expert at kissing, clearly. Deeper, deeper, deeper, Drake’s hands on his bare skin scorching him inside out, all the way to the bones, and his insides are so light he doesn’t understand how he hasn’t floated away, but the kiss just doesn’t stop, until Hannibal isn’t sure how he’s even breathing anymore, cock hard and pressed tight between them, the stimulation just slightly too much for his brain to comprehend.

But worth it. So worth it.

Drake’s bedroom is grand, cozy, a bed with an actual proper canopy, and Hannibal is gently put down on the edge, comfy sheets under his greedy hands, Drake leaning over him and massaging his skull. Hannibal’s eyes flutter, the soft touches breaking down his defenses easier than anything else in existence, and so too does he lean into the comforting tilt of his head back so Drake can press another quick kiss to his lips, nuzzles their noses together before he stands and gets undressed.

Exhaling every bit of air in his aching lungs, Hannibal falls back on the bed and presses a hand to his pounding heart, the sheets rustling and the mattress moving, dipping, beneath him when Drake joins him.

It’s dawn.

Sunlight streams in through the windows, the heavy, floor-length curtains swept fully to the sides. Stretching out like a gaping maw, the light crawls onto the bed, effectively blinds Hannibal with it’s merciless attack, and when he groans, hiding his face in a ridiculously plush pillow, the arm around his waist tightens and pulls him close into a buff chest.

Eyes falling shut, Hannibal breathes, hidden safely from the dangerous blob of fire in the sky.

In the waking, properly waking, there is warmth, and there is company. Hannibal presses into it, allows himself to be kissed, head tilted back and lip sucked on until his cock, already well-used at this point, decides to take an interest in things, and so too does he let himself be shuffled up against a pile of pillows before the headboard, yawning on a breath when he finally opens his eyes. He draws the thick covers tight over his naked, sore body, all the way up to his nose, scrunching it up as he rubs an eye and his gaze slowly focuses on the vampire before him. Breathes in deep, tries not to wince at the distinctive musk of sex that now permeates the bed after their… ehm… activities, and tips his head back to stare at the ceiling, the covers falling to his shoulders.

“I am dead,” he declares, laying his hand on his forehead like a fainting maiden. “You’ve killed me.”

Drake smiles, leans forth and presses a kiss to his forehead, rises and says, “A most painless death,” strolling naked and without shame to the adjourning bathroom.

“That’s what you think,” Hannibal retorts, huddling for warmth and eyes slipping shut for a moment, listening to the noises from the bathroom, wondering what Drake is doing in there.

“And I am right,” is the, perhaps predictable, reply. It echoes slightly, Drake's deep voice persisting for a moment after he's ceased speaking.

Hannibal doesn’t have a response for that, because he is right. It’s not like it didn’t hurt at all, Drake is absolutely hung, but that vanished soon enough with all attention lavished upon him.

He is sore as hell now, though.

Drake returns, still naked, and sits down on the bed, mattress dipping below his weight, muscles flexing distractedly with every movement. He leans forward, and Hannibal holds still, and smiles. “Does my bed please you, Hannibal?” Drake asks, deep and hoarse.

“It does,” he says.

Drake gets a little closer still, Hannibal's eyes hopelessly caught. “And did you find my touch satisfying?”

“I did.”

“And do you desire to join me on my bed again?”

“I do.”

They are close enough that Hannibal sees the flecks of light in Drake’s eyes, the sunlight reflecting in them, and his oen breath is raspy, stuck in his throat for just a beat too long; his focus is stolen by Drake so easily, so effortlessly he thinks, and is only able to vaguely bemoan it, heart already a lost cause.

“Then,” Drake murmurs, taking Hannibal’s head in his hands and pressing their foreheads softly together. “Do you desire to stay here, with me?”

Hannibal stares, and stares, and stares; surrounded by warmth, soft in body and soul, torn open and turned inside out but, he stares into Drake's eyes. He is a lost cause, maybe but. Well. But he doesn’t think he’s the only one.

And… in the end, he supposes he’s just a bit too selfish to be a good vampire hunter.

“Yeah,” he says, grinning, gripping Drake tight to him, and pressing a chaste kiss to Drake’s cheek. “I could be convinced.”

THE END