There have only been two places in the world that Hannibal has considered "home." The first is his childhood home in Lithuania, and while Will might go there himself one day, Hannibal never can. His exile, is, in his mind, absolute, and whatever truths Will might one day seek there he will have to do alone. But his other home, the place in which he came into his own as a man, as a killer, is Florence. And after they've spent some time in Paris, lying low, letting their trail run cold as they explore every inch of each other, Hannibal will take Will there and show him everything, the place where he came into his own, perhaps a place where Will's true self could be further refined as well. The Botticelli had been such an inspiration to Hannibal. Perhaps it could be an inspiration to Will as well.

When it is their turn at the ticket counter Hannibal steps up and gives the woman behind the desk a warm, easy smile. "Good evening. I would like to purchase two tickets, for myself and my colleague..." He turns his head slightly and nods toward Will. "On the 12:10 Virgin Atlantic flight to Paris."

"Certainly," the woman says, beginning to type. "May I see your passports?"

"Of course." Hannibal removes his passport from his coat pocket and hands it to the woman. He's an old hand at using aliases, at presenting whatever identity is most practical and appropriate for the situation. He turns to Will, eyebrows slightly raised, waiting for him to hand over "his" passport, wondering how he will present himself.