A quick google search over machine coffee the next morning refreshes his memory. He can still recall the Minnesota Shrike case from a few years previous, the serial killer who'd terrified families and college girls across the country to end in a bloodbath in his own home. A later article he brings up reveals the fate of said bloodbath's only survivor, reporting that the Shrike's seventeen-year-old daughter was found not guilty and has now relocated, hoping to move on from the horror. Her date of birth puts her current age as twenty, which makes Hannibal stare a little at his computer screen. There admittedly isn't much he'd put past Will Graham at this point, but he'd like to hope that having an affair with a traumatised adolescent would be one of them.

Alana catches him at lunchtime in the process of confirming that Abigail Hobbs is currently a university student, English major. She listens to his recount of the previous evening's discovery with slightly parted lips and a growing frown.

"That tail wasn't authorised," she says carefully afterwards, choosing her words slowly.

Hannibal acknowledges it with a half-nod. "I suppose I've always been more forgiving of the unorthodox than you, Alana."

"Yes well the law isn't, Hannibal. That evidence isn't admissible." Her voice hardens a little, there.

"It's not evidence, just another piece of Will's Graham's puzzle. Once we have him won't we need to bring it up."

Alana exhales, and gives a shake of her head. "Are you planning to do it again?"

"Possibly."

"He could call stalking on you."

"But he won't, even if he does realise it. He enjoys playing too much to bring in officials on a little thing like that."

"He enjoys playing?" She drops her volume with a tell-tale flick of her eyes to the sides. "Hannibal," she says quietly, "I know he unsettled you, but I think you might be getting just a little too invested here."

Hannibal regards her for several moments, flatly, in her put-together hair and perfectly ironed skirt. Then he turns back towards his computer and replies half to himself, "He doesn't unsettle me."

The rest of the day is largely unproductive. The autopsy reports come in, revealing nothing more than what was already evident. No further evidence was found at the scene, no fingerprints, no DNA, not a single trace of the flighty killer. Routine investigations by other officers reveal that the scarf did indeed belong to the deceased, appearing in several photographs. Questioning also officially clears Wendy the girlfriend, who is remembered by many to have been in a city club that night until late, over an hour's drive from the crime scene. There's not much more to be said about Will, which means that Hannibal finds his focus wandering as he writes up what's needed on rote. He knocks off early.

He's not even entirely surprised when he pulls into his street to see a familiar car parked on the curb in front of his house, graciously not taking up his driveway. Will is sitting on his doorstep, arms crossed over his bent knees and a small black bag on the paving beside him. He smiles in greeting as Hannibal steps out and tries not to slam the door.

"How did you find out where I live?" The, and everything else, goes unsaid.

Will stands and takes a few steps forwards. "Just a little thing of mine," he replies easily, smile undeterred. "Got this trick, I'm good at thinking like other people. I might not be rich, I might not always be able to give people what they want, but I can find out how to." His gaze drops from Hannibal's eyes to his lips. "Nothing personal, just research. It's the hallmark of any good writer."

Hannibal stops once they're close enough to touch, though not quite as close as last time. "You're researching me as a writer?"

"Mm, yes, didn't I mention? I'm using you in my next book."

"Really." He starts walking again, and pulls out his keys. "What's it about?"

"A detective," Will answers, following as Hannibal turns the lock and pulls on the handle of the screen door. "Who gets stuck on the wrong suspect."

"And how does it end?"

"He drives himself crazy."

"How interesting." Hannibal eases open the wooden door and wipes his leather shoes twice back and forth on the doormat, twisting his head to look over his shoulder. "Would you like to come in? Maybe we can have that drink."

"Thought you'd never ask."

Will makes his way curiously to the living room once he enters, picking up his bag on the way. He settles down in a couch and continues to let his eyes wander as Hannibal pours a glass of good red wine from his cabinet, tracing over every detail in the immaculately decorated room. He wrinkles his nose when a second glass is set in front of the bottle.

"Got anything stronger?" he asks when he speaks again, running one hand slowly over the pristine white leather armrest. "Not really a big grape man myself."

Hannibal acquiesces smoothly, sliding the wine back into place and reaching further in for a stout decanter of scotch. He fills the wineglass with it, though, just to see the raised eyebrow that garners him when he hands Will a generous three fingers.

"Thank you."

"Cheers."

They drink slowly, both of them, though while Hannibal take his time to savour he suspects that Will does it merely to rub the rim a little longer against his full bottom lip. He speaks again after, lightly.

"Here, I came to give you a little something."

Hannibal sits himself on the couch opposite as Will reaches into his bag and pulls out a book that bears an abstract cover much like Boater's Girl's, although in blue. The bold title reads, Sweet Seventeen.

"Another one of yours?"

Will nods. "Got it out a little over two years ago."

"What's this one about, then?"

"A girl who kills her mother, after watching her kill her father." He strokes a hand over the cover, slowly, almost lovingly. "You're not the only person I've based a character on, you know, this one's Abigail's story."

He meets Hannibal's gaze frankly, and Hannibal swallows hard. He considers denial for a moment, pretending ignorance, before replying simply, "But Abigail Hobbs killed her father, after watching him kill her mother, not the other way around."

Will smiles a little, not a grin or a smirk like Hannibal's seen before, but small. And more genuine. "Well, it's not a history book. She only gave me the final push, really, I'd been sitting on the draft for a while before I met her." And it's then that the turn of his lips turns deeper, sharper. "This was actually the first one I ever wrote. I get inspiration from more than one place, after all."

Hannibal doesn't reply to that, just takes a sip of his wine and lets the dry bitterness flood his tongue. He notes dimly somewhere in the back of his mind that he is gripping the glass very firmly. He swallows again, audibly at least to his own ears, before saying, "And how does this one end?"

The answer comes quickly, and easily. "She gets over it, and lives happily ever after."

Hannibal's eyebrow twitches. He isn't entirely sure what his reaction to that is. So he asks again, simply, casually, "She's your friend, then?"

"I'd say so." Will gets an amused kind of look in his eye, like he knows exactly what Hannibal is trying not to imply. Then it fades again as he leans over to place the book down on the low glass coffee table to the side. "She's a nice girl, really," he goes on softly. "But lonely. I don't think she has many other friends, I've been afraid recently she's getting too dependent on me. Sometimes I even get the feeling she'd do anything I tell her to."

Will raises his drink and takes a deep breath first, scenting the rich liquid,before treating himself to a quick sip. And then he exhales and knocks the whole glass back, setting it down beside his book with a slightly too-loud clink that makes Hannibal give a slight wince. He stands without ceremony.

"Well, I'd better get going now," he continues. "Although—" he reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a slick-looking leather wallet, opening it up and slipping free a card— "here." He holds it out and Hannibal takes it, fingertips brushing tightly and lingering for an instant too long. "It's closer to your place. I'll be there around 1am, thought you could go directly instead of having to follow from mine."

He isn't quite as crass as to actually wink, but it's more than implied by the distinct tinge of sauciness in his voice. Then he slips his wallet away and picks up his bag in one graceful motion before turning on his heel. The front door swings slowly closed behind him with a quiet thud as Hannibal absent-mindedly traces the edges of the card with the pads of his fingers, eyes following that slim retreating figure.

He looks down finally, after, to regard the jagged font that spells out, Monster in lime green. The graphics on both sides vaguely resemble a strobe light effect, and on the back is an address and opening hours. A nightclub.

Monster turns out to be not large, but pumping out enough groaning electro to fill five buildings its size. Hannibal can count on one hand the number of times he's been in an establishment such as this, and three of those had been in the line of duty. They'd never appealed even in his youth, always holding the post in his mind of deafening music, readily-spilled alcohol, and the thoroughly unappetising side of human interaction. The fourth was two years earlier when he'd allowed Alana and a few other officers to drag him out at the successful conclusion of a gruelling double-homicide, the whole duration of time inside of which had been spent determinedly planted as far from the dance floor as possible with a glass of the most expensive wine available.

The moment he steps through the narrow door, however, puts that invasively dull evening far to shame. The air is heavy with the scent of unsubtly hidden cigarettes, the particular brand of slush they were passing off as alcohol that particular night, and biting human sweat. A mass of sequinned clothing marks the dance floor, if it can even be called such, along with bare patches of scantily revealed skin that glints sallow under the pallid flashing lights.

Hannibal makes his way gingerly to the sticky-shiny bar, reluctant even to let the soles of his shoes touch the slick wooden floor that lies permanently darkened by tapped-off ash and the remnants of spirit-flavoured vomit. A shirtless man in lipstick as bright red as his short shorts tries twice to presumably offer him a drink, but not-so-unfortunately fails to be heard above the tune-devoid grind that is spilling through the speakers. He looks at the stool for approximately half a second before opting to stand, as close to the wall as he can get without having to make contact. Half-focused eyes idly scan the crowd without much hope of actually distinguishing any of the euphorically-contorted faces.

He's painfully aware of how much he sticks out in his suit and tie. Several of the patrons who do deign to look at him shoot furtive glances, deciphering his occupation maybe from his firm stance and wondering if he were here to make a bust. He'd considered changing that afternoon as the minutes until 1am ticked on by, as he absent-mindedly twirled the card in his fingers until it had begun to crease, but had ultimately decided against it. He's here for work, after all, and there ought to be no mistaking. And, standing in the yellow puddle of a wall-mounted lamp, he hopes that his conspicuousness might also have a positive.

His watch had read 12:55 as he'd entered, and inches over to the hour as he waits. He keeps his eye on the door at the same time as he keeps his face in the light, hoping to attract the attention one way or another of his bait—or was that baiter, he couldn't quite be certain at this point. It crosses his mind once, briefly, at 1:07 that this indeed may be entirely a set-up, either a leadless red herring or even a distraction from something more nefarious. But surely not, not from Will. That would just be rude at this point in their acquaintance.

He sees the coming and going of a differently-palated square of brightness several times before he really takes notice, following it to the swinging door of the men's toilet behind him on the other side of the bar. Another glance at his watch reveals 1:13, the second hand sweeping meticulously over the top twelve. He shoots a last look across the undulating throng before turning and heading in.

Will is propped up on the counter-top, wedged in between one grimy sink and the wall in a way that should be extremely awkward but somehow isn't. The trained officer recognises him immediately despite the way his face is turned away, and obscured by the other man between his legs who stands pressed all along Will's front from hip to tongue. Hannibal finds himself halting, watching the near-obscene oral embrace from his spot frozen between an open cubicle holding a loudly-vomiting man and another couple who lean tangled together against the cracked wall to his right.

Then half-lidded eyes flick around, fall on the intruder, and flash darkly in greeting. The other man conveys a token, if not entirely cognisant confusion when he is pushed away none too gently. Hannibal vaguely notes him slipping past and back out the door as Will hops off the counter and makes his way closer, the right side of his mouth marred just beneath the corner by a thin smear of saliva that sheens in the bleached fluorescent light.

"I thought you'd be on the dance floor?"

The music is less loud, here, but still heavy enough to obscure Hannibal's voice into a spray of hard consonants over droning bass. Will's lips curl into a grin, then part in a chuckle.

"Are you joking? With the awful music and atrocious drinks?"

Hannibal almost gives his agreement, before furrowing his brow in a frown. "Then why do you come?"

"The people, of course, such a colourful bunch and right here's the perfect place to meet them." Will moves closer until the tips of their shoes knock just barely together. "Take that friend I just made—mid-twenties, over-protective family, not even sure he's gay but will do anything to push away from them. He was just complaining about his mother before, telling me all about how boring she can be and how proud she is to be twice-a-week tea buddies with the mayor's wife."

Hannibal doesn't need another one of Will's half-winks to get the implication. Making contacts, then. Bending low to reach high, how lovely a paradox.

"And how about you?" Will continues, voice dropping to be barely audible over the rhythmic thrum. "Have fun out there?"

"No," Hannibal replies curtly.

"But you're having fun now?"

"No."

And Will kisses him.

In a split-second Hannibal's mind freezes, caught in that single point of contact between them. Then several things flash through it, from Alana's frown that morning through a bloody tableau on no-longer-white sheets, to the heat he can almost feel in every one of Will's keen gazes. And then it blanks.

In another split second he's moving, parting his lips and surging forward to taste the lingering bitter-sweet of some cocktail blend, transfer from his previous partner no doubt judging by the earlier clearness in Will's eye and the current precision in his movements. The conclusion draws a low sound from something deep in Hannibal's throat. It all lasts several dizzying, consuming seconds before Will pulls free to mouth up the line of his jaw, breath hot against his ear.

"Liar."

The moment is broken when the door thumps open again and someone pushes roughly past them on his way to the urinals. Hannibal grimaces as he's jolted but Will barely takes a beat before grabbing at the knot of Hannibal's tie, half-ripping it from the collar as he uses it to drag the taller man into a cubicle. The small grunt that Hannibal emits at the sudden constriction is immediately knocked out of him as he's almost thrown against the rickety plastic divider and his mouth engulfed once more.

"Why do you wear this anyway?" Will mutters against his lips, absent hands attempting without much success to smooth down the front of Hannibal's suit. "Shouldn't you have a uniform or something?"

"I'm a plainclothes officer," Hannibal replies between nips, voice more than a little muffled, to a snort.

"You call this plain?"

Any retort that might have come to that dies away as, with one last tweak to the skewed double windsor, Will pulls back and sinks very deliberately to his knees on the surely filthy floor. Hannibal swallows hard and finds he can't keep eye contact as nimble fingers work quickly at the front of his pants. The air bites briefly as he's exposed, already half-hard, before heat washes through his body as he's gently teased to fullness.

Hannibal tugs his bottom lip in between his teeth and bites down a little too hard as Will's practised mouth descends on him. He alternates between deft twists and flicks of his tongue, the hot slide of the full length down his throat, and varying aid from the tight grip of his hand, a fleshly dance played as well as the melody that the music lacks. It keeps Hannibal on edge, drawing him out, teasing and endlessly rewarding all at once.

Hannibal lets his head fall back with a dull thud that rings long and heavy. The hammering bass of the dance outside continues to drive on, matching the audible pound of his own pulse. The uneven hitching of his breaths weaves intimately with the rush of blood in his ears, the arcing pleasure that spark from the tips of his fingers down to his curling toes. The man who almost certainly killed Freddie Lounds is a solid weight against the front of his knees.

Climax, when it comes, is unexpected in its dragging build. The tightness in his abdomen is coiled so gradually that he almost doesn't notice until it flares up his spine and snaps his whole body taut. Hannibal falls all at once, with a growl and a gasp, shaking in sharp jerks that Will takes him through with an unrelenting touch and steadily working throat until it becomes too much to bear.

Afterwards, still upright but with palms pressed flat against the wall behind him, Hannibal only half-notices as Will stands and gently tucks him back into his pants. A hand is placed on his heaving chest, just over his racing heart, as another pulls up his fly and a small closed-mouthed kiss is pressed to the corner of his jaw.

"Well then, Detective, I guess I'll see you around."

Then the door opens on a squeal of unoiled hinges, and he's gone.