Alana beats him to the station the next morning, and catches him at the door with a stout paperback in her hand. "Hey," she says in lieu of a good morning, "we've got him."

The cover is lurid red, abstractly shaped. The thick black words read, Boater's Girl, by William Howle. Alana hands it to him and Hannibal turns it over to the back, on which is a stamp-sized picture of Will. He looks a few years younger, looking straight into the camera, unsmiling but with an unmistakable quirk to his mouth.

"Came out eighteen months ago," Alana continues. "Page one hundred seventy-five, main character gets murdered by her mechanic boyfriend. Guess what, he ties her to the bed with her scarf and stabs her with a screwdriver during sex."

Hannibal flips to the page in question, and skims down the paragraphs. The writing is less lurid than he'd expected, but certainly no classic either. Still, there's a distinct directness in the style, a casual and hard reality.

"Do we bring him in?"

"Well it's hardly evidence," Alana says with a low sigh. "It's a published novel, anyone could have read it. And of course, first thing he's going to say is that he'd be an idiot to kill someone in the same way as it was described in his own book."

"A double bluff against a double bluff," Hannibal muses, then, "I want to talk to him about this."

"Course you do."

She gets a sharp look at that, but only gives a dismissive wave of her hand. "We can call him for questioning, at least. Might unnerve him a bit. You have the keys?"

Hannibal frowns, cocking his head. "I'm capable of bringing him in by myself, Alana," he says, and refrains from expressing his doubts that the man they'd met yesterday would find any police attempt unnerving. He then scowls a little at his partner's slight amused look, turning to the door and taking two steps before he realises he's still holding the book. He spins quickly to pass it back into Alana's waiting hand, adding offhandedly, "Have you read it?"

She gives a one-armed shrug. "No, but I skimmed it a little this morning."

"What do you think of it?"

"Not bad, actually. Goes a bit too much for shock value, though, very vivid."

"Indeed," Hannibal says as he makes to leave again. "Well researched."

Will answers at the bell this time, leaning against the doorframe in a light blue robe that ends well above his knees. "You're back earlier than I'd thought you'd be." He smiles at Hannibal and juts out a hip in a way that hitches the hem even higher. "Well, come in."

He turns around and leads back into the house, forcing Hannibal to follow to keep him in sightline. "Actually, Mister Graham, I'm here to bring you in."

"Really?" Will shoots a look over his shoulder, just barely catching Hannibal as he hastily darts his eyes upwards from the man's bare legs. "You guys work fast."

"Just for some questioning. You have the right to an attorney."

Will snorts, gesturing a wide hand. "Does it look like I can afford one of those things?" He continues walking, hands falling to the tie of his robe, and Hannibal continues to match his steps until he pauses and looks back again with a raised eyebrow. "Are you going to let me change into something more appropriate? Or are you going to insist on watching to make sure I don't flee out the window?"

Hannibal makes a small sound in the back of his throat and stops abruptly, turning away as Will disappears into the next room with a tut and a grin. There's several moments of soft, indeterminable sounds, then his voice calls out again.

"Could I ask you to pass me my tie? I think I left in the foyer."

Hannibal looks over to see a simple but elegant blue chequered tie on the stand by the door. "The blue one, Mister Graham?"

"Yes, that's it."

He reaches out to pick it up, running his fingers over the decent but not top quality silk and turning to walk over. "H—" he begins, only to have the word die in his throat as he rounds the next doorway

Will is entirely naked, robe lying discarded on the couch of what presumably is the living room. He's not particularly muscled but his form is lean, from his toned legs to his flat stomach. He's also lightly tanned all over without a hint of a line, which draws a flash of images of the man spread out nude on his own stretch of beach.

"Thank you."

Hannibal abruptly snaps his head around away when Will steps up to pluck the tie from his motionless hand. His face is utterly composed, but his eyes blaze.

"And, Hannibal," he goes on, "you can call me Will."

Hannibal licks his lips to wet them, then has to do it again. "I will wait for you in the car," he says, gaze firmly fixed off out the window, and turns on his heel fast enough that he can hear the squeak of rubber against the floorboards.

Will emerges several minutes later in a crisp black shirt and white dress pants, tie looped in a neat windsor. He stays surprisingly quiet though the car ride, though Hannibal can feel the weight of that searching gaze the whole way. And he lets himself be led to the interrogation room without hesitation.

"Can I have some water?" he says finally as he sits himself opposite Hannibal at the small table, upper body seeming to blend in amongst the dark-panelled walls.

"I don't know if—" Hannibal begins, but is cut off as Will turns his head to look right into the one way mirror that hides the observation room.

"Please?"

There's a click of a door somewhere outside, and footsteps. Moments later their own door opens and one of the other officers enters with a plastic cup of water.

"Thank you," Will says graciously, flashing a smile. The officer makes a vague attempt to return it before hurrying out again.

"So," Hannibal begins as Will puts the cup to his lips, taking the tiniest of sips and teasing the rim between his teeth. "You are an author, of crime fiction."

"Yes."

"Can you tell us about your latest book?"

"The one I'm working on now?"

Hannibal pulls out the copy of Boater's Girl from the tote space beneath the table, and lays it on the desktop. "No, the last one you published."

Will drinks again, taking his time pressing the thin white plastic against his lips before lowering it to his knee, raised where legs are crossed. "Well you've got it right there. What do you need me to tell you about it?"

Hannibal sits up a little straighter in his chair. "The female character in the book is killed with a screwdriver."

"I know. I wrote it.'

"This occurs during sexual intercourse, while she is tied to her bed by her scarf."

"Yes." Will begins to tap his fingers against the flat of the table, drumming in a light, regular rhythm. "I've always found scarves such interesting things, haven't you? Here we are a society which has feared and wielded the noose, and yet we willingly tighten these things around our own necks."

"Hmm." Hannibal's eyes fall from Will's face to the steady movement of his left hand, then across to the still almost full cup held in his right, top edge warped just the slightest with the hinting marks of teeth. "Are you aware that this is the exact manner in which Miss Fredericka Lounds was murdered?"

"I am now." Will frowns, and leans forward. "You don't think I did it because it's written in my book, do you? I'd be a pretty careless killer to announce myself like that."

"Yes, you would." Hannibal inclines his head. "And yet, that exact obviousness rules your book not an announcement after all, and hence you would in fact be a very careful killer indeed."

The other man chuckles, tossing his head so his curls bounce a little around his face. "Bluffs and triple bluffs, Hannibal?" He leans on the last word. "But if I needed to get myself ...off," he says, slowly, weightily, "why would I go to all this trouble with a book, when I could simply shoot her in the head on some day when I'm not supposed to be around and hide the body so I'd never even be suspected in the first place, hmm?"

Slowly, the detective reaches out to slide the book off the table, and back into the tote underneath. "Indeed," he replies softly. "Why would you do that?"

Will raises the cup to his lips for the third time, though Hannibal has doubts by now that any of the water is actually being drunk. He waits for him to finish before asking again, "Moving forward, can you tell us a bit more about yourself and Miss Lounds?"

Will shrugs. "I met her a bit over two years ago, through a mutual acquaintance. Some editor guy, can't remember his name anymore. We got talking, she asked me if we wanted to talk some more, I didn't say no."

"When did she get the idea to write an article about you?"

"About a year ago, it's been in the works on and off for a while. That's when we first started spending any real time together, before it was mainly emails and the odd other mutual acquaintance."

"Yet you say you did not like her."

"She was a publicity-hungry, rumour-mongering, poor excuse for a reporter."

Hannibal pauses at the bluntness, and presses his palms face down on the table in front of him. "Still," he says after a interval, "you continued to associate with her."

Will exhales, lips pursing to a pucker at the end of the breath. "Freddie Lounds may have a slimy example of a human being, but she still was a human being. Our race holds many slices of personalities, not all of them are nice, not all of them even that interesting, but that's how we are. She wasn't quite different, but at least she was getting close to it." His eyes, which had drifted to wander along the walls, now turn back to Hannibal. "I like different."

"I see." There's a bigger pause this time, the two regarding each other, and Hannibal doesn't move a muscle besides his mouth as he asks again, "And when did your sexual relationship commence?"

"It was hardly a relationship," Will replies with a raised eyebrow and a quirk of his shoulder. "She wanted to fuck me. I let her. Didn't happen that often, first time maybe eight months ago."

Hannibal takes the mental note, then clears his throat. "For the records, Mister Graham, I have to ask you to please keep your language professional."

Will snorts. "What are you going to do, make me stop talking?"

Hannibal thinks, and admits there is a point there. He sighs just a little, then continues. "Did you enjoy your relations with her?"

"Sure, she fucked pretty well."

"Was she the only person you had relations with in this time?"

A dark chuckle, bordering on dirty. "Are you serious?"

"Did you ever experiment with her, with practices out of the ordinary?"

"Be a bit more specific?"

"Did you tie her up?"

Will stills his fingers. "No."

"Never?"

"No." His countenance smooths out into black playfulness, smile serene. "I don't do that with women."

Hannibal finds himself resisting the urge to turn to the mirror. It's a rookie mistake, the biggest break of the illusion of the privacy, and most blatant tell of an interrogator's disquiet. The impulse is always there, unavoidable, though it's been a long time since it was anything more than itch.

"You have already stated," he says, slowly, finally, "that you did not have intercourse with Miss Lounds on the night of her death. Can you confirm this once again?"

"Yes, I can. I didn't."

"Did either of you drink any alcohol while together?"

"She had a glass of wine over dinner. That's all."

"Did you partake in any narcotics or other possibly mind-altering substances?

"No." Will sniffs, looking almost offended. "Never. I like my mind the way it is, thank you very much."

That takes Hannibal somewhat by surprise. Not entirely the hedonist then, or perhaps just indulgent in a different way. "Where did you go after you left her house?"

"I went home, alone, and went to sleep."

"Is there anybody who can verify this?"

"No, there isn't."

Hannibal curls up his hands, and crosses his fingers. "You realise that circumstantial evidence is very strong against you?" He waits, and watches as Will takes yet another slow, minuscule, drink.

"Yes."

"And yet you don't seem to be taking this investigation very seriously."

The laugh he gets in response is smoky. "Oh," Will breathes, leaning in, the hand still holding his cup dropping to his lap and the other leaning forearm-down against the tabletop. "Don't be like that, Hannibal. I thought we were building rapport." His grin when his lips peel back isn't entirely charming. "I suppose if you don't like it, you could always send your partner in. I'll get over it eventually, she really is a pretty one after all. You fucked her?"

It's an open challenge. Hannibal tries very hard not to imagine what Jack, Alana, and whatever host of others are thinking behind their silvered glass. He lets his accent curl the word on his reply.

"No."

"But you've thought about it, then?"

"No."

Will's eyelids drop to half-mast, and his voice to a whisper. "Liar."

Hannibal pushes abruptly from the table to a protesting squeal of wood against the floor. "I do believe we done here, Mister Graham."

Will starts at the movement, composure faltering just barely for the first time. Hannibal would allow himself that triumph, if it weren't for the fact that jerk of Will's arm causes his water to slash out over the front of his pants. And it only takes a moment for the collectedness to return as the man stands quickly, a small flash of pink tongue darting out to wet his lips as he runs a hand down himself. "I already said," he breathes, "Call me Will."

The soaked white fabric is almost entirely transparent, clinging to every line of Will's crotch as he thumbs slowly over the soft swell. It's exceedingly obvious that he isn't wearing any underwear, that there's nothing between the thin cloth and his bare skin. His gaze stays trained on Hannibal even while the other man's slips inevitably down from his face, watching as the detective feels his pulse hitch with something that isn't quite familiar. A pull, yes, but also an alert. A warning dipped in honey.

It takes Jack to break the tension, flinging the door open none too gently with his face set. "We appreciate your co-operation, Mister Graham. You're free to go."

Will turns and smiles at the police chief, small and polite. "Thank you," he replies, half-way between sincere and patronising, then casts another glance down at Hannibal from the corners of his eyes. "But, I was driven here?"

Jack looks over also, but Hannibal ignores his superior's scrutiny. The front two legs of his chair lift up off the ground as he stands fast enough to almost knock his seat over, and they land again with a dull thunk. "I'll wait for you in the car. Again," he says, and promptly strides off out the door.

He runs almost straight into Alana on his way out, who to her credit only flashes him a tight smile as he passes. "You know," is all she says, "you were right. He is an interesting man."

Hannibal doesn't let their next car ride stay quite, though he does keep the radio shut off and the windows fully wound up. He trips all the locks as soon as Will pulls closed his door.

"You raised a good point," he drops casually as he pulls out from the parking lot and flips on the right indicator, too casually. "If you needed an alibi, you could have found a better one. But if you didn't, then why did you write the book?

Will chuckles in a huffy breath. "Because," he says quietly, "it's fiction. I can do whatever I like, with fiction. I control a whole world, and everyone in it. I can make anything happen whenever I want it to." He turns in his seat so that he's facing across the car. "Do you ever think about that, about how much power a writer has?"

Hannibal doesn't answer straight away, but lets Will's words twist through the air between them, softly hypnotic. Ahead of them, another car cuts across the land and he grimaces, jabbing the brake and sending them jolting forwards in their seats. "I think," he replies finally, "that you like playing games, Will Graham. And that you can be awfully good at them." The slightest smile blooms across his face, and something unfurls in his chest that burns a little too closely to anticipation. "As it happens, so can I."