Will nods in return, reaching down to unbuckle his seatbelt and stand. His legs protest, his hamstrings and his glutes aching from the pound Hannibal gave him hours ago, and he clenches his inner muscles again to feel the soreness there too. The sensation causes a flare of arousal in him, and he's glad he's walking away from Hannibal in this moment, his ability to keep his hands to himself libel to falter, the memory of their coupling once more so fresh in his mind.

He meets one of the flight attendants in the back of the plane, asks her for a glass of wine (the options are a vague 'red or white?' and he chooses red, remembering that's what Hannibal ordered before) and a whiskey, neat, convincing her to give him two little bottles of off brand booze in his glass rather than the customary one. He pays with the cash in his wallet, thanking her gratefully, heading back down the aisle to their row, taking his time so he can stretch his legs a little, work some of the pent up desire and exhaustion out of his system.

When he reaches his seat, he hands the glass of wine to Hannibal before he sits, and the fact that their fingers brush isn't at all as accidental as it looks. As soon as the beverage is handed over, Will sits, pulling down his tray table before he rebuckles his belt. Lifting his glass to Hannibal, he offers a silent toast, the wishes and hopes in his heart flashing quickly in his eyes as their gazes meet.