Hannibal opens his eyes the next morning with an ache in his upper thighs, a steady sting over the skin of his back, and the soft breath of another on the second pillow. He turns his head to see Will lying on his right side, turned towards him, expression smoothed out in rest. There's only a single point of contact between them, the lightest touch of Will's fingertips as they rest gently on the crook of Hannibal's outstretched left elbow. It feels uncannily intimate.

Hannibal shifts, turning onto his own side to better face his companion, only for the movement to draw a crease across Will's brow, then a soft sigh from his parted lips as he blinks awake. Light eyes take a moment to dart and focus before he smiles softly.

"Good morning." The words are only a little hoarse. "What's the time?"

Hannibal casts a glance over at the bedside clock. "Almost 8 o'clock."

"Mm, I should go." Will removes his hand from Hannibal's arm, leaving a curiously bereft patch of skin, and rubs it over his face.

"Yes." Hannibal turns away and pushes himself up into a sitting position, swinging his legs off the edge of the bed. Behind him he hears the rustle of Will slipping also out from under the creased sheets. He adds, perfunctorily, after a beat, "You shouldn't have stayed."

There's a small exhale of a laugh. "Stayed?"

Hannibal looks up as Will walks lightly around the side of the bed, bending to pick up his discarded clothing. His eyes automatically flick down the length of the man's nude form and he says again, a little quieter, "You shouldn't have come."

Will dresses with practised ease, running an idle few fingers through his tangled hair then reaching down again for the scarf that had fallen at some point off the side of the mattress. He rises with a quirk to his lips, twisting the fabric between his hands. "Were you scared last night?"

Hannibal looks at him tightly. "Were you?"

That gets him a wider smile, before Will turns and walks off on bare feet. By the time Hannibal has donned a robe and made his way downstairs, he's doing up his shoes by the open front door. Hannibal gets a small peck suspiciously like the one he'd received in that disreputable cubicle before the man is slipping out and away.

Breakfast is cooked by rote, a simple omelette with vegetables. Hannibal heads back upstairs afterwards to brush his teeth and take a shower, allowing himself just a moment to appreciate the lingering scent of open carnality on his skin before he switches on the water and picks up the soap. He shrugs on a dress shirt afterwards over the red scratches marring his upper back with the barest hint of hesitation.

Then he descends again to pick up his own strewn clothing, returning them to his bedroom. He casts a lingering eye over his bed before his leaves, rumpled in a way that isn't entirely blatant but hints seedily at something very indiscreet. He has to reach into yesterday's jacket pocket to take out his badge, turning it over twice in his hands. A reminder. An unorthodox inquiry, but still an investigation. And he expects to see Will back at the station very soon.

The drive through early morning traffic is calmingly familiar, but the busyness at the station when he enters catches him by surprise. Jack is standing off to one side deep in conversation with two other officers, but breaks off as soon as he spots Hannibal and makes his way over.

"Good, you're here. Call came in from a landlady this morning," he says curtly as soon as he comes within hearing distance. "Body of one Nicholas Boyle, throat cut but murder weapon not found, age twenty-six, agent at a publishing company. Once Bloom gets back you can head off to the site."

Hannibal nods once in acknowledgement, then asks, "Where is she now?"

"Doing a pick up." Jack pulls back his sleeve and checks his watch. "Should be back any minute, in fact." His voice drops, face turning dark. "Guess whose books he published."

Hannibal swallows, and casts down his eyes. Well then, he thinks a little wryly, even sooner than he'd expected. He looks back up when the door opens again and Alana enters like she was heralded.

Will is in tow behind her, dressed in the same clothes he'd worn the previous day—and that morning—face composedly light. He appears somewhere in the middle between carefully clueless and aloofly amused. His eyes move over as he steps through the doorway, resting on Hannibal who finds he can't meet them.

"Caught him just getting home," Alana informs bluntly, and Jack turns towards Will to give him the full brunt of his stare.

"Did she now. Were you out last night, then?"

A blink, and a twitch of an eyebrow. "Yes."

"Were you alone?"

Hannibal feels something distinctly heavy roll in his stomach. Jack is expectant, almost eager, and Will looks at the chief with his countenance utterly smooth. His lips part slowly as he forms his very deliberate reply.

"No."

"I don't believe you."

From his place seated at his desk, turned resolutely towards his computer screen despite it's obvious lack of power, he imagines Alana standing with her arms crossed and her eyes boring into his back. Done already, it seemed, with the interview Jack had whisked Will off into—Hannibal himself denied on the basis of 'conflicts of interest'.

"I know you've always been a little interpretive of rules. I'm your partner, I deal with it, usually it works." There's a single click of a heel, just a shifting of weight. "But sleeping with a suspect? Are you trying to build a case to be laughed out of court?"

"I thought he wasn't your suspect anymore."

"Oh no." There's more clacks, then, several steps closer. "You're good at that, changing the subject, turning things backwards. But you're not doing it now." Her voice isn't loud, and there's no anger, only a soft disbelief. "What are you going to call it, then? Deep investigation? Or just questioning with a side of a cheap fuck?"

The unexpected profanity from her draws Hannibal around, and he turns slowly in his seat. Alana's jaw is tight, expression pinched and cheeks pale. He's disappointed her, Hannibal realises.

He opens his mouth to answer before he's entirely sure of what to say, and closes it once again in quiet relief as Jack interrupts them by stalking up, face stormy. Behind him, Hannibal sees Will exit the interrogation room and be ushered off by another officer, and only lets his gaze linger for a second before he directs it back to his chief. Said relief, however, is short-lived.

"Will you back him up? Can you attest to his location as he claims?"

Hannibal takes a breath. "Yes."

"Then his alibi checks out," is all Jack says, simple and blunt. Then he twists his head over to address Alana. "Boyle scene's ready for you. They'll give you the address, you can be right off."

Alana hesitates for one moment, then nods and swivels on her heel. Hannibal makes to stand as she walks away, only for Jack to pin him again with his glare.

"And where do you think you're going?" The words aren't entirely cold, just speaking as a man under pressure, and without time. "You're compromised. You're off the case, pending review." He exhales his last words as he turns to return to his office. "Go home, Detective."

He doesn't go home.

He sits in the car for some time, in fact, an elbow propped on the open window frame. One vehicle enters the car park and two pull out while he rests, face tilted upwards a little to catch the light breeze. He's a good enough officer that he'd seen this coming, at least eventually, but instead of resentful or self-deprecating he finds himself calm.

He doesn't fully know where this game is going, how it spins, Will's too smart to be predictable. What Hannibal does know is his target, the sign at the end of the street that he stumbles towards even if he can't quite yet decipher the words. He can't help but wonder, still, how much of this might have been planned for him all along.

When he peels away finally it's with a strangely flat sense of resolve. The dark asphalt rolls steadily beneath as he makes the now-familiar drive, street names passing in gentle guides of thick block lettering. Yellow lights to red draw no frustration, not like with the other drivers sometimes beside him who lean on their pedals to make their whatever appointments. If there is one thing Hannibal prides himself on it is the clarity of his mind, even after certain lapses.

He must have been beaten quite a margin by Will's drop-off, as the man answers the door in a loose white shirt and casual pants with his hair curling damply around his forehead. His face is devoid of his usual tinge of saucy amusement, he looks almost fond. Hannibal doesn't bother with pleasantries.

"So how did you do it?"

Will drops his eyes a little. "Still sure about me, then?"

"Did you really expect me to give up?"

"Not for a moment."

Hannibal almost smiles. "Are you as unsaddened by Mister Boyle's death as you are by Miss Lounds's?"

Will's lips thin, and he hesitates before replying. "Not quite. We were only colleagues, not friends, but he was a good agent. Though I guess sometimes these things just have to happen."

Hannibal walks past him to enter without an invitation. It's an audacity he'd never usually have the discourtesy to take, yet by now it's hardly the greatest liberty between him and Will Graham. He makes his way into the small living room and to a worn but nice-looking couch opposite the television. The same couch, he realises as he sits, that had held the robe he'd expected to find on it's owner the last time he'd been summoned to this room.

Will follows behind him, but then passes through without stopping to disappear into what appears to be a kitchen. He returns a moment later with a glass of scotch despite it being barely noon, and hands it over without a word. Hannibal takes a sip and swallows around the burn.

"Are you still working on that book?" he drops, only flailing a little for a pleasantry.

"Oh yes." Will shifts from one foot to another. "Going very well as a matter of fact, something must have really fired up my creativity. My detective's almost out of his mind."

Hannibal drinks again, a little longer, and lets his gaze wander out the tall windows. He can see the sand from here, where it meets the water, and one lone seagull which hops along the shoreline. A little section of its own, out of town, away from the clutches of wealth and development, on the swell of the waves and the tide of the wind. He wonders if he could live here. "Are you sure about that?"

"Of course. It's my story."

Will turns and sits down on the other couch cushion, angled so that their knees bump together. Hannibal takes another long sip, letting the sharp liquid swirl around his mouth before swallowing and bracing himself for the aftertaste. It's not quite as good as his own preferred brand but it's not bad either.

"What about you, then?" Will continues after a few seconds of silence. "Aren't you supposed to be at work?"

Hannibal crosses one leg over the other, balancing his cup on his knee and not backing down this time at the imitation of a certain someone else on a certain other day. "I thought we'd be above pretending by now that you don't know exactly what you're doing."

Will cocks his head to regard him, eyes sweeping over his posture and his expression. "They took you off the case?" he says finally, then, "I'm sorry." And Hannibal can almost believe it.

He leans closer when there's no reply, and it suddenly seems the most natural thing for Hannibal to slide a hand around the back of his neck and pull him in for a kiss. Closed-mouthed, not too long, it could almost be called chaste.

"I was just about to start on lunch," Will says with a small smile as they pull back. "Would you like to help?"

Hannibal has always enjoyed cooking. The process is subtle, piecing something together at the trust of a few words and numbers by a stranger at the other end of a printing press or internet line, not to mention rewarding. And there's always been something relaxing as well about the steady thump of a knife on wood.

Will plans out a salad and stir-fry which are not quite as elaborate as Hannibal himself would have selected given his unexpected influx of free time. The majority of both the preparation and the meal itself is spent in companionable silence that, by the end, begins to feel uneasily domestic. And when Will's finishing up the washing in front of the sink it's far too easy for Hannibal to slide his hands around his waist, mouth along the back of his neck, and let himself be lead to the bedroom.

He's sucking a meandering line across Will's bare chest when fingers creep over his shoulders to gently urge him further down, and he finds himself complying. He doesn't have much of a chance to contemplate the oddness of seeing another man at this vantage point before he leans in to take Will in his mouth, jaw flexing around the stretch and the unfamiliar flavour on his tongue. One hand drops away to the mattress and another cards slowly through his hair.

He isn't really sure what he's doing, and though he tries vaguely to replicate what he knows feels good he doesn't think it's entirely working. Still, there's a heady sort of power in the act, a visceral rush that floods through him at the base touch. It isn't long though before his neck begins to ache and his jaw to cramp, but thankfully it's about then that Will slips two fingers under his chin to pull him off and back up.

He prepares Will himself this time with the lubricant left unashamedly out on the bedside table, breaths heavy at the already electrifying constriction around only his fingers. And he doesn't need Will's guidance now when he pushes in, snapping his hips in deep, steady drives that have the other man cursing softly in his ear. He knocks Will's hand away too when he goes to touch himself, taking over with his own and working them both until they break.

Afterwards, Will lies back against him, head lolling on his shoulder and one hand strewn over his gradually slowing heart. Hannibal gives himself ten minutes before he slips out from the loose embrace, giving a little involuntary shiver at the coolness of the air against his lightly sweat-glazed skin. Will turns as he redresses.

"You don't have to leave?"

Hannibal looks up over him, and the tousled bed. "I think I should."

"I'd like if you stayed. I liked it when you let me stay. Not many people do."

Hannibal doesn't answer, and forces his eyes to pull away from Will's strangely open face. Then he walks out the door without another word, still only half-dressed. He doesn't look back.

He slips his phone out of the pocket of his pants almost as soon as they're on fully, dialling Alana with one hand before leaning over to retie his shoes. There's quite a few rings before she answers, more than usual, and he takes that time to slide on his jacket. But she does answer.

"What have you found out about Boyle?"

The sigh is audible from the other side. "You're off the case, Hannibal, for good reason. God, you're probably with him now, aren't you?"

Hannibal wait a moment until Will's front door swing shut behind him, and truthfully answers, "No."

"And not only are you off the case, you're going through review. You know I can't talk to you."

"That means I can investigate without the constraints of official procedure. Let me help, you know I can."

"Hannibal..."

"Alana." He says her name firmly, but gently, then drops his voice. "You know me, Alana. And you know Graham will never open for the force. Do you trust me?"

Hannibal can feel her warring with herself in the silence, weighing up her technical responsibilities against the man whom she'd replied on in the field and out for the last two years. He moves the phone to his left hand as he unlocks his car and gets inside, connecting the call to the speaker system. He knows which one will win.

"He wasn't just an agent at the same company," she says eventually, heavily. "He was on Graham's first draft review board, but that's not the only part. Guess who else is on the board."

Hannibal's car starts with a purr, and he swallows. "Freddie Lounds."

"Yes. And Abigail Hobbs, which I guess makes sense if they're friends, or whatever." She pauses once more, torn again, before finally pressing on. "And one Frederick Chilton."