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When Hannibal asks Will to come to dinner the night before they're to have their fateful meal with Jack, Will thinks maybe it's one more evening of planning, another few hours for Hannibal to be sure that Will is really ready to do what he says he will in regards to Jack's murder. As usual they talk around each other, neither one admitting anything, touching on things just enough to avoid being untruthful, never really saying anything. But the nothing they say is heavy with intent, and the moves they make are like a game for which neither of them knows the rules.

Hannibal asks about Jack, finally, and the question is framed in such a way that Will can easily deflect rather than answer directly. But even as he says what he does, about Jack's fate being preordained, he thinks that there's a part of him that could do what he's told Hannibal he can, could help Hannibal kill him. He doesn't cherish the idea of murdering Jack, doesn't imagine it will give him the rush of power he felt when he put ten bullets into Garrett Jacob Hobbs, when he nearly shot Clark Ingram in the head, when he broke Randal Tier's neck. But he's started to lose sight of where his reality ends and his deception begins.

Letting Hannibal in, giving him permission (and invitation) to be close, has given Will new insight. There's something in the vulnerability they've shared, even if some of it had been manufactured on Will's part, that makes some part of Will loathe to turn on Hannibal as was his initial design. It's not as if he's forgotten what Hannibal did to him, because he hasn't. But he's starting to understand why, to see the flesh and blood behind a man who is most certainly a monster. Hannibal can be cold and calculating and cruel, but he's passionate as well, he has the ability to be broken hearted, and the capacity for love.

Before he'd brought up Jack, Hannibal had talked about an imago, and the more Will considers it, the more he starts to realize that maybe Hannibal is hinting at something. He has in his mind his ideal for Will, a partner, Will thinks, someone he can share his intellect with, his thoughts, dark and light, someone who can and will understand him. But it makes Will wonder if Hannibal's seen through the cracks of Will's deceit, as fine as they are, if he knows betrayal awaits him when Jack arrives tomorrow night. It makes bile rise in the back of Will's throat, not because he's afraid of what Hannibal will do, but rather because the idea of hurting Hannibal in that way squeezes at his heart in a manner he never thought possible.

Will takes a sip of his wine in an attempt to wash the guilt down, but it sticks in his throat, burns in his sinuses. He can hear the intake of Hannibal's breath, ready to speak, but the words that come out of his mouth aren't what Will expects.

"We could disappear now, tonight," Hannibal suggests, his voice low and honest in a way that Will can feel vibrating in his bones. "Feed your dogs, leave a note for Alana, and never see her or Jack again. Almost polite."

There's a long silence then, spun out between them, and Will's instinct is to deflect again, say something that isn't a no or a yes, just words to fill the space. But, in his heart, all he wants is to agree, to leave all of this behind and run away with Hannibal, for better or worse, whatever that means. Jack would see him as a traitor, a liar, Alana would know it was weakness, giving into Hannibal's designs (because she knows exactly what that feels like), but, besides having to leave his dogs, Will has nothing to lose. He doesn't feel loyalty to the FBI, he doesn't have Jack or Alana's complete trust. He doesn't have Hannibal's either, and there's always a chance that Hannibal will kill him as soon as they get away, but Will suddenly understands that he doesn't care. This life, the one he's been pretending to live these few months, is what he wants. He's never felt more alive, has never understood himself better, than when he's with Hannibal.

"Yes," Will says quietly, his eyes meeting Hannibal's as he nods softly, his gaze clear and unburdened for the first time. "Let's go tonight. I want to," he adds, wanting his intentions to be completely understood, nothing disguised by the veil that usually hung between them.

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Hannibal sees that hungry look in Will's eyes as his lover gazes at his body, and Hannibal smiles, slowing his motions to give Will those extra few fractions of a second to enjoy the sight of his naked body. Hannibal would not consider himself overly prideful, even though he would contend that pride is not a sin. Rather he has a pronounced aesthetic appreciation for anyone's physical appearance, including his own. He's well aware he's attractive physically, and enjoys when people in general, and Will in particular, take notice. He is looking forward to seeing Will's entire body as well, and has in mind the idea that when they are safe and alone in the flat he owns in Paris he will strip his lover bare and take his time examining every inch of his body. He will wait, though, his hunger sweet in the anticipation of satisfaction.

"I only need to gather our papers and take my suitcase." He nods toward the wardrobe as he buttons his shirt. "I've had it packed for some time now."

His shirt buttoned, he goes to the wardrobe and opens it to contemplate his selection of ties. The one the used to strangle Will into unconsciousness he will leave on the bed along with the semen-spattered duvet. It will be their own crime scene, and the thought of Jack interpreting the evidence they have left makes him smile.

Will notices when Hannibal starts to take his time dressing, and he's grateful for that little gift he's given, the first glimpses of a body Will hopes he will get to know very, very intimately. It will give Will something to contemplate on their long flight, cultivating ideas of what shape their sex life might take, considering what Hannibal might like in bed, beyond what they've just done. He knows by the time they they land in France, go through customs, and get transportation to the place Hannibal has planned for them to stay they're both going to be exhausted, but the desire they have for each other will be honed to a fine point, all those hours of thinking about each other this way without being able to do anything about it. Will imagines the sex the have their first night in Paris will be frantic and desperate, and afterward they'll sleep for hours.

Will nods as Hannibal tells him what's left, and he's sure Hannibal's bags have been packed for months, ready for him to go on the run on his own, not with Will. The fact that Will is a part of this now is relatively new, but not enough so that Hannibal isn't prepared to have Will there by his side. While Hannibal goes to his closet, Will takes a look over the room, seeing the very slight mess they've left, the duvet mussed, a wet stain where Will's come is drying, probably some of Hannibal's there as well, leaked out of Will as he rested on his side, and the tie, cast aside in the middle of the mattress.

Will knows the FBI has both his and Hannibal's DNA on file. They'll be able to see who the semen belonged to, the epithelials on the bed, all over Hannibal's tie. Jack could guess that this whole thing was staged, but he knows Jack will see the truth, will know exactly what happened here. He imagines the look on Jack's face when the realization dawns, how Jack might look at them if he ever manages to catch up to them.

Patiently, Will waits for Hannibal to finish in the wardrobe, suitcase in hand. Hannibal sets it down, then moves across the room to where Will assumes the documents are being kept securely. Will's starting to feel anxious, not because he's worried but because he's ready to get started.

Hannibal has been simplifying things in his house in anticipation of leaving, so there are only two things in the safe: an accordian folder of documents and a stack of three bundles of hundred dollar bills. Hannibal takes the money out first, putting it in his suitcase for the moment, then the folder, with which he does the same. At the moment the documents are only for Will and himself, but he has set into motion the creation of papers for Bedelia duMaurier. He had planned to bring the psychiatrist with him had Will gone through with his betrayal, as a companion and a project. He saw in Dr. duMaurier many of the same things he saw in Will, most importantly an innate capacity for and an aesthetic appreciation of exquisite violence. He has long been fond of her, but that fondness has always been dispassionate, sterile, his desire to be seen more like a game to lead Bedelia step by step down a dark path.

Prepared, Hannibal left the bedroom to head to the door, trusting Will to follow.

"We'll take your car to your home, then to a place where we'll leave it and take a taxi to the airport."

Will, out of necessity, has always been adaptable, flexible, and ready to move at nearly a moment's notice. Growing up as the only child of a single parent who was also a drifter, Will learned to cope with instability very early on. He doesn't own many things, and most things he does possess don't carry much in the way of sentimental value. He's good at traveling light, and letting things go, which makes the decision to run away with Hannibal that much easier.

There are his dogs, of course, and he does care for them, much more than he cares for most of the human companions in his life. Abigail is gone, and any feelings he'd carried for Alana had been quickly rendered inert the moment she'd entered into a relationship with Hannibal. It wasn't so much that she'd chosen Hannibal over Will; it was that, at the time when they'd begun their romantic tryst, Will had still been futility trying to make both her and Jack believe that Hannibal had framed Will for murder.

Of course everyone will know the truth very soon. But they'll also know that, despite what Hannibal has done, Will has chosen a place at Hannibal's side.

Will follows Hannibal out of the bedroom with one finally glance back at the bed, burning the memory into his mind for later. The dining room gets similar treatment, Will's eyes moving over the table, dinner course still laid out and half eaten, a tableau of a meal interrupted and forgotten. In concert with the state of the bed, the story will be easy to tell: a dinner, a conversation, a decision, and a consummation. And then, of course, an escape.

As they move to the front door, Will finds that he has more regret about leaving this house than his own. While his home carried a lot of comfort for him, Hannibal's was a beacon of transformation, the primary location of his becoming. He knew he'd be able to recall the way it looked when he needed to, but not being able to exist in its physical space again after tonight was a small weight on his finally free heart.

Typically Hannibal would spend the time to tidy up, clear the table, wash the dishes. It's only proper, after all. But tonight is different. Tonight the incompleteness tells a story that he wants those who will come in search of one or both of them to hear: that Hannibal chose to abandon this place, this life, so that he could claim Will.

When they reach the doorway, Hannibal pauses for a moment, turns to Will, reaches up to cup his cheek, and kisses him one last time, his lips gentle. They may be able to indulge in a few small gestures of affection as they make their way to safety...touching fingers, perhaps holding hands...but anything more than that is likely to be more trouble than it's worth, at least for now.

Will isn't expecting the kiss, thinking they'd left that level of intimacy back in Hannibal's bedroom with Will's DNA and Hannibal's tie, and it's not much more than a gentle brush of lips, but it makes Will's heart tumble a little in his chest. Afterward they disconnect again, putting on their coats and walking out to Will's car, Hannibal putting his suitcase into the backseat and Will starting the engine.

It's a long drive, from Baltimore to Wolf Trap, nearly an hour, and they're quiet for a long while, the radio off so the only noise in the cabin of the vehicle is the sound of the tires on the pavement and the purring noise of the running engine. Will's mind is oddly blank and calm, his eyes watching the road behind the lenses of his glasses, the dashed line zooming by. It's a little funny, because the idea of running sounds so rushed and frantic, and while they are on a timeline now, needing to catching a flight, Will isn't speeding, there will be no mad dash toward the airport or a sprint onto the plane. It's almost too respectable and normal to be an escape, as much as that's exactly what it is.

Glancing over, Will sees Hannibal's looking forward, his expression on the thoughtful side of neutral. Will knows his mind isn't quiet; it never is. The silence in the car isn't maddening, but Will feels like he needs to hear Hannibal's voice, a stepping stone on their way out of this life into the next.

"Is this how you imagined it would be?" he asks, keeping his eyes on Hannibal for a moment longer before looking back toward the road.

Hannibal prides himself on managing his life so that everything is elegantly in place and looks perfectly natural and effortless despite the machinations behind the scenes. Even when putting his victims on display he aims to be cultured, refined, such as displaying the lovely Beverly Katz as a Hirst-like work of art, regardless of the ugliness that brought her to that point. Their flight, their escape, would likewise appear effortless. No one will suspect that there is anything unusual about the two men flying to France together, despite it being quite the coup d'état.

Will's question is amusing. "There are few scenarios I have not imagined when it comes to how you and I might move our acquaintance into a new dimension. It is the proper response to the multiplicity of factors. I have pondered many if/then possibilities." He tilts his head slightly. "However," he admits, "this possibility arose rather later than most others."

Much to his disappointment, he had not foreseen Will's betrayal.

The comment makes Will wonder when Hannibal had uncovered Will's deception, where the fork in the road came in, because it had all felt seamless to Will until tonight. Hannibal's suggestion they leave without carrying through with their plan to murder Jack had been a line cast out to see how Will would react, if he'd take the bait or swim away uninterested.

It reminds Will of the metaphor he and Jack had used on the other end of this path they're on, about how to make a fish bite, even when he's not hungry. It makes Will wonder if Hannibal had any tactics he'd planned to use if Will hadn't bitten, something to entice him into doing what Hannibal wanted, to make Hannibal's lure be the one thing he wanted, despite everything he knew. But none of that, of course, had been needed. It turned out that Will was hungry after all.

"You knew, before I told you, that I'd been working for Jack these last few weeks," Will says, and it's not a question because they both know it's true. "How did you know?" Will asks, turning his head just enough that his eyes can move over the side of Hannibal's face, try to see his expression. It's just to sate Will's curiosity, to see where he'd misstepped, what accidental evidence he'd let Hannibal find.

Hannibal stares forward in the dark, watching as the road passes swiftly under them. His offer that night had been one of redemption. Will had that one chance to repent, to decide of his own volition where his loyalty, his heart, his soul, truly lay. Hannibal is glad that Will chose the way he did, because had he followed through with his deception, his betrayal, then things would likely have gotten very messy, and Hannibal could not say with any certainty what state Will might be in afterwards, alive or dead. Surely their friendship would have been shattered. Many might think that Hannibal has no heart to be broken; that situation would have proved them all wrong.

This...leaving together, each choosing the other, committing to each other...is the far preferable outcome.

Hannibal glances at Will, his friend and lover, and remembers with sadness in his eyes what it was like in that instant that he knew. Remembers that mix of emotion: some admiration for a game well played, some disappointment that he had allowed himself to be so blinded...and the pain of betrayal, of offering up himself only to be so thoroughly rejected.

"Freddie Lounds has a quite distinctive scent," he answers, turning his head to again face forward. "When I caught it mingled with your own, I knew that she was alive. From that untruth I was able to construct the outline of your intentions. That you were laying a trap for me, and using our increasing intimacy to lure me into it."

Freddie. It had been a calculated risk, going to see her just before he'd gone to Hannibal, but he knew it was the only chance he'd have to speak to her about Abigail, to beg her not to sully the young woman's name in the pursuit of notoriety. There's a chance it won't even make a difference, because Will trusts Freddie's word less than he trusts most things, but he had to try. If he couldn't save Abigail's life, he'd at least try to honor her memory.

"Our increasing intimacy," Will repeats, and he itches to reach over and touch Hannibal at that moment, like an outward acknowledgement of where that had taken them now, the first step toward something extraordinary, something shapeless that was full of unknowns, but that Will wanted desperately. He licks his lips instead.

"It started as a trap," Will admits after a moment of silence, taking the turn onto the dirt road that lead to his farmhouse. "The longer I played the game, the less I was playing. And the intimacy," he says, pausing as he stops the car outside his house and cuts the engine, flips off the headlights, "It was real."

Will knows Hannibal might not believe him, the reality and the deception so closely aligned it's sometimes difficult even for Will to sort one out from the other, but with the car parked now Will can turn in his seat and look at Hannibal, able to meet his eyes. "My motivations changed," he says, his voice low in the silence of the car.

Hannibal believes Will when he says the intimacy was real. It's unclear, however, whether that makes it better or worse. There's a certain comfort in knowing that someone you trusted and cared for never truly cared for you. Yet when someone cares and yet still chooses to betray you, to take your life, your freedom, the wound is so much deeper. Still, Hannibal finds satisfaction in that he did not misread the situation so terribly that wanted to be seen by someone who couldn't care less.

With the car stilled and silenced, Hannibal turns to Will as well, meeting his eyes in the darkness. "Your motivations for luring me into a trap? For taking my life? How were they different tonight from when you first made your plans with Jack?" His voice is for the most part calm, curious, but with a very faint undercurrent of hurt.

It could be seen as a loaded question, a trap set to catch Will in a lie or an inconsistency, but Will can hear the pain cached within it, the part of Hannibal that cares for Will as a friend, as a partner and a lover, the part that wants Will by his side at least for the foreseeable future if not always. It's the rarely seen vulnerability, the desire to be seen and understood and, yes, loved, that had made Will agree to go with him tonight, that had broken the last fraying threads of Will's loyalty to Jack, the FBI, and his entire life before Hannibal.

Hannibal deserves the truth, and Will has no intention of keeping it from him.

"My motivations at the start were fueled by reciprocation," Will says. "You'd seen me locked away, my freedom taken from me, my credibility put into question." It's a simple way to put all the feelings Will had cultivated in prison, the anger, the betrayal, the frustration at being disbelieved by everyone. By the time he'd been released, despite knowing it had been Hannibal who'd allowed it to happen, all Will could understand was his desire for revenge.

"I was dedicated to the role," Will goes on, meeting Hannibal's eyes fully. "But, as I said before, the longer it went on, the less of what I said was exaggeration. When we spoke in your office, I was myself. The more of you I saw..." Will trails off, taking a breath. "The more I saw myself in you."

He takes another moment, his eyes on Hannibal's, watching and unafraid. He's already made his choice, and he won't change his mind. The only way he won't be on that midnight plane to Paris is if Hannibal leaves him behind, dead or alive.

"Three days ago I knew exactly what I was going to do. Two days ago I started to question my decision. Today, in your office, I had no idea who's side I would go to when the time came. Tonight, at your table, I could only see myself helping you murder Jack." He sucks a breath through his nose, and when he speaks again, his voice is low, barely a whisper.

"My motivations tonight came from wanting you, to be with you."

Hannibal doesn't begrudge Will his anger, his desire for revenge, for what he had done, but he has no regrets and will make no apologies. He had experimented on Will, this man who he knew was able to take on the mindset of others so well, and sought to bring out in him this powerful being Hannibal knew laid in wait. Indeed, Hannibal finds Will's backlash to be intriguing, invigorating, and evidence that the glorious creature that Hannibal was seeking to bring to birth was emerging into the light. His issue is with the methods Will had used, taking advantage of Hannibal's increasing emotional vulnerability, his increasing willingness to allow Will behind the veil, to see him without his person-suit. That is why it affects him when Will says he saw himself in Hannibal. At the words he draws a breath, a minimal reaction that might go unnoticed by a casual observer, but not here, now, so close to Will, the man who truly knows him in a way that no on else alive does.

Indeed, in the dark Hannibal's mind smooths and shapes the parts of Will that are indistinct, creating a being not Will and not Hannibal, but both, more than both, a whole far more than the sum of its parts. Together the two of them are a force to be reckoned with, a dark god of destruction. Paris, perhaps all of Europe, will tremble before them.

"Our paths can be unclear," he answers, his own voice almost a whisper. "What we truly desire might not be apparent even to ourselves until time and circumstance make them so. My motivations have been to see you, truly see the being at the heart of you, and to have you truly see yourself as well. To allow the whole world that glimpse of your soul. But when my path became clear, I found that I wanted to be seen by you as well. That we are meant to know one another. That our fates are now and ever shall be inextricably linked."

Will hears Hannibal's intake of breath like a tree falling in the woods, his visual emotional response a monumental thing and rare to behold. It was even more intense and meaningful that the sound Hannibal had made an hour and a half ago when he'd taken Will and come roughly inside him, the emotion related deeper and more vulnerable than desire, and it made Will's chest ache, the urge to lean across the center of the car and kiss Hannibal extremely strong.

He doesn't do it, not right away, because Hannibal has a look in his eyes that says he's about to speak, and Will wants to hear everything and anything Hannibal has to say.

Will's sure that Hannibal doesn't use the word desire lightly, and fate either. Just as Will had found himself falling into Hannibal, Hannibal had lost himself in the space between them as well, his need for them to be part of each other as strong as the one to see Will embrace his true nature. They were just alike, their uniqueness not so much mirrored as two halves of a whole. They were one now, and separating them, if it was even possible, would be more than painful, impossible to survive unscathed.

"I want to know you," Will says, his voice shaking in its sincerity. "In every way. And I want you to know me, too. All of me." He takes a breath, exhaling it hotly, unable to deny himself any longer. He leans into Hannibal's seat and finds Hannibal's lips, the kiss hard and wet but not lingering, Will breaking it only seconds after it began, sitting back in his own seat with a broken breath.

Will's words make Hannibal ache, a bittersweet sensation he is unfamiliar with, of love requited. He can imagine one of those possibilities he had in mind if this evening's conversation at his table had taken a different turn, if Will had declined the offer (however shrouded) of redemption. He can imagine standing over a bleeding Will, watching the man he loves as his life ebbs away, and letting bitter words of love unrequited fall from his lips. But now it's Will's words that are a balm to Hannibal's raw, exposed heart. And when Will's lips meet his Hannibal draws another breath, and lifts a hand to touch Will's cheek as he kisses him back. When Will withdrew Hannibal was smiling quietly, gazing at his friend and lover for a long moment.

Then he turns away, unbuckles his seat belt and gets out of the car. He tucks his hands into his pockets and strides to Will's house, climbs the stairs to his porch and waits for Will to join him.

Hannibal gets out of Will's car, leaving Will behind, his own feelings whirling around him, Hannibal's smile, the warmth of his kiss, of his touch on Will's cheek, all of it lingering. He knows without being told that, despite all the outcomes Hannibal told Will he'd imagined, there were only two paths away from Hannibal's table tonight: loyalty and love or deception and death. And Will hadn't chosen the way he did to save his life.

Unbuckling his own seatbelt, Will meets Hannibal on his porch, gives him a bare glance before he moves to unlock the door, pushing inside and trusting that Hannibal will follow him. Will's dogs rush immediately to greet him, tails wagging, one of them letting out an occasional bark, two of the smaller ones jumping up against his legs. Only Winston stands back, seemingly eyeing Hannibal as if he knows, not that Hannibal's a killer, but that Hannibal is taking Will away.

Will kneels, reaching around and rubbing furry backs and patting flanks, not ducking away from the licks across his face. "I know, I know," he tells the dogs softly, making sure to touch each one, give them attention in turn, his goodbye. He doesn't have time to cook for them, like usually would, so he stands and goes into his kitchen, taking raw meat out of the refrigerator, cutting it quickly into pieces on the cutting board by the sink.

He stops, when he's done, looking at the redness of the meat, the roughness of the chunks, and he sees the future. He swallows around a thickness in his throat that isn't fear; it's something thrilling, something that steals the breath right from Will's lungs.

Taking the cutting board to the other room, he drops bits of meat into half a dozen metal bowls, dividing it, the dogs crowding around, gulping the raw flesh down. It's like a perfect, poetic metaphor, and Will raises his eyes to find Hannibal watching, not the dogs but Will's face, seeing, understanding.

"Give me two minutes to pack a bag," Will says, setting the cutting board on his desk and moving to get a sturdy duffle bag from underneath his bed.

Hannibal watches Will with his dogs, smiling at his lover's outpouring of affection. He's always found it interesting that Will, who has such difficulty with connecting with human beings, has such an easy relationship with his rescued strays. Of course, with dogs there's no pretense, no facade, nothing to interpret. But at a deeper level the dogs represent the bestial urge, not buried or hidden but in a continuum of being. The dogs jumping around Will, licking his face, wagging their tails, are the same dogs who fought over scraps of Mason Verger's face. They will eat the food that Will cooks. And they will eat the bloody raw chunks he is now putting in their bowls for them to jostle over. When Will looks up Hannibal smiles. He nods to Will's question.

"We should get a message to Dr. Bloom so that she knows to come care for the dogs." He sits in one of the chairs and holds out a hand to the nearest dog, palm down to let it sniff before petting it, scratching it behind the ears.

Will nods, and he notices that Hannibal hasn't called her Alana since he used her name when he asked Will to run away with him tonight, and he wonders if it's indicative of how little he cares for her now, how he doesn't have to bother to pretend anymore, for Will's benefit, that he ever wanted anything from her other than to use her as a pawn. Will doesn't respond immediately, goes to his dresser and pulls out some clothes, two pairs of pants, four undershirts, for pairs of boxers, four pairs of socks. He tucks them into the duffel and goes to his small closet, taking out two plaid button up shirts, a heavy, cable-knit pullover, and a blazer. He doesn't bother with any of his ties, just takes the shirts and the outerwear to the bed and folds them quickly, placing them in the bag as well.

He leaves Hannibal at the desk, going into his bathroom and putting his toiletries together quickly, carrying the little bag back out and adding it to the duffle, zipping it shut. He doesn't take any of things, no nicknacks, no photos, nothing. He doesn't have anything here, besides his dogs, that he needs or will miss.

"Should I call her office?" Will suggests, picking up the conversation like there hadn't been five minutes since the last time Hannibal spoke. "Leave a message for her to find in the morning?"

Hannibal has been referring to Alana by her formal title to create a sense of distance, of sterility. He's well aware that his dalliance with her will be an uncomfortable subject, one that is likely to come up eventually, and he would like to delay that while they are in this first flush of their evolved relationship. In truth, Hannibal has always been fond of Alana. Surely his feelings for her are not nearly as deep as those he has for Will, but his affection is not entirely an act, even though he was using her for his own purposes. He keeps her blind to protect himself, but also to protect her. He would prefer not to come calling on her if it can be avoided, and if it came to a crossroads, he would offer her a path of redemption, just as he had offered Will. The difference would be that her path would be to walk away.

He watches Will pack, appreciating the simplicity. As much as Hannibal appreciates fashion, he finds a certain elegance in Will's understated, utilitarian sense of style. While he can imagine Will in a three piece suit and a trinitarian-knot tie, it's an image that he doesn't wish to force upon his friend.

When Will speaks, Hannibal falls right back into the conversation as well. "That should be sufficient. What will you tell her?" He's very curious how much truth Will would reveal.

Will contemplates Hannibal's question for a moment, knowing he wants to say something that will tell Alana what he's done, not where he's gone but who he's gone with, and that he won't be coming back. But he doesn't plan to offer any apologies or explanations, doesn't have any interest in wishing her farewell. She'd had a choice when he'd been in jail, the opportunity to trust him, to believe him, but she hadn't. If she'd been blinded by her feelings or her desires, he didn't know; all he was certain of was that, ultimately, she'd chosen Hannibal over him. And now he was doing the same.

He doesn't tell Hannibal what he's going to say, only goes to the phone on his desk, standing close enough to where Hannibal is seated that his knee brushes Hannibal's bent one as he picks up the receiver, leans to dial Alana's office number. It rings six times, clicks over, and her outgoing message plays, instructing him to leave a message.

"It's over," he says once the tone plays. "Pandora's box has been opened, there's no turning back. Don't try to look for us, don't try to find us, don't think about us anymore. Walk away, Alana. It will save your life."

He replaces the receiver in the cradle then, and while he doesn't have any strong emotions about Alana, no regrets or fears tied up in her, no lingering desires, there's a finality of it that causes him to pause, exhaling a long, calming breath.

Hannibal finds it interesting that Will has essentially offered Alana the same choice that he would have: walk away, stay blind, stay alive. He is of course well aware of Will's (former) affections for Alana. It was one of the dynamics Hannibal played with when he seduced the doctor, to further isolate Will, further separate him from the support system that surrounded Jack Crawford's sway. There's satisfaction in how Will has essentially severed whatever relationship may have remained, with no explanation nor apology. It is likewise satisfying that while he leaves a message for Alana (however dismissive), there is no such message for Jack Crawford himself, or at least not one aside from the clear message left in Hannibal's home and on Hannibal's bed, that would be clear for all to see, likely in the morning when Will's message to Alana triggers an investigation. Of course, they will be in Paris by then, safe for a while from the reaches of those who would take their freedom.

Hannibal rises and curls a hand around Will's shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. "Are you ready?"

Will takes a breath, looking over the interior of his little house, his dogs scattered through the room, some laying in their beds, one at his feet, another, Winston, standing expectantly by the door. Some people say that animals sense things that humans cannot, that they understand things on a level beyond body language and vocal communication. Will has always had a tendency to believe that, which is why he's almost always felt more comfortable with dogs for companions than people. There's no way to lie to a dog, no way for a person to hide their true nature. Will's dogs trust Hannibal, which might be a strike against that notion, but what does a dog care about the life of a human being they don't know? Will's dogs know that Hannibal won't harm them, and that Hannibal won't harm Will, and so, as far as they're concerned, he doesn't pose a threat.

The notion is comforting; Will himself has come to trust that Hannibal won't kill him, at least not anytime soon, but having tacit confirmation from his abstract family only further eases Will's mind.

The dogs also know that Will's leaving. Most of them seem to understand that Will won't be leaving them without someone to care for them, but Winston in particular seems skeptical. Will wishes, of all of them, he could take Winston with him to the new life on which he's embarking with Hannibal. He knows it's impossible, and that's the only thing that makes him regret having to leave.

"I'm ready," Will finally says after he reconciles those feelings, grateful to have Hannibal's physical support in that moment. He reaches up and touches Hannibal's hand on his shoulder briefly before he disengages, going to the bed to pick up his bag. He doesn't pet any of the dogs as he walks to the door, having already said his goodbyes, and he locks up behind them, knowing Alana has a key and not wanting to leave the dogs vulnerable if it takes her a day or two to retrieve them.

Hannibal prefers not to cause harm to innocent lives without purpose, so he might object to leaving the dogs locked inside were he not certain that Jack will visit Wolf Trap tomorrow in search of his fugitive profiler, and Alana will care for the dogs from that point on. He reaches down and pets Winston once on the head as he passes by, and then goes to the car as Will locks up, opening the door to the backseat so Will can put his bag in before climbing into the passenger seat.

He directs Will to drive into Baltimore and park on a side street with on-street parking. Then together they walk a couple blocks before Hannibal pulls a burner phone and calls for a cab to pick them up on the corner.

As they stand waiting for the taxi, their breath curling into the cold air, Hannibal turns to Will.

"Have you ever been to Europe?"

Edited 2016-02-16 04:45 (UTC)

Everything is back to being pragmatic and succinct once they leave Will's house, and Will appreciates both that and Hannibal's meticulous direction as they drive back into Baltimore, not requiring Will to speak. Hannibal must know that Will is coming to terms with leaving the few small parts of his life that made him feel secure behind, his small, safe farmhouse, his collection of strays. Will doesn't regret his decision to run away with Hannibal even a fraction, and he's never been encumbered by sentiment, but he hadn't been prepared to leave everything behind when he'd arrived at Hannibal's hours ago, and he needs a few minutes to process the new direction and let it all go.

The evening is cool, a cold front rolling in, and Will thinks there will be rain tomorrow, though he and Hannibal obviously won't be there to see it. It's a strange notion, but Will's looking forward now, the idea of being in Paris next time they go to bed making the last of his lingering connections to Virginia falling away.

"I haven't," Will answers Hannibal's question, and it seems unfathomable that a worldly man like Hannibal Lecter should want to take up with someone who only left his home when he was directed by his job to do so. "I always felt like there'd be a time when I'd get the chance," he adds, sparing a glance in Hannibal's direction. "It appears that time is now," he says, offering an expression very near a smile.

Hannibal enjoys cool evenings. Even in the warmest of weather he wears three piece suits, bearing the discomfort with his usual effortless grace. When it's this cool, however, he is comfortable, and can even add a long wool coat and gloves to his look. He can smell the imminent rain above the baseline of urban Baltimore, the ozone stealthily increasing, the air becoming pregnant with moisture. Every place has its own unique scent, and Hannibal has that sensory dimension in his mind palace. Someday he will be able to close his eyes and remember this moment, remember the scent of Baltimore, the scent of rain, the scent of Will, his usual bouquet with undercurrents of the sweat and semen of sex. His anticipation of Paris came with its own scents, of the city, of the people, and of Will, the scent of sex fresh and strong and mixed with the headiness of arousal.

Hannibal answers Will's near smile with an easy one of his own. "It would appear that now is the time for a great many things," he muses aloud. There are so many things he wants to show Will, that he wants his lover to experience. The glorious freedom of his true nature and the beauty of darkness, violence, and death, is but one. Fine food, rough and violent sex, and the ancient yet vibrant cities of Europe are all on the very close horizon.