When Hannibal settles and quiets beside Will, wine drunk and glass disposed of, Will finds he's much more able to relax. He's not sure what it is, if it's easier to let his mind quiet when he knows Hannibal won't be looking at him, or if it's the steady intake and release of Hannibal's breath, barely heard over the droning of the airplane engines, that causes Will's heartbeat to gradually slow.
Whatever it is, Will starts drifting almost immediately, first into lucid dreams about the ground on the other end of this flight, an atmosphere and skyline unlike anything Will's ever experienced. He knows the Eiffel Tower is nowhere near the airport, but in his subconscious he sees it as soon as they step off the plane, walking down to the tarmac directly instead of through a jetway. There's accordion music and cafes lining the runway, lanky men in berets riding Vespas and glowering, pinched faced women with expensive scarves wrapped around their necks.
Those dreams bleed into something less tangible, dark rooms with red rivers of blood running across the floor, Alana's detached voice calling for him in airy whispers. Sometimes he has a knife in his hand, sometimes his gun, and then soon neither, his knuckles bloodied and aching even though he never sees himself put a hand on anyone. There are touches, too, a firm hand in the small of his back, fingers wrapped around his wrist, and then a moment where he's backed into a wall, unable to see anything in front of his face, like he's blindfolded. For an echoing moment there's nothing, and then he's crushed by Hannibal's body, Hannibal's mouth wet and forceful, Hannibal's hand roughly fondling between his legs.
It pulls Will out of his sleep and he feels the prickly flush of adrenaline, his ears ringing. He blinks hard to clear the fogginess from his eyes, breathing a little hard as his heart races.
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Whatever it is, Will starts drifting almost immediately, first into lucid dreams about the ground on the other end of this flight, an atmosphere and skyline unlike anything Will's ever experienced. He knows the Eiffel Tower is nowhere near the airport, but in his subconscious he sees it as soon as they step off the plane, walking down to the tarmac directly instead of through a jetway. There's accordion music and cafes lining the runway, lanky men in berets riding Vespas and glowering, pinched faced women with expensive scarves wrapped around their necks.
Those dreams bleed into something less tangible, dark rooms with red rivers of blood running across the floor, Alana's detached voice calling for him in airy whispers. Sometimes he has a knife in his hand, sometimes his gun, and then soon neither, his knuckles bloodied and aching even though he never sees himself put a hand on anyone. There are touches, too, a firm hand in the small of his back, fingers wrapped around his wrist, and then a moment where he's backed into a wall, unable to see anything in front of his face, like he's blindfolded. For an echoing moment there's nothing, and then he's crushed by Hannibal's body, Hannibal's mouth wet and forceful, Hannibal's hand roughly fondling between his legs.
It pulls Will out of his sleep and he feels the prickly flush of adrenaline, his ears ringing. He blinks hard to clear the fogginess from his eyes, breathing a little hard as his heart races.