Disclaimer: I don't Hannibal.
A/N: Hello, beautiful strangers; a little blurb of fluff just 'cause I could.

Title: Easy like Sunday Morning
Summary: A moment shared in the early morning hours.
Warning(s): slash
Pairing(s): Hannibal Lecter/Will Graham

Xxxx

Will always wakes up before Hannibal does; sleep comes easily nowadays. He wakes to broken darkness, bleached morning sunlight filtering through the curtains and spilling onto the floor. It's too early to be up and functioning, to be worrying about a call from Jack, to be reminiscing over dreams that are slowly becoming after-thoughts devoid of any meaning.

Hannibal stirs beside Will, mutters something incoherent and foreign; his hair is dark against the expanse of his brow, damp from a late shower and feather-soft. His face is highlighted with shadows; he looks somewhat peaceful—the angles and high planes of his cheekbones and jaw softened with the shadow. In the early-morning dawn, the scars on Hannibal's body are white, varying in length, some deeper than others. Will never inquires about the origins, instead opting to memorize the length and feel of each one with his finger and lips; they are his secret and his alone.

Hannibal's heart thrums against Will's cheek—strong and sure. Will closes his eyes, content to listen to the evidence of Hannibal's existence, to feel the warmth of Hannibal's blood beneath his skin. Everything about Hannibal has been hardened and sculpted, built to withstand and last beyond the exhaustion and pain. Will remembers shared stories after a little too much wine that had them both buzzing and vulnerable; stories about soldiers with rotten breath, oily-eyes and bony fingers, stories about a little girl named Mischa and a beautiful woman with dark hair and dark eyes that had loved him (truly loved him) until she saw the monster that wouldn't go away, even after the blood had been spilt and the hunger for revenge sated. These stories were the building blocks of Hannibal Lecter—everything after was a matter of choice.

"We all have a choice, Will." Hannibal had told him one night as he rubbed at tense muscles in Will's back and neck. "I've made mine."

"Do you regret it?' Will had asked, and the smile Hannibal had given him had been a little sad, a slight crook on the left corner of his mouth.

"Sometimes I wish I could."

Hannibal's hand finds the small of Will's back, and careful fingers gently tap out the keys of Beethoven against the knobs of Will's spine. Will chuckles and kisses Hannibal's chest:

"How long have you been awake?"

"Long enough," Hannibal's voice is lazy like a warm afternoon, "have you received a call from Jack yet?"

Will shakes his head, stretches and pushes the heaviness of his sleep down into his toes. "No, but mark me that I will. It's been a while since I've worked a case."

Hannibal hums and it vibrates through his chest. He loosely wraps an arm around Will's waist and idly plays with the dark hairs on Will's stomach; he strokes Will's belly with languid motions, and it makes the muscles there quiver.

"We should get up," Will says but there's no energy behind it. Laziness has settled into the marrow of his bones, and he's content to curl up against Hannibal and not think for a few more hours.

"You're not ready to get up." Hannibal kisses Will's unruly curls.

"And what if Jack calls?"

"You accidentally left your phone on the counter and it died sometime last night."

Will looks up and raises an eyebrow, "What about your phone?"

"I left it at the office."

"He's going to come over.

"We will have a few moments to enjoy until then." Hannibal's tone leaves no room for argument, and Will sighs in defeat.

"Jack's going to have our asses for this one." Will rolls over onto his back and Hannibal is on top of him. When they kiss, it's slow and sloppy, so unlike Hannibal. Normally, he's precise and maps out every dip and crevice in Will's gums and teeth. Not that Will minds, though; Hannibal's hands curl around his ribs and run down the yielding flesh of Will's stomach, cup the curve of Will's buttocks.

"Let him come," Hannibal says into Will's mouth, but it's not a threat. "I'll deal with him."

Will slaps at Hannibal's arm, "Don't give him any more reason to hate you."

The look in Hannibal's eyes is reminiscent of a child preparing to pull a prank; in the light, Hannibal's reflect brilliant scarlet.

Will can only laugh and pull him in for another kiss; and when his cellphone starts to vibrate on the dresser, he tosses into the growing pile of his clothing in a darkened corner of the room. Let Jack come over; he'd be getting a damn good show.