The way Hannibal describes wine is very telling to a person who knows Hannibal probably better than anyone else has before. It's an offering, a gift of the earth and of the people who grow the grapes, of time, active and aging, of hope. Will knows that grapes have different tastes dependent on the weather, the nutrients in the soil, the sun, the wind, the day they ripen and are picked. A winemaker doesn't know how his wine will turn out until he's done all the work, put his blood, sweat, and tears into the process. It's a matter of trust, of faith.

Hannibal is much like those winemakers, where Will is the final product of his work. When he'd first cultivated Will, taking him from Jack's office and transplanting him, he had no idea what kind of fruit would come to bear. Even after he'd poured his soul into Will's transformation, he hadn't known if what came out would be sweet or bitter.

It had almost gone bad, but when Hannibal finally untapped him and had the first drink, he'd found his efforts had not gone to waste. And, Will hopes, he's looking forward to a deeper taste.

"We should get a bottle when we arrive," Will suggests, thinking it will make for a good refreshment once they finally take a moment to breathe.