Stupid No. 1

Pairing: Hanna/...
Prompt: "The five times Hanna did something stupid and Zombie had to take care of him afterward, and the one time Zombie did something stupid and Hanna had to take care of him."

From the kinkmeme! I don't think I've ever done a prompt from one of those things before.
I figure I'll do each one as separate chapters. As for this one: there seem to be varying answers for just how much Hanna can see without his glasses, but for the purposes of this drabble let's say he's pretty damn blind /artistic license

Hanna had some sort of god-given talent for walking into things (both literally and metaphorically – the image of Conrad and Worth tangled together on the rickety operating table would haunt him for the rest of his life). Last week, it had been Imhotep, knocking the pancakes he'd made onto the floor ("sorrysorrysorry!"). The week before that, Hanna walked right into a ditch.

This week he walked face-first into a lamp post – or more accurately, glasses first.

The sad looking spectacles sat in two pieces on the table between Hanna and Gallahad. Not that Hanna could make out much more than two blurry black shapes. It was a miracle, the dead man supposed, with their lifestyle, that Hanna's glasses had survived this long – the lamp post had been the straw that broke the camel's back, it seemed.

"How many fingers?" Jefferson asked sceptically, and Hanna could vaguely make out a green blob raising up.

"…Four? No, Five!...No, definitely four," he said, scrunching his face up to squint harder.

"Two," sighed the dead man. Hanna groaned, letting his head fall with a 'thud' against the table. "Opticians. Tomorrow morning."

So Hanna sat, and Hanna pouted on the sofa while Vladimir made dinner. The sound of knives on chopping boards and the bubbling of a stew rang louder than usual in the quiet apartment – he spared a glance towards the tiny red-head on the couch, who was staring angrily at the ceiling.

"This sucks," Hanna muttered irritably. He flipped himself over onto his stomach petulantly with an oh-so-sulky sigh, before grumbling again and turning onto his side. Pietro smiled to himself. Checking the stew one more time, he walked over to the couch, settling himself flush against Hanna's back.

"Hanna," he said softly, mouth pressed against fiery hair, voice lowering, "you don't need them."

"What? Of course I need them, everything's all blurry and stupid without them!" huffed Hanna. Behind him, the dead man shifted just enough to tug his tie off.

"No," he chuckled lightly, draping the thin black material over Hanna's eyes before pulling it tight and knotting the tie at the back. He leaned forward to press his lips against a pale, pink ear, letting his hand drift down to Hanna's side. "I mean you don't need them."

Hanna reached up with an annoyed expression to take the tie off – before suddenly freezing in realization. His mouth formed a perfect little 'o' of surprise, because Tristan was very close indeed, and that hand rubbing little circles on his hips was actually rather nice, and cold lips were pressing along his neck, and really, he didn't need his glasses for this after all.

"Oh!" Hanna gasped quietly as the hand on his hip moved lower, and both the stew and the broken glasses were forgotten.