Work Text:
Dracula had had a successful hunt that night. A local college party was now missing half a dozen participants. He ate three and Renfield was busy with the others. Meal prep as you might say. Obviously fresh was always best, but sometimes Dracula wanted a night in, just wasn’t in the mood to go out and get fresh blood. So he'd order Renfield to drain a few bodies and bottle them up so Dracula could have them later on. Renfield really had a knack for bottling up blood, other past familiars tended to do it completely wrong leaving the vital liquid with a terrible, sticky congealed texture, disgustingly lukewarm. Renfield managed to keep the blood relatively smooth with only a few clots and would heat it up over the fire for him so it was nice and hot.
Renfield entered the lounge where Dracula was stretched out on a sofa by the fireplace luxuriously relaxed, sipping from a goblet. His servant looked exhausted, big black bags under his eyes, even more unkempt than usual, suit rumpled, hair getting too long and his whiskers growing in. Still, he immediately went over to stoke the fire, adding a log so the heat flared up.
“Come here,” he said suddenly, sitting up and Renfield flinched, shrinking in on himself, eyes wide and scared.
“Your hair needs cutting,” Dracula told him and Renfield visibly relaxed, relieved he wasn't in any serious trouble.
He sat down at the carpet by the foot of the sofa between his master’s legs. Dracula ran a hand through his hair, fingers catching on knots, making Renfield flinch again. It half irritated, half endeared him, Renfield’s habit of getting sloppy with his appearance. He did it because he worked so hard, afraid to relax unless given express permission and Dracula enjoyed his devotion and fear. Still, the Renfield he’d first met had a tidy haircut and was well groomed with a neat suit and the Renfield he ended up with had shaggy hair, chewed up nails and a raggedy suit with flyaway threads and sewn up patches. False advertising.
He finger combed his hair, untangling the knots until it was smooth and fluffy. Dracula didn’t mind when his pet’s hair was on the shorter side but preferred it to be a little bit long, around chin length, disliked it when it started getting towards his shoulders. Easier to stroke and play with at that mid-length…and also to yank and pull. He thought it sweet when it fell over his eyes, enjoyed tucking it behind his ear. He didn’t need to use scissors, talons sharp enough. Taking some hair in one hand and slicing away at the split ends. Renfield was blinking sleepily. Overworked and right by the toasty fire, with a soothing sensation at his scalp. His fingers crept to his mouth as he began to chew on the nails, lulled by the gentle snipping noises and slight tug at his hair follicles.
“Get those fingers down,” Dracula said and Renfield immediately obeyed. It was a terrible habit, chewing on his nails, especially in his line of business. Handling dead bodies and chewing on his fingers afterwards often gave Renfield nasty stomach bugs.
By the time he’d trimmed his hair up, the brunette clippings all over the rug, Renfield had drifted off into a nap. Dracula lifted up his arm and examined his chewed nails, tutting. Used the edge of his deadly sharp talon to smooth the frayed edges. Then let him slump over onto the rug and curl up next to the fire, his light nap turning into a deep slumber. Dracula would get him to sweep up the hair later on. He returned to his stretched-out position across the sofa taking his cup of blood to sip on again. Watched his pretty pet sleep.