Most of my stuff is over at ao3 (archiveofourown"dot"org /users/Entity_Sylvir) but I feel this one's a bit of a special one for me and decided to make use of my account here. Feedback is very, very well appreciated!

Watched Basic Instinct and was whacked over the head with this idea, just got it out in two weeks. The film (and Sharon Stone's character, who I fell in love with) is just a basis, so you won't need to be familiar with it to understand this. There are a few specific scene references for those who have scene it, though on the other side of things you won't be completely spoiled for the ending either. Image is from the Basic Instinct film poster.

This is from the first movie only, apparently Hugh Dancy was in the second but I haven't seen that one. It also kind of ended up being a role reversal AU from canon, which was interesting to explore.

Massive thanks to my betas Mischa and Dana who prevented my brain from melting from editing overload!

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Hannibal gets the call while he's washing the dishes from breakfast, Jack's gruff voice informing him briskly that there's a scene, there's a body, Alana's already there. His hands are dry before the call ends, and within five minutes he's changed and grabbing his badge on the way out the door. Weekend traffic holds him up enough that it's almost an hour before he's arriving to park his car by the police line and flashing his ID.

"Just upstairs, detective," the junior officer says as he waves Hannibal inside, jaw set in a greeting that can't quite be a smile given their circumstances. Hannibal gives a single nod and steps through the doorway. The stairs to the second floor lead on from the left.

The bedroom is already crowded with officers, various forensics people milling about bagging objects and snapping pictures. Jack stands against one wall, already in conversation with Hannibal's partner as the man himself walks up and greets them with, "Victim?"

Alana turns to look at him, before casting her eyes down onto the bed. The flame-red of the woman's hair mixes in a grotesque swirl of colour with the blood that cakes her face and torso. Ragged holes of torn flesh dot the right side of her face, neck, and shoulder where the murder weapon had stabbed through—either a right-handed killer or one that had been engaged in one of the more usual positions. The sheets that lie carelessly tossed aside, half hanging off the edge of the mattress, do nothing at all to conceal her nudity.

"Fredericka Lounds, age twenty-nine, reporter. Lives alone, found by her weekly cleaning service four hours ago who let themselves in with their own key every Saturday morning. Body is only a few hours cold, time of death estimated to have been between midnight to 2am last night."

Hannibal follows her gaze. "Murder weapon?"

"Screw-driver," Jack answers and hands over an evidence bag in which a long Phillips head protrudes from beneath its red plastic handle, skinny, sharp, and stained with flaking blood. "Found in the ensuite bathroom sink, blood dried on the head but the handle washed clean. Forensics will run it for prints, but it doesn't look hopeful."

"And the scarf?"

"The victim's, presumably. There are more in her wardrobe, all animal print. She has quite the collection."

Hannibal nods again, handing back the bag and stepping closer to the sturdy iron bedframe. The headboard is one of those sculptured pieces, dark metal rods weaving a twisting pattern between wide open gaps. It's one of the few modern designs that allows a pair of wrists to be easily bound, as the victim's still are to it by a leopard-print scarf. "Are we looking at rape?"

Alana shakes her head. "Autopsy will confirm, but while sexual penetration close to or at the time of death seems evident, there doesn't appear to be any bruising either vaginal or around the body. Not even the wrists."

"Yep," cuts in one of the forensic guys, Brian something-or-other, a not entirely appropriate smirk on his face. "Just some good old-fashioned S and M." He raises an eyebrow, expression turning thoughtful as he adds, "Though I dare say murder's probably the worst kind of etiquette you could get."

Jack shushes him with a look. "She's clean, though," the chief continues a moment later. "No semen or other fluids."

"So he used a condom?"

"Or she used an aid." Alana reaches into her pocket and pulls out a notebook, where an address is scribbled in her own loose hand and labelled, Wendy. "Girlfriend. Same cleaners do her place too. If you're done here, we can get going."

She speaks with that curt, no-nonsense aura that Hannibal so admires about her, casting an inquiring look at Jack which is granted with a nod. They turn together on their heels to walk back out the bedroom door, and Hannibal can see her grimace as she shoots one last glance over at the unfortunate woman who lies splayed out across her bed as some sort of monstrous erotic sacrifice. He makes sure to school his face into something sufficiently similar.

Wendy answers the door of her slightly smaller city apartment with red-rimmed eyes and a tightly clenched jaw. "I already got the call," she says as she sits them down on the couch, perching on the very edge of her own seat like she's afraid it might collapse. "They told me I didn't need to say anything until someone else came around. I guess that's you guys?"

Alana hesitates a moment before replying, "Yes. We just have a few questions to ask you, if that's all right. Can you tell us when you last saw Fredericka?"

"I wasn't with her last night, if that's what you mean." Wendy takes a slow breath. "We had lunch together out, like we usually do, but she had another friend over for dinner."

Hannibal leans forward. "What kind of friend?"

"Well, actually Freddie's been—" she cuts off, and swallows hard. Her face seems to spasm, just briefly, before it school itself again. "Freddie had been working on a piece about him, they'd been spending a bit more time recently. You know, interviews and stuff."

Hannibal takes a moment, debating whether or not to tell her the truth, before simply continuing, "How long had they been friends, would you say?"

"Um, two years or so, maybe? Not as long as I've known Freddie."

"And did you know him as well?"

"Yeah," Wendy shrugs. "Knew him, sure, but we weren't really friends ourselves. I have his address if you want it?"

"Please," Alana says with a soft smile, taking out her notebook and pen and handing it over. "Oh, and, his name?"

Wendy returns the smile wanly. "Will," she replies, voice hoarse, and shifts in her tiny patch of seat. "Will Graham."

"Seems genuine enough," Alana comments as they get into the car once more. "Suspect or no?"

Hannibal turns the notebook over in his hand, one finger tracing idly over the slightly shaky letters. "Let's see what this Graham says about last night first."

In comparison, the second address leads to a shack by the beach on one of the those long, empty stretches between clumps of million-dollar mansions. It's only a single storey high, far from large but jutting upwards stockily to stand amid the salty sea winds. There's no answer at the door, and Hannibal rings the bell twice before Alana nudges him and points down the side towards a beach-chair set up on the sand.

The man reclined on it doesn't move as the two officers approach. He looks a good ten years younger than Hannibal, dark curly hair not messy but offhandedly tousled, dressed in a button shirt that lies open to expose his smooth chest. Short sleeves fall loosely around well-defined but not bulky biceps, and Hannibal involuntarily feels his gaze fall on where the man's black shorts ride up his left thigh as it's bent back against the arm of the chair.

He clears his throat before addressing, "Sir?"

A lazy roll of one eye, and the shrug of a shoulder.

"Excuse me, sir, are you Will Graham?"

The man shifts, finally, titling his head towards them. He could be called somewhat handsome, Hannibal supposes, but though his lightly stubbled features are far from dainty they do hold a certain tinge of prettiness. It's his gaze, however, that draws a second look, casual yet somehow piercingly calm. Hannibal swallows as he meets it. Judging by the flick of light blue eyes to his throat and the slight twist of a pink lip, it doesn't go unnoticed.

"Sure," Will drawls, a hint of the south in his voice. "This about Freddie?"

Hannibal casts a glance back over at Alana. "Did Wendy call you?"

"No." Will sits up and turns, swinging his legs around the side of the chair. He treats Alana to a single brief stare, flat and probing, before promptly forgetting her in favour of very deliberately looking Hannibal up and down. "What's your name?" he says after a beat, voice dropping just a little lower in pitch. Not quite husky enough to be suggestive, only barely toeing the side of unprofessional.

It takes a conscious effort for Hannibal not to shift under that intent. "I'm Detective Hannibal Lecter, and this is—"

"You're from Europe?"

"I—yes." Hannibal blinks, then presses on, "How did you know Miss Lounds—"

"Met her about two and a half years ago at a party," Will cuts in again, deliberately misinterpreting. "She was doing a piece on me, I suppose Wendy already told you?"

Hannibal takes a breath, then decides to go with the flow. "She mentioned it, but she didn't say what it was about."

"Do you know what Freddie did?"

"She was a reporter."

"Close." Will smiles, and it shows just a little too much teeth. "She was a crime journalist. Did Wendy tell you what I do?"

"No."

The smile widens. "I'm a crime writer." He leans back, and the edges of his shirt fall even further apart, revealing a single dark nipple. It only takes the briefest moment for Hannibal to catch his eyes wandering and bring them back to Will's face, yet it's enough for those lips to curl back into something a little more wicked. "She was doing a little interest piece, you know?" Will continues. "Mind against mind, fact against fiction, and all that."

"I see. And you met to discuss this last night?"

"That's right."

"What did you talk about, exactly?"

"We talked about killers. And what it's like to get into their heads."

There's a little silence, a stalemate. Will is still smiling sweetly, and Hannibal can't help the slight increase of his heart in his chest. Finally, it's Alana who steps up and forces Will's attention to her at last.

"Were you having an affair with Miss Lounds?" she asks crisply, voice laced with a tinge of ice.

Will looks over, regarding her plainly. "I suppose you could call it that," he says matter-of-factly, voice flat. "Fucked her girlfriend a few times too, before you ask, but she wasn't as good."

Hannibal blinks at that, and takes a bit to gather himself. "Did you have sex with Miss Lounds last night?"

Will turns back to him, smile slipping away, but expression utterly casual. "No."

"Did you meet her at her house?"

"Yes."

"What time did you leave?"

"About ten o'clock. After dinner."

"Were you sad to hear about her death?"

If Will is startled at all by the abrupt change in topic, he doesn't show it. "As much as I'd be if you died, or that pretty lady," he replies silkily, inclining his head over at Alana. "But I never really liked her."

"And yet, you were—"

"Fucking her? Yeah." He shrugs, smirk beginning to creep onto his face again. "Haven't you ever fucked a girl you didn't like, Hannibal?" he says, letting the foreign name linger on his tongue. "Or a guy?"

There's another silence, then, longer. Heavier. Settling between them until Alana clears her throat sharply.

"Well then, Mr. Graham," she presses, stepping forward to physically push Hannibal to the side. "Would you mind if we asked you a few more questions about Miss Lounds?"

Will breaks eye contact with Hannibal, only to turn away and lie down once more against the back of the chair. "Yeah," he replies, "I would. Am I a suspect?"

"Yes."

"Are you going to arrest me?"

Hannibal feels Alana glance inquiringly at him, though his own eyes don't leave the other man. He has two moles on the left side of his neck, only small, but quite dark. Hannibal is the one who answers. "No."

"Well then." Will swings his legs around again, letting his eyelids fall shut and stretching out in the same, sprawling position they'd found him in. "Guess I'll see you guys again when you do."

"So, going to tell me what the hell that was?"

Alana's voice is clipped, directed away as she keeps her gaze trained out the window. Hannibal, meanwhile, keeps his own on the road, and only grips down a little tighter at the steering wheel.

"He's guilty, you must agree?"

She lets out a cough of laughter. "Yeah sure, whatever. Now have you ever fucked a guy, Hannibal?

Hannibal breathes in once, deeply, and exhales between his teeth. "He's an interesting man."

"Well if by interesting you mean completely kicked in the head. And guilty," Alana adds, almost as an afterthought

They reach an intersection, and the light changes yellow to red just as Hannibal approaches the line. He leans on the brake, and sets his jaw. "Then we'll prove it."