Disclaimer: I do not own the characters and situations of "Hannibal". No copyright infringement is intended.

A/N: Hannigram fluff! I watched "True Blood" the other day, and Jason's shaving-dream really got me inspired. (I suppose I'll have to deal with the finale sooner or later, but for the moment I'm sticking my head in the sand and pretending that nothing is wrong.) Enjoy!

Adventures With a Straight Razor

Will woke up in a strange bed, surrounded by soft pillows.

He sat up, blinking blearily against the narrow shaft of sunlight spilling in through heavy velvet drapes. For a moment, he couldn't remember where he was – he only knew that it couldn't possibly be his own bedroom – but then there was a diffident knock on the door and a very familiar voice politely inquired about breakfast.

Will's lips twitched in humor at the slightly annoyed tone in the doctor's voice. Probably Hannibal's way of asking if I'm ever getting up.

Hannibal had graciously offered Will one of his guestrooms – had insisted on it, in fact, in no uncertain terms – when a long day of investigating had turned into an even longer night. It had been well into the wee hours when they returned to Baltimore, and before he really knew what had happened, a late night snack had turned into an impromptu sleepover.

Will glanced at his watch. It was almost noon, and he frowned. No wonder Hannibal is getting snippy. It was Saturday, but he had never known the man to be a late sleeper, weekend or not. He got out of bed and padded towards the bathroom. Then he glanced around, suddenly wondering where the hell his clothes were.

He found them neatly folded on a chair next to the bathroom door. He held up his shirt and looked at it somewhat suspiciously. It looked like it had been ironed, and when he sniffed the fabric there was the faint, but unmistakable, scent of laundry detergent. Hannibal washed my clothes? When did he...? His face warmed when he realized that Hannibal must have collected them some time this morning, while he was still sleeping. His face warmed even more when he inventoried the pile and found his underwear, also washed and neatly folded. Okay... That was... nice, I suppose.

After a quick shower, Will wrapped a towel around his waist and opened the cabinet over the sink, inspecting the shaving utensils neatly arranged inside. An old-fashioned straight razor gleamed in the bright light from an overhead spot. He held it up, staring at the wickedly sharp instrument with some trepidation.

It was a far cry from what he normally used – if he even bothered to shave at all – and he wasn't entirely confident he could make use of it without making a fool of himself, but showing up for breakfast in Hannibal's elegant dining room unshaven just seemed... wrong somehow.

He shrugged and lathered up his face with shaving cream. Well, in for a penny...

It was a bad idea, especially since he was still half asleep.

On the very first attempt the blade sliced into his skin, crimson drops dotting his neck. The blade was so sharp that he didn't feel it at first, but then he yelped as the pain caught up. He swore and pressed his fingers against the wound. It hurt like you wouldn't believe.

"Will? Is everything alright?"

He jumped as Hannibal appeared behind him, his familiar form reflecting in the mirror. He was more casually dressed than usual, sporting slacks and a dark sweater, but still managed to look immaculate. In comparison, Will felt scruffy and woefully inadequate. He sent the doctor a half humorous, half helpless look.

"I don't think I will be able to shave without killing myself," he said and held up the offending razor. "You wouldn't happen to have any cheap, plastic razors?" he said jokingly.

Hannibal didn't answer right away, momentarily distracted by the vision of sleep-tousled charm in front of him, but then he gave Will a most disapproving look. "Absolutely not," he said, his nose turning up at the very idea. Then the tiniest smile flitted over his lips and he came closer. "Here, let me help you."

Will gave him a rueful look. "Uh... okay," he murmured.

Hannibal coaxed the razor from Will's grip, the corners of his mouth twitching at the slight resistance. He positioned himself behind the younger man and put one hand on Will's bare shoulder.

Again, Will jumped. "Uh...maybe this isn't such a good idea," he said, feeling distinctly vulnerable in his half naked state, the doctor looming over him with the razor at his throat.

Hannibal only smiled. He leaned forward, a challenging glint in his eyes as he met Will's gaze in the mirror. "Come now, William. Don't you trust me?" He didn't get an answer, but he did get the satisfaction of watching Will's cheekbones turning a charming shade of red. The smile widened.

Hannibal angled himself around Will, his hand moving to the back of his neck. Will's hair was still wet from the shower, slicked back from his forehead, ends curling at the nape. Hannibal breathed in deeply, his head swimming as Will's familiar scent mixed with the smell of his own soap. It was very... distracting. He placed the razor against Will's throat. "Tilt your head back," he murmured.

Will swallowed, but did as he was asked. He felt the edge of the razor, and then it slid over his skin with a rasping sound. After rinsing the blade under the tap, Hannibal once more placed the blade against his skin and continued shaving.

Will watched him in the mirror, his breathing quickening at the man's close proximity. Hannibal's hand was warm against the back of his neck, the rare touch both soothing and disturbing. Normally, this kind of invasion of his personal space would have had him bolting, but somehow Hannibal didn't trigger his defenses, the man's magnetic presence wrapping around his senses like a warm, soothing blanket. Again, he swallowed nervosly.

"Hold still," Hannibal said.

Will lowered his eyes demurely and held still. The blade continued rasping over his skin and, in no time, he was done.

"There," Hannibal said, taking a step back to admire his handiwork. Then he wet a towel and wiped away any remnants of shaving cream.

Will looked at himself in the mirror, and had to admit that he liked it. He rubbed his chin, now smooth as a baby's butt, and gave Hannibal a reluctant look of approval. "Thank you. That feels... nice," he said.

Hannibal leaned forward and spoke almost directly in his ear. "Oh, ye of little faith." Then he frowned, his eyes riveted to the tiny wound on Will's throat, right over the pulse point.

Will craned his neck. "How does it look?"

Hannibal pressed a corner of the towel against the wound, Will's pulse jumping under his fingers like a captive bird. Then he lifted it and inspected the wound, the young man meekly acquiescing to his ministrations. "It's fine. The bleeding has almost stopped," Hannibal murmured. His fingers looked very brown against the pale skin of Will's exposed neck. The contrast was quite fetching. Almost as if by its own volition, his thumb moved, brushing lightly over the skin.

Will stifled a gasp. The fingers against his neck were warm, the touch almost electric. A thin thread of fear unspooled in his stomach, fear of the unknown. On its heels came of wave of heat that only grew in intensity as Hannibal's hand moved away from his throat to rest on his shoulder, the movement a languorous caress leaving behind a trail of fire and tingling goose flesh.

Will froze as Hannibal's eyes met his in the mirror. They were as inscrutable as ever, but a small lick of fire played in their maroon depths, a dark, dancing flame. For once, Will didn't look away, but willingly embraced the eye contact, disturbing though it was. Then Hannibal's eyes lowered, and for a moment – whether it was a moment of pure, empathetic insight or merely a fevered fantasy, he couldn't quite tell – it almost seemed as if the man was going to kiss him on the neck.

Suddenly, Will wanted nothing more than for Hannibal's arms to wrap around him; to feel his lips against his skin, his strong fingers twisting through his hair. It was a startling thought, and his eyes – his treacherous eyes that were already fluttering shut in anticipation – opened again.

What he saw in the mirror shocked him. Him, half naked and pliant in Hannibal's arms, head tilted to the side almost in an offering, eyes lidded in surrender; Hannibal hovering over him like a fallen angel, fingers wrapped around his throat.

He didn't move – found, in fact, that he couldn't – but a tremble went through him. Hannibal must have felt it and decided to take pity on him, because his hands fell away, his eyes once more cool and unfathomable. It slowed his racing heart, but also left Will feeling strangely bereft.

Hannibal wiped the razor and put it away, dropping the towel in the laundry hamper. "Breakfast will be ready in ten minutes," he said, and left.

Will stared at himself in the mirror and tried to catch his breath.

THE END