Hannibal's touch, his warm palm on Will's face, is gentle, calming, affectionate. Will's felt this touch before, and again it calls back to that evening in the stable, Hannibal's thumb the only thing stopping Will from ending Clark Ingram's life. Back then Will knew Hannibal had seen him as a thing just about to emerge, on the precipice of his becoming. Will hadn't agreed, at the time, had convinced himself it was part of the act he was putting on, but it hadn't been. That moment had been more truth than not, more of Will's reality than any performance.

Then Hannibal tells him he'd prepared for their escape, not just for his own, and Will runs down the list of things that would be needed in his head, knowing many of those would have to pertain to Will specifically, passports, identification, alias names were likely. Will swallows thickly, and Hannibal hasn't moved, continues to cup his cheek. His heart clenches in his chest, and he's desperate to know what it all means, if the meaning's changed at all in the light of Will's betrayal, even with Hannibal's forgiveness.

He'll ask later, he thinks, or will try to read it in Hannibal's eyes. For the moment, he licks his lower lip, his gaze still fixed on Hannibal's. "Where are we going?" he asks, his voice soft, wanting to hear the destination so he can begin to imagine it and not for any other reason.