He isn't surprised that his abrupt awakening stirs Hannibal as well, both of them well on edge until they reach safety in Europe, short on sleep and highly tuned to everything around them. He feels a bit guilty in cutting Hannibal's rest short, and he tugs up the sleeve of his coat to see there are still a few hours left before they land. He rubs his eyes.
"Yeah," he says dismissively, his voice low, but he turns to Hannibal when he pulls his hands away from his face, meeting Hannibal's eyes. "I was dreaming," he admits, and when he thinks about it he realizes it wasn't a nightmare, though he's no stranger to those. The way Hannibal is looking at him, he thinks Hannibal must have been dreaming too, and their gazes stay locked a lot longer than they ought to as two men who are supposed to barely know each other.
Will swallows, turning his head so he's looking at the back of the seat in front of him. "It wasn't a bad dream," he tells Hannibal, keeping his voice down. "I'm not good at sleeping on planes," he adds, tossing a look in Hannibal's direction before looking straight ahead again.
He wants to tell Hannibal about his dream, or at least about what he thinks it means, but he can't do that, not here. "I'm ready to be in Paris," he says instead, hoping that will convey how much he'd rather they were alone, how ready he is to start to live his new life, to cultivate his facade and learn to live behind the veil at Hannibal's side. He's changed, already, but there are still new parts of him growing into being, and he's ready to unfurl his wings, to stop feeling contained in the ill fitting shell he's residing been inside all his life.
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"Yeah," he says dismissively, his voice low, but he turns to Hannibal when he pulls his hands away from his face, meeting Hannibal's eyes. "I was dreaming," he admits, and when he thinks about it he realizes it wasn't a nightmare, though he's no stranger to those. The way Hannibal is looking at him, he thinks Hannibal must have been dreaming too, and their gazes stay locked a lot longer than they ought to as two men who are supposed to barely know each other.
Will swallows, turning his head so he's looking at the back of the seat in front of him. "It wasn't a bad dream," he tells Hannibal, keeping his voice down. "I'm not good at sleeping on planes," he adds, tossing a look in Hannibal's direction before looking straight ahead again.
He wants to tell Hannibal about his dream, or at least about what he thinks it means, but he can't do that, not here. "I'm ready to be in Paris," he says instead, hoping that will convey how much he'd rather they were alone, how ready he is to start to live his new life, to cultivate his facade and learn to live behind the veil at Hannibal's side. He's changed, already, but there are still new parts of him growing into being, and he's ready to unfurl his wings, to stop feeling contained in the ill fitting shell he's residing been inside all his life.