Fic: With the Help of Your Good Hands (Benjamin January mysteries, NC-17)

[brigdh]

Title: With the Help of Your Good Hands
Author: Brigdh
Ratings/Warnings: NC-17, breathplay of an extremely consensual sort
Summary: Hannibal asks a favor of Ben, who enjoys it more than he expected to. Ben/Hannibal
Disclaimer: The Benjamin January mysteries are by Barbara Hambly, and you should all read them.
Notes: A million, million thank yous to my betas, silverflight8 and somebraveapollo, who valiantly dealt with multiple drafts. Also this whole thing was somebraveapollo's idea.

Set just after Graveyard Dust.

3,875 words. Also available on AO3.



With the Help of Your Good Hands

Hannibal was gone when January woke, though his jacket and waistcoat were still on the floor where he’d left them, crumpled from having been used as a pillow. January gave serious consideration to pulling the sheet over his head and going back to sleep, but from the angle and brightness of the light he knew it was much later than he usually rose, and so he dragged himself upright. It seemed unfair that Hannibal should already be awake. Last night he’d drunk at least twice as much as January, even considering only what he’d had after arriving in January’s room.

January had heard Hannibal’s light tread on the stairs sometime close to midnight, but rather than going to Bella’s room he had peered in through January’s door and grinned to see him. With a flourish that imitated an ingratiating waiter, he’d presented an unopened bottle of Lemercier. “Spoils of war, amicus meus. Or the spoils of cards, in this case.” January had laughed and waved him in, and when Hannibal insisted on pouring out two glasses had allowed himself to be talked into sharing the bottle. Hannibal had settled on the floor with his glass, clearly glad for the company and with a thousand small things to say. Sometime between a story involving a production of King Lear he’d once seen in London– which had rewritten the plot so entirely that it had ended with happiness for all and a wedding for Cordelia– and a round of speculation over what operas might play that year in the city, taking into account the abilities of the musicians available, he’d stripped down to shirtsleeves, drawing his knees up and sitting his chin atop them. The brandy had made his laughter a little softer, his gestures a bit more loose, but it didn’t show in his voice at all, still clear and eloquent. January had felt blurred at the edges, more drunk than he usually liked to be, but Hannibal had kept refilling his glass and he was safe enough in his own room, golden and close in the candlelight, shutters closed against mosquitoes and the night air.

Then Hannibal had reenacted Dominique’s friend Phlosine’s attempt to arouse the jealousy of her protector by flirting with an out-of-town cousin of the Lafrènniéres, capturing perfectly the particular way she tossed her head, and January had laughed so hard he’d spilled his drink. Hannibal had reached for the emptying bottle to pour him more, glancing up at him with obvious amusement and affection, but January had covered his glass with one hand and sucked the brandy off the back of the other; the alcohol was rich and sweet in his mouth. It was a moment of such sharp pleasure that he had wished he could preserve it somehow, and keep it safe and close like a talisman against an uncertain future.

Eventually Hannibal had fallen asleep on the floor, having drunk enough to make walking to the next room a challenge not worth attempting. January had watched him lying there, aware that he should help Hannibal to his bed, but he’d been half-asleep himself and not certain he could manage it either. The sound of Hannibal’s breathing was quiet and steady in the pre-dawn silence, the wheeze of his consumption nearly inaudible. He’d been frighteningly ill earlier in the summer, enough so that January, wanting to stay near him, had spent several nights sleeping on an improvised pallet on the floor of Bella’s room. Hannibal’s breathing then had been a hoarse, painful sound, and it had filtered into January’s dreams: waves scraping across a gravel shore, someone endlessly, relentlessly scouring a pot. January had been woken one night when that breathing was interrupted by a bout of deep and racking coughing that had progressed into choking; afterwards, Hannibal had lowered his handkerchief from his mouth and it had been covered with the bright red of roses and poppies. For a moment, January’s own lungs had failed him. Hannibal had raised his gaze from the blood to look at him, mouth set in a hard line and eyes very dark in a face washed out by fever and exhaustion. The only thought in January’s mind was that there was no cure for this, nothing that made the slightest difference, and any words he might offer seemed meaningless against that knowledge. Helpless, he’d reached for Hannibal’s hand. Hannibal’s fingers were cold and shaking, but they closed on his in a fierce grip. They had sat like that, not speaking, until the fear in Hannibal’s eyes had eased enough for sleep to come again.

But that night had passed without further incident, and shortly after Hannibal had begun to recover, his consumption dying back to lie dormant once more; he still coughed and grew out of breath too easily, but he was well enough to walk about town and sing more than a line. The terror of dying alone that January had glimpsed so briefly was gone again under his usual good spirits. For as long as January had known him, Hannibal had had a trick of brushing off most of life’s vagaries with a shrug or a well-chosen quote. It could make him very good company, but January sometimes wondered what lay behind that wall of cheerful reserve.

This morning he certainly showed no signs of illness or melancholy. When January finally conquered a mild headache and managed to pull on trousers and climb down to the courtyard, he found Hannibal perched on a chair by the kitchen door, positioned to take advantage of the cooler shadows under the gallery. He was eating a piece of bread while reading Livia’s copy of La Nouvelle Héloïse, and appeared to be suffering no after-effects of drinking: his face was washed, his hair combed, and if he was still in shirtsleeves, at least his cravat was tied. Aware of the price of building up that sort of tolerance, January suppressed his jealousy.

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into finishing that entire bottle of brandy,” he said, stepping off the stairs and
squinting in the sunlight. At least it was October, and not as hot as it had been a few weeks ago. “It tastes like something died in my mouth.”

Hannibal looked up from the book, watching January head to the well for cold water to splash against his face. “I made coffee.”

“That is almost enough for me to forgive you.”

“And besides, it was good brandy. Much better–”

January held up a hand to cut him off, then dragged it over his face to dash off the excess water. A few drops landed on his chest and shoulders, pleasantly cool. “I know. You made that point last night. Several times.” He clasped Hannibal’s shoulder as he passed and shook him playfully. “But no matter how good the liquor is, the next time you get me drunk, I will strangle you.”

Hannibal smiled, then tilted his head consideringly. He studied January for a moment before asking, “Would you?”

“Don’t tempt me.” He moved to duck into the kitchen, wanting some of the coffee he could smell, but Hannibal was still watching him. “What?”

“Would you?” Hannibal repeated, voice carefully light. “If I asked you to?”

January paused, feeling like he’d somehow missed an important piece of the conversation. “Strangle you? Why would you want me to?”

Hannibal closed the book– not bothering to mark his place, January noticed. “It’s a game, I suppose I could call it. The sort played by those for whom the regular vices have lost their savor.” He made a vague gesture, his hand squeezing empty air. “One cuts off the breath– not enough to kill, you understand, or even to injure; just enough to give the experience that irresistible pretense of danger.”

January came entirely out from the kitchen, propping his shoulder against the doorframe as he looked at Hannibal. He met January’s gaze easily enough, but his fingers tightened on the spine of the book. “You’re serious.” Hannibal nodded. “Haven’t you had enough ‘pretense of danger’?”

“Ah, but the pretense is the important part, and you have to admit that has been entirely lacking. What real danger would I be in, in your hands? You would have complete control, and so it all will end happily, and everyone will be safe and well. Or as well as they ever get.” He hesitated, and when he spoke again, he did so quietly. “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t trust you.”

It was the sincerity in his voice that made January consider it. Hannibal and he occasionally shared a bed; not often, but enough for them to have become comfortable with one another. January had been slow to recognize Hannibal’s flirtation for the serious offer it was, but once he had, he’d found the idea not unwelcome. Hannibal was a man, and white, but he was also charming and generous and quite surprisingly discreet. It was not a romance; January wouldn’t have been capable of that in those first few months back in New Orleans, when he hadn’t been entirely certain he would even survive Ayasha’s death. But he’d been lonely, lonely enough that he thought he might go mad from it, and that if he didn’t feel the touch of another human hand, his skin would shrivel and shrink and he would suffocate on his own unhappiness. So he had wanted what Hannibal offered: sex without the intensity of devotion, as a thing shared between friends, simply because it was good to kiss and to be kissed, to touch and to be touched, to have a body against his as he slept.

January had been content with that arrangement until he’d met Rose; she had woken again in him dreams of romance and the desire for more than friendship. He’d realized that he wanted to share the whole of his life with a partner, to build something lasting from their love. But that was still in the future, if it was to be at all. And now Hannibal, who had never spoken of his own hopes for the future, was revealing a depth of attachment January hadn’t suspected he held. January felt himself smile, warm with appreciation for his friends. “So the point is trust, then?”

Hannibal grinned unexpectedly. “There is a physical aspect to it as well.” He stood, leaving behind the book and half-eaten slice of bread on the chair, and mirrored January’s position, one shoulder against the kitchen wall. He was close enough that he could easily have reached out and touched January, but he waited, folding his hands behind his back. “If you’re not interested, Benjamin, say so, and then we can both pretend I never mentioned it.”

There was only an inch or so of skin visible on Hannibal’s throat, just enough space between his chin and the collar of his shirt to fit the pad of January’s thumb; January lifted his hand and ran it along that narrow stretch. Hannibal’s breath hitched, though he hadn’t applied pressure. “And what if I wanted to try it?”

“You seem to have grasped the basic principles already.”

January didn’t answer; he dragged his thumb back and forth over that same strip of skin, watching Hannibal’s response, how he licked his lips and lifted his chin to expose more of his neck, an abrupt, jerky movement, as though he couldn’t help himself. Something sparked in January, to see his smallest touch create such a reaction. He wanted to see what else he could stir up. Hannibal trusted him, he’d known that; Hannibal respected his judgment. But that Hannibal thought him so capable as to desire to put his very life into January’s hands– that was new. The thought of it, of Hannibal willingly surrendering to him, giving him control... it was suddenly extremely appealing.

January dropped his hand. “I won’t hurt you.”

“Good. I don’t want you to hurt me.” Hannibal looked up at him; there was no fear in his eyes, only anticipation. His breath was beginning to come more quickly. “You’ve only ever been kind to me, and more so than I’ve deserved; that’s precisely the reason I’m asking this of you.”

“Flattery’s not going to convince me.” Still, January stepped forward, away from the doorway; Hannibal turned with him, putting his back against the wall. He stayed silent as January untied his cravat, pushing down the shirt’s high collar to uncover his neck. The skin beneath seemed as thin as gauze and nearly as delicate, stretched over tendons and ligaments. January placed one finger lightly on the hollow of Hannibal’s throat, feeling the beating of his pulse.

A sigh shuddered out of Hannibal and he closed his eyes. “Please don’t stop again.”

“Be patient.” January wrapped his hand around Hannibal’s neck as gently as he could, aware of the vulnerability of the Adam’s apple under his palm, of how his thumb against the corner of the jaw forced Hannibal to lift his face. Hannibal’s lips were parted, and the air raced in and out of him; January leaned in so close that they could have kissed, and asked, “Like this?”

“Yes. And melted into air, into thin air–”

January increased the pressure of his hand and Hannibal cut off, his fingers flattening against the wall behind him. It wasn’t truly enough to stop him from breathing, but still January only kept the hold for a few brief seconds, quickly lifting his hand away. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” Hannibal had to cough before he could continue, but it seemed to be more from emotion than actual lack of air. “Do you know how long I have to wait to breathe, sometimes, when I can’t stop coughing? And I don’t know if it will stop in time, or if I’ll just keep coughing–” He broke off. After a moment, he reached out and took January’s hand in his, drawing it to him. “This is nothing, compared to that. Press harder; I’m not quite so fragile.”

This time January used both hands; Hannibal’s neck, which had seemed so long, nearly disappeared under them. The tips of January’s fingers met in the short, loose hairs at the base of the skull, his wrists rested against Hannibal’s narrow collarbones, and his thumbs lay on top of the ridged column of his trachea. He felt Hannibal swallow. January bore down carefully, slowly tightening his grip and watching for any signs that it was too much; the skin along Hannibal’s cheekbones flushed and his mouth opened wider, but his eyes focused on January’s as though he couldn’t bear to look away for an instant.

January let go and kissed him hungrily. Hannibal gasped for air against his mouth, trying desperately to breathe and kiss at the same time. January used his weight to lean hard into him, nearly biting his mouth in the fierce urgency he felt. Hannibal only clutched him closer and panted raggedly into the kiss, even as January drove him back against the kitchen wall, pressing into him all down his body. “Shit,” January said, lifting his head. “You’re hard from this. Already.”

“I was aware of that, thank you,” Hannibal said, but his arms were around January’s shoulders and his lips were wet and he didn’t really have any dignity left.

January swept his thumb down the center of Hannibal’s throat, from the underside of his chin to the soft, vulnerable spot at the very base, and held there, digging in until he could feel how Hannibal had to work for air. “Let’s get on the bed,” January said, his voice hoarse in his own ears.

Hannibal moved immediately, scrambling up the stairs and into January’s room; January followed close on his heels, pushing him onto the bed when he paused and would have turned, then kneeling over him and kissing him impatiently down into the mattress. January yanked the hem of Hannibal’s shirt out of his trousers and swiftly pulled the whole thing over his head; Hannibal’s queue caught on the collar and some of his hair fell into his face. He pushed it back, struggled up onto one arm and reached with the other for January to kiss him again. January let himself be pulled in, but kept enough space between them to run a hand across Hannibal’s chest and stomach, stroking his smooth skin and thin body, touching ribs and hips and waist. Under the layers of clothes, he was slight, the shape of him small and spare. Hannibal put his head back to show his throat, and January closed his mouth over it, drew his tongue down the line of the artery that stood out beneath the skin, and then used his teeth, biting a trail down to where neck turned into shoulder. Hannibal bucked under him, his hands digging into the muscles of January’s back, and his hips rolled up. January thought again of all those clothes, the white linen knotted around Hannibal’s neck, and he bit down harder, sucking at the skin until he knew it would bruise.

“Ben, please, please,” Hannibal was saying, the words short and strained. “Do it again, just once more, I beg you–” He cut himself off with an inarticulate groan, twisting his face away.

January kissed him and tangled one hand in his hair to tug his head back, exposing his neck further. With his left hand he reached down and freed Hannibal’s cock from his trousers, closing his fist around him and stroking roughly, but Hannibal was already thrusting up, quick and jerky, his boot heels grinding into the mattress as he struggled for leverage.

January shifted his weight to the side, trading his grip on Hannibal’s hair for one on his throat. He skimmed his hand over Hannibal’s neck, palm brushing the airway and thumb light on the jugular; Hannibal moaned and arched his back, trying to press his neck harder against January’s hand, but January didn’t want to rush. He stilled his other hand, no longer stroking, but gripping Hannibal’s cock steadily while he swiped his thumb back and forth across the head.

He began to tighten his fingers around Hannibal’s neck, noticing how the pale skin turned to white as the pressure increased, how the red mark under his pinky was already darkening to purple. The wheeze in Hannibal’s breathing grew louder, but he was still talking with what air he could get, French and English and fragments that didn’t add up to words. January closed his hand a little further and Hannibal’s hips jerked up violently; January felt his own cock respond and he moved his other hand again, stroking faster now. Hannibal touched his forearm, but not to push him away; a dogged grip, as though he needed something to hold on to. His fingers shook, and January bent his head to press his mouth against them, too out of breath himself for a true kiss. Hannibal’s hand slid down to his wrist and curled briefly around it, then flattened out to lie lightly over January’s hand, entwining their fingers. Hannibal’s eyes were closed, his head thrown back and all his body flexed and rigid, his cock hot and stiff in January’s left hand. Even with his face red and chest working fast and shallow, he wasn’t struggling away.

January strengthened his grip on Hannibal’s throat, the pulse a swift, hard hammer against his thumb, and for a second he could feel how Hannibal’s air cut off entirely. He tensed and stilled, and came just as January released him. Hannibal lay flat for a moment, his breaths loud as sobs and small contractions shivering through him, and then a violent fit of coughing took him and he curled over to his side. January waited, a hand soft on Hannibal’s hip, until his breathing slowed and grew controlled again. The line of his spine was prominent, the angle of his shoulder sharp as the corner of a square; his position hid his face, but January could see his hand make a fist against the sheet.

And then Hannibal turned, and there was real happiness in his face. He grinned and moved to straddle January, who laughed and lay back to let him. Hannibal kissed him, his hands framing January’s face, enthusiastic and focused and unhurried. His thumbs traced over January’s cheekbones, and he pulled back to kiss the corner of his mouth and the outside of his lips, then tipped his head to press deeper again; he licked his way into January’s mouth and kissed him as though it was the only thing he wanted to do. January held him by the hips, thumbs pressing into the hollow just inside his hipbones, and rocked up against him; Hannibal’s mouth was red when he eventually broke the kiss.

“Da mi basia mille, deinde centum,” he said, and kissed his way down January’s bare chest to his stomach, pausing to unbutton his trousers and tug them down as January obligingly lifted his hips. Hannibal knelt between his legs, glanced briefly up at him, and bent his head to take January’s cock in his mouth. He did it in one swift motion, his hand wrapped around the base; January dropped his head back against the pillow and tried not to thrust. Hannibal slowly drew back until he had nearly pulled off, and then sank down again just as deliberately. Each time he did, his mouth came slightly lower, until he moved his hand away, laying it on the big muscle in January’s thigh. January groaned and looked down; Hannibal’s cheeks were hollowed, lips dragging against the skin, eyes half-lidded in concentration. January touched his hair, then his face, wanting to feel him. Hannibal hummed and pressed his tongue firmly against the underside of January’s cock, then swallowed around him.

January groaned again, moving his hand to clutch at the sheet beneath him, and squeezed his eyes shut. Hannibal didn’t increase his pace, just kept sucking him easily, almost lazily. January felt himself about to come and meant to warn Hannibal, but he couldn’t manage more than a stuttered word. It didn’t seem to matter; Hannibal’s head bobbed down and he tightened his mouth, swallowing until January was spent.

The next time January looked at him, Hannibal was out of the bed and near the small stand against the wall, cleaning himself. He crossed back to hand January a wet washcloth and said, “Well? Shall I apologize for introducing you to new and unimagined perversions?”

January laughed. “No. Apologies are definitely unnecessary.” Hannibal smiled, losing his undercurrent of nervousness, and sat on the edge of the bed, half-turning to watch January. January dropped the cloth on the floor, intending to remove it later but feeling far too content to do so just then. He stretched, turned on his side and moved back; the mattress hadn’t been intended for two, but he knew it could be comfortable enough. “I’m going back to sleep. Don’t wake me until it’s time for lunch.”

He felt Hannibal lie down next to him. January hadn’t been sure he would, but didn’t comment on it; he only draped his leg across Hannibal’s and was quickly asleep.

***

Hannibal translations:
Da mi basia mille, deinde centum
Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred.
-Catullus 5

Both the title and melted into air, into thin air are from Shakespeare's The Tempest.

Comments

[lavode.livejournal.com]

I had to pause and go “aww” several times while reading this because of how Hannibal imperils January’s dignity, and how January wants to protect everyone against everything and hates it that he can’t. You’d think this fandom would attract more slash fans – these two are, excuse me, so adorable and squee-inducing together*, and they have a built-in seme/uke dynamic, which a lot of slash fans seem to enjoy. I love that this exploration of “new and unimagined perversions” is almost more about January trusting Hannibal than vice versa – it’s perfectly in character, and also romantic.

To sum up: aww!

*Even more so with Rose and hopefully Shaw… if he takes a bath first.

[wordsofastory.livejournal.com]

Thank you! Yeah, they are just so sweet together; it makes me really happy to read/write about their interactions (and with others!). I was thinking about trust a lot as I wrote this, since there's only a month or two between Graveyard Dust and Sold Down the River, so shortly after this story Ben is going to be placing a lot of trust in Hannibal. That's a conversation I would have loved to have seen- Ben trying to explain 'So, I'm going to pretend to be a slave, and you need to come and act like you own me, and really, this is somehow a good idea" and Hannibal's reaction.

I'm trying to attract more fans, but I think book fandoms have a tendency to be small.

[eglantine-br.livejournal.com]

New fan here-- I have not read the books, but this makes me want to know the men. (Even if these antics are not canon.) Like this very much. I am turned to jelly by the vulnerable sleepy thing. The idea that men just slept together, even if not romantically involved, just slays me.

[wordsofastory.livejournal.com]

Thank you! I really, really love the characters and the books they're from. I wrote up an introduction/incitement for the series, if you're interested: Benjamin January mysteries (http://wordsofastory.livejournal.com/436443.html).