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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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There are many meanings and a lot of promise in Hannibal's smile, in the words he carefully says in reply. Will is already starting to feel the itch of impatience now that they've gotten this far, secure in the knowledge that the few important loose ends will be tied up in the next couple of days. His mind is already hours and miles ahead, anxious to learn what Hannibal has waiting for them on the other side. He knows there will be lodging ready, and at least a few days spent laying low to be sure that their scent has been scattered well enough that Jack's bloodhounds won't be able to track them down.

Hannibal has done everything he can to ensure their departure is as invisible as possible, but there are, of course, factors beyond his control. They'll buy their plane tickets with the cash in Hannibal's folder, but that in of itself will be unusual, which means they need to be otherwise as unmemorable as they can. Which means, at least until they're safely on the airplane, they'll need to stringently avoid physical contact, or any telling topics of conversation.

Will's mind is swirling with possibilities, thoughts about architecture and public transportation, of markets and cafes, of the ways Hannibal might indoctrinate Will into his darker rituals, how they'll engage in them together. And of course this newest facet of their partnership, the physical desire that Will has felt burning just under the surface of his skin since they crossed the threshold into Hannibal's bedroom hours ago. There are so many new pleasures in which they'll partake together, but the one most insistent in Will's mind is the basest of them all.

"Tell me about where we'll be staying in Paris," Will says, needing something concrete to occupy his mind lest his imagination get the better of him. His body has already begun reacting in sympathy to his cursory thoughts; anything more detailed will only aggravate the situation to the point of being outwardly noticeable.

Having to not touch Will, to not give in to the deep urge to tear off his clothes and have him right here and now, is delicious torture. For the moment denial is sweet, and Hannibal is anticipating a million little ways it will become all the more painful and all the sweeter. Sitting next to each other, so close, in the taxi, on the airplane, on transport in Paris. They will likely sleep on the plane, and even the idea of Will simply resting his head on Hannibal's shoulder causes a small flush of frustrated desire. Hannibal is enjoying every moment, while also knowing that this pleasure will be far, far exceeded once they have reached Paris and can have their ways with each other.

Will's question elicits a wistful smile from Hannibal. "I have a top floor flat in la rive droite, a mere three blocks from the Louvre. It's spacious for a Parisian apartment. It has been in my possession for some time, even though it has been years since I've last visited. The furnishings are sparse for the moment, but that will give us the opportunity to purchase furniture together. Of course we'll also have to stock the pantry, purchase china and silverware...we'll have plenty to keep us busy for the first week."

He lifts an eyebrow in silent recognition of what they both know they will be doing the moment the door closes behind them.

The idea of shopping for furniture and china gives Will momentary pause, not because he thinks Hannibal is brushing off their obvious mutual desires but because of the very clear (and likely intentional) parallel the concept makes. Furnishing a home, buying dishes and flatware, is something a new married couple might do together. This escape, the two of them running off to Europe side by side, is very indicative of an elopement. When they arrive in Paris, they will start their new lives together as, essentially, newlyweds, with all the associated benefits.

Hannibal's raised eyebrow is all Will needs to see to know that their first act upon crossing the threshold will, in fact, be a consummation of their union, and in exactly the same fashion they would if they were legally bound in matrimony.

It makes Will think that Hannibal truly sees their future in that light, that their partnership is founded on many things: friendship, understanding, desire, and love. And, though striving for discretion, they will appear as companions and lovers to anyone who might pay close enough attention, and it causes a strange hope to surface in Will, a burgeoning yearning to someday be presented to the world as Hannibal's husband. He doesn't imagine they'll ever celebrate actual nuptuals, but the idea of them both wearing wedding bands has a appeal that Will can't deny.

"I can't say I'm not looking forward to some of those impending errands," Will remarks, and he takes a small step sideways into Hannibal's direction, something that looks like an easy shifting of body weight, but he's close enough now to brush his fingers over the back of Hannbai's hand where it hangs at his side, He wants to touch more, to drive Hannibal back into the shadows and feel him, press their bodies together. The further they get into their journey the more Will craves contact, the harder the lust for Hannibal is to contain. He already knows he'll be aching the entire flight, at least as long as he's awake, that by the time they arrive in Hannibal's exquisite, Parisian apartment Will won't have an ounce of patience left.

He imagines their first time in France will be desperate and messy, mostly still dressed and crude, rutting bodies and biting kisses culminating in their collapse in the middle of the floor, sticky and panting. Will shivers at the thought and swallows hard, both anxious for the taxi to arrive and hoping it's delayed a little longer, allowing them a few more precious moments alone.

If Will shared his observations about the parallels with marriage, Hannibal would be taken aback. He has never thought of marriage as anything but a facade. After all, one of his contingency plans had been to bring Bedelia with him in Will's place, to play the role of her husband, and her of his wife, even though their true relationship bore no resemblance to marriage. There is some degree of satisfaction in the notion of a mutual promise, a mutual dedication, but at the moment marriage is still just a show, a shadow play. They will publicly be companions and lovers because they are in private companions and lovers, not as a show. Declaring himself "married" to Will, or even just wearing wedding bands, doesn't really cross his mind. Perhaps in the future he will come to realize that it is a natural extension of what he and Will have, the friendship, desire, loyalty and love, but it will surprise him, just as this true friendship surprised him, just as this true love, both likewise sinking past the mere outward appearance.

For the moment, though, Hannibal's desires to shop for these things together stem from his desire to share the finer things with his friend, to get a sense of Will's taste and coax it gently in more refined directions. He wants Will to appreciate the particular shade of blue on a particular set of china, to find a measure of joy in the swoop and curl of the wood of a baroque style chaise lounge. These motivations are entirely internal, entirely speaking to the reality of their relationship rather than to any metaphysical classification.

When Will's fingers brush against his hand Hannibal glances down for a moment, a faint smile on his face. He looks up again and moves his own fingers slightly to brush against Will's in return. The contact isn't relief from his torment; quite the opposite. It makes him ache all the more to drag (or be dragged by) Will into an alley and shove him to a wall, or be shoved to a wall, and make frantic, furtive love to each other, penetrative or no, perhaps even without removing their clothing save for unbuttoning and unzipping their trousers. It would be messy and hard to hide when the taxi did come, when they got to the airport, clothes stained, the scent of sex detectable by anyone. It would be a very, very bad idea.

But that doesn't mean Hannibal craves it any less. He just pushes the craving forward, letting their first encounter in the flat in Paris carry more and more weight. They will abandon everything but their long-denied lust and rut until they climax, probably more than once, until there is no strength left in their bodies, until they have fucked each other weak and senseless and sated.

The idea makes Hannibal's smile deepen.

Edited (Gah, tenses!) 2016-02-17 20:22 (UTC)

The return touch sends a twist of desire up Will's spine that has him arching minutely in sympathy, his mouth going dry. It's almost not a touch, the barest graze of fingers on fingers, but there are so many nerve endings, and the meaning is so entirely clear, that it makes heat pool in Will's groin and spread through Will's chest. He has a half formed thought about calling to delay the taxi, taking those precious extra minutes and learning what it feels like to have Hannibal's cock in his mouth or just find something solid and press Hannibal's back to it, kiss him until they're both breathless and rumpled. But the timeline they're on is tight as it is, and even a ten minute delay might find them missing their flight. As appealing as that might be, forced to stay in a hotel until the morning, there's too much in motion already behind them; an extra night in Baltimore would almost certainly mean their capture.

Will's heart is pounding hard enough that he can feel it in his wrists, his throat, between his legs, and while he knows where the lines are at the moment (and won't cross them), he can't stop himself wanting. He takes a breath and looks in Hannibal's direction, knowing Hannibal can see right through him, knows he's half hard in his pants and remembering what it felt like to have Hannibal moving inside him. Even just the thought makes Will's asshole clench, and he can feel the dampness there, Hannibal's come still slowly leaking from him.

"How long is the flight to Paris?" he asks, not bothering to clear the huskiness out of his voice or mask the desire in his eyes.

Hannibal looks at him, and sees everything. He sees wide pupils, flushed cheeks, red lips parted in quick breath, neck twitching with quick pulse. He sees his lover's face contorting in pleasure, in pain, in agony and ecstasy, in transcendence. He sees his lover on his knees as Hannibal thrusts his cock into his mouth, on his hands and knees as Hannibal again fucks him from behind, and on his back as Hannibal fucks him face to face, Will's legs up and pressed back to his chest. He sees his lover spread-eagled, or bound with silk ropes in intricate knots, or trussed like a pig ready to be slaughtered while Hannibal holds a knife. And he sees Will's face as he thrusts his cock in Hannibal's mouth, as he takes Hannibal roughly from behind or face to face, as he binds Hannibal and tortures him into such sweet, sweet ecstasy. He sees all of it right there in the face of the man he loves, and it is glorious. He wants so badly to cancel the taxi and figure out some way they can just do it all now, now.

But they can't. They won't.

"A little over nine hours," he answers, his voice smooth as always, but his own wide pupils, flushed cheeks,and parted lips telling their own truth.

Will has avoided prolong eye contact all his life. He tells people it's because he finds eyes distracting, and he does, but one of those distractions is being able to read a person's true feelings. It can be extremely useful when trying to determine if someone is being deceptive or honest, but when he's not profiling, when he isn't working, looking in someone's eyes can derail him, confuse him, or affect his perceptions of that person. It's what got him tangled up with Alana, lost in feelings that didn't do anything but muddy the waters, what started to make Will loathe to trust Jack, the closer he got to Hannibal.

Hannibal's eyes are unlike anyone else's. Will isn't sure how he learned to do it, but Hannibal knows how to make his eyes shallow, like staring at glass, or worse, into a mirror. He can make a person think of feel whatever he wants without them even knowing he's doing it. He's done this to Will many times, twisted up Will's feelings about him, hiding behind a mask. But that veil fell away awhile ago, when Hannibal started to trust Will, to let him see beneath the person suit. It wasn't until the first time Will looked into Hannibal's eyes and saw depth that he realized he'd been seeing a false image until that moment, and he started to see when the blinders snapped in place, when they were around Jack or Alana, any time they weren't alone.

In Hannibal's eyes now Will see's a reflection again, but it's not because there's anything there between them. It's because Hannibal wants the exact same things Will does, both of them suffering quietly in the agony of barely contained desire. Hannibal's face is as open and earnest as it was when they were laying side by side in Hannibal's bed, postcoital, and Will memorizes the every variance in his features, his blown pupils, the dilated veins that cause his face to color just enough that Will can see it, his lips parted to give Will a glimpse of his teeth. Will aches to kiss him more than anything else in this moment, a thank you for allowing Will to see Hannibal's pure, unmasked hunger for him.

Will's brain does the math quickly, ninety minutes until the plane is scheduled to depart, nine hours in the air, customs on the other end, transportation to Hannibal's flat, then a round up for unknown delays, and he comes up with thirteen hours. It will be late once they're at cruising altitude, and Will hopes he'll sleep, at least some, because once they're on the ground in France, sleep is the last thing he wants to spend his time on.

Will hears the distant sound of tires on pavement, the taxi en route, and he inhales sharply through his nose, turning to Hannibal and lunging into him, stealing a hard, hot kiss from his lips. It's a whim, and a risky one, but he's back in place before the beams of the cab's headlights reach the asphalt on the street in front of them.

"To tide us over until Paris," Will says as the taxi rolls to a stop before them.

Hannibal sees it coming just a fraction of a second before Will lunges, so he is able after another fraction of a second to kiss Will back. Time seems to slow as he absorbs the heat and hunger of Will's lips, this last bit of passionate contact, before Will has to pull away. With a smile on his face he shifts away from Will, putting some distance between them, not so much as a reproach for the kiss as much as an assurance that anything the taxi driver might possibly have seen is entirely negated by their positions upon his arrival and closer inspection.

The taxi driver pops the trunk and gets out to put their bags inside before Hannibal and Will slide into the back seat and they're on their way. It's dark, and the driver is thankfully not chatty, so Hannibal sits silently, gazing calmly out the window, acting as if he and Will are barely acquaintances, perhaps co-workers on their way to a conference sharing a cab for cost purposes.

Yet in the dark he slowly moves his hand closer toward Will, to slowly for it to be noticed, wondering if Will is doing the same thing without either of them looking.

It's late, quiet and dark, and the driver doesn't say much beyond the usual pleasantries, has the radio off in the vehicle, so the only sound in the cabin is the road noise of the tires on the pavement and the steady hum of the engine. The vibration of it calms Will's nerves a measure, and he follows Hannibal's lead as far as their body language is concerned, sitting beside him in the backseat like they've only just met, asked to travel together by a third party. The disparity of their act and their real first meeting amuses Will, thinking about the way Hannibal had immediately started testing boundaries, commenting on Will's behavior and making assumptions about his intellect.

Even that first day Hannibal had gotten under Will's skin. Their relationship from there has taken a lot of sharp turns, and fast enough to make Will's metaphorical stomach bottom out, and while he doesn't suspect their path ahead will be straight and easy, he feels like they're running on the same track.

A quick glance in his periphery finds Hannibal's gaze is directed out the window, though Will has a feeling he's not really seeing anything, just letting his eyes go blurry while he mind works on plans for what's next. Will doesn't turn his head toward him, just continues to look toward his own window, his focus relaxed so he only sees lights bleeding into indistinct auras. He isn't sure when he did it, but he finds his hand's resting on the seat between them, his fingers spread and stretched toward Hannibal's body beside him. A second later he feels one of Hannibal's fingers bump into his ring fingertip, the notion of it being accidental washed away when, instead of pulling back, Hannibal's hand slides minutely closer.

Will swallows, takes a breath, and moves the end of his finger so it brushes over the fingernail on Hannibal's. It's a bare touch, but it's not remotely benign, the calm Will found before tilting a little at the contact. An amazing amount of intimacy can be conveyed in subtle ways, and while Will's finding it difficult to decide exactly what this means, all of the possibilities cause his heart to tumble in his chest.

As Will's finger carefully caresses Hannibal's, he smiles, letting the sweet hunger the touch piques wash through him. He shifts his hand a small amount closer and hooks one finger around Will's, to hold instead of to stroke. It would be so much easier if he just forswore all contact until that door closed behind them in Paris. And usually that would be so easy to do, since Hannibal is usually in control of his emotions and their expressions. But now he wants, needs, that physical connection, for as long as it can be hidden by the darkness. He doesn't move after that, letting the smile fade from his face into a weary neutral of a man about to catch a red-eye flight for business. The city slides past them but all Hannibal sees are shades of light and dark as he turns inward to map out the airport in his mind, how they would enter, the counters they'd go to for tickets, how to best go through security without attracting attention.

All the while his finger is hooked with Will's.

When they near the airport he releases Will's finger and straightens, leaning forward a little to direct the cab driver to the Virgin Atlantic departures gate.

When Hannibal hooks his finger around Will's, Will nearly turns his head to look at him, to find his eyes in the dark, but he quickly thinks better of it, outwardly maintaining his facade of exhausted detachment. But he does bend his own finger in kind, linking them together, and the contact causes an overwhelming feeling of relief to bleed up Will's arm into his chest.

Up until tonight physical contact between the two of them was sparse and intentional, initiated by Hannibal strategically. But now, ever since Hannibal offered Will his hand to help him out of his chair at Hannibal's dinner table, it's become an undeniable craving. Worse is knowing they can't have it in any meaningful way for more than half a day, that even careful brushes and incidental contact has to be kept to an absolute minimum to lower their profile.

Here, in the back of this taxi, they're doing the closest thing they can to holding hands. Handholding is such a tender, loving gesture, and Will has never before thought of Hannibal as either of those things. But it feels so close to natural in this moment, clinging to each other, desperate for every last second of touch they can get from each other.

Will barely manages to fight off a sigh when Hannibal finally has to release him, but he does turn his head toward Hannibal when he speaks to the driver, getting to see his full profile for the first time since they got int the taxi. They pull up to the gate and Hannibal pays their fare while Will gets out and retrieves their bags from the trunk.

Hannibal's in his stride now, and Will follows him to the ticket counter. They have to wait in line just behind another couple, a man and a woman in their early fifties with a European air about them. He imagines they're going home to Europe, and he realizes that Hannibal is as well. Just for the moment he allows himself to revel in the fact that Hannibal's taking Will, his American lover, to see his home.

Then he reminds himself of his alias name, of Hannibal's, practices saying it inside his head, rehearses the indifference he has to maintain until they've boarded the plane, remembering that Giacomo is his colleague, one he doesn't even know particularly well. When the desk agent calls them up, he makes sure he stands a step farther away from Hannibal than he normally would, he puts on the well worn act of being socially anxious, tipping his head so the rims of his glasses cut across his eyes when he looks at the person on the other side of the desk as he allows Hannibal to conduct the transaction needed to purchase their plane tickets.

Edited 2016-02-19 06:28 (UTC)

There have only been two places in the world that Hannibal has considered "home." The first is his childhood home in Lithuania, and while Will might go there himself one day, Hannibal never can. His exile, is, in his mind, absolute, and whatever truths Will might one day seek there he will have to do alone. But his other home, the place in which he came into his own as a man, as a killer, is Florence. And after they've spent some time in Paris, lying low, letting their trail run cold as they explore every inch of each other, Hannibal will take Will there and show him everything, the place where he came into his own, perhaps a place where Will's true self could be further refined as well. The Botticelli had been such an inspiration to Hannibal. Perhaps it could be an inspiration to Will as well.

When it is their turn at the ticket counter Hannibal steps up and gives the woman behind the desk a warm, easy smile. "Good evening. I would like to purchase two tickets, for myself and my colleague..." He turns his head slightly and nods toward Will. "On the 12:10 Virgin Atlantic flight to Paris."

"Certainly," the woman says, beginning to type. "May I see your passports?"

"Of course." Hannibal removes his passport from his coat pocket and hands it to the woman. He's an old hand at using aliases, at presenting whatever identity is most practical and appropriate for the situation. He turns to Will, eyebrows slightly raised, waiting for him to hand over "his" passport, wondering how he will present himself.

Will nods as Hannibal looks at him, the motion curt, like he's obeying a silent command from a superior. Reaching into his inside pocket, he takes out his own passport that Hannibal had given to him as they waited for the cab, handing it across the counter to the ticket agent with minimal eye contact but not trying to hide his face as she compares it to the picture inside the document.

Peter Beckett's US passport was issued in Maryland, but his city of birth is Ann Arbor, Michigan. It's benign enough that there's no need for Will to pretend he has an accent, but it has no connections to any places in Will's life, keeping it from pinging on Jack's radar. It's a big enough city that Will doesn't have to speak about it in any detail, or feign knowing anyone who might also, at one time, have lived there. It's perfectly generic, artistically so, and Will makes a note to compliment Hannibal on the mastery of it when they're safely alone in Paris.

"Giacomo," Will says as the gate agent looks down at her computer screen, typing in their information, his voice low and politely conversational. "Do you think we'll have time to get a coffee before we have to board?"

The question is meaningless. Will doesn't care about the answer, doesn't want coffee (he'd prefer to sleep if he can, wanting some rest before they arrive in France, much better things that sleep on their agenda there), but he is establishing their rapport, easy and companionable but not overly friendly, using Hannibal's alias in situ, letting it roll of his tongue like he's said it dozens of times before.

Hannibal catches Will's intent, and his heart swells with pride. He plays his part, though, and looks at his watch. "The coffee shop in this terminal closed at eleven," he says, his voice polite but weary. Hannibal has never been to this terminal before, but he's researched it, and wants the woman behind the desk to think that he's been here so many times that it's boringly routine. He glances at the woman, and her body language is relaxed, tired, bored. They haven't raised any red flags for her yet. Good.

"Will there be coffee available on the flight?" he asks her politely.

"There will be breakfast and lunch served as well as a beverage service." she answers by rote, not really paying close attention. When their faces appear on the news in the days and weeks to come, Hannibal is fairly certain that this woman will have difficulty even recognizing that they came through her terminal.

Or would have, if not for this.

"How will you be paying, sir?"

"With apologies, I shall be paying cash." The woman glances up, eyebrows raised. Hannibal smiles. "Our department functions on a number of grants that are often tangled in bureaucracy, and the funds for our travel have been delayed. They were able to pull together enough cash for our flights to Paris, and then the travel account should be able to cover our flights home in a few days." He lifts his own eyebrows companionably. "I hope that isn't too much of an inconvenience."

She says it isn't, but they have at least some of her attention now. Hannibal wishes it wasn't necessary, but the FBI would have an easier time tracking down the accounts he has set up for their use in Europe if he uses them while in the states.

The transaction takes a little longer than it would if he were merely using a credit card, but not terribly so. Once done, tickets in hand, Hannibal leads the way toward security, dragging his suitcase behind him.

When Hannibal replies, employing the civil tone of a coworker combined with the long suffering of someone less than enchanted to be traveling with his much younger colleague, Will has a difficult time containing his delight. They've both been just as guilty of utilizing deception for their own purposes in the past, but this is the first time they've engaged in it together, cooperating to achieve the same end goal. It's the first taste, Will thinks, of what their life will be going forward. Hannibal has taken Will behind the curtain into his world, and this journey will be his chance to show Hannibal how well he can play the game.

He's equally pleased with the way Hannibal explains away the fact that they're paying with a stack of one hundred dollar bills. They're crisp and new, probably having been taken from the bank in smaller varying increments over a period of several months, staying under the radar so any random checks of Hannibal's financial activity wouldn't bring up any red flags. But they're fresh enough that it seems reasonable that the money was taken out today in preparation for this trip, handed over by a governing body of the university that they appeared to work for to cover their funding until the appropriate grants were deposited. It's a well constructed cover story, and it's absolutely sold by Hannibal's European charm. The ticket agent has taken notice of them, but she doesn't seem in any way alarmed or ready to flag their names in the system as the potential purveyors of fraud.

Will is quiet through the rest of the transaction, playing at looking bored and tired even though he's alive on the inside, enjoying their game so immensely that for the first time he's glad they'll have a few more hours in these roles before they arrive in Paris. They stand in companionable silence in the security line, reasonably short due to the hour, having their boarding passes checked and going through the ordeal of removing their shoes and their coats so some low tech machines and underpaid humans can declare that they aren't terrorists.

Will has a thought while he watches Hannibal go through the process ahead of him that, despite not carrying a single weapon, Hannibal is infinitely more dangerous than anything TSA could ever catch with a backscatter x-ray and a metal detector. It makes him feel a little smug for some reason, even though he knows Hannibal doesn't plan to cause any trouble on their flight.

Security theater show concluded, they proceed toward their gate. They haven't really spoken in a long time and Will finds he's missing Hannibal's voice, the nearness of him. He knows anything he does that's unplanned will increase the chances that they'll be noticed, so he manages to keep himself at a distance from Hannibal as they walk, occupying his mind with impossible notions, like being able to take Hannibal into a bathroom and lock the door, just have a few minutes of rushed groping and kissing to satisfy his growing appetite.

At the gate, he settles for looking at his watch, then asking, "What time do we board?" just to hear Hannibal speak to him.

Hannibal also has the same amused, smug thoughts as they go through the song and dance at security. He is quite adept at presenting a mild, harmless exterior while at the same time being capable of swift and lethal violence. How many of his victims have been lured into his web due to trusting that comforting exterior? He takes pleasure in watching the TSA agents vet him, declare him safe, just as he enjoys feeding his guests intricate dishes that held corruption at their core. Hannibal is feeding them the reassurance of being unarmed, yet is all but certain he could take down a plane if he wished it.

Will is doing a fantastic job of maintaining their cover, and Hannibal is both proud and unsurprised. They are both aware of each other's propensities for wearing masks, projecting a facade, and have used their skills on each other quite a bit, Will up to this very night, at the dinner table, when he decided to lower his mask and allow Hannibal inside. Hannibal has long thought that he and Will together would be magnificent and dangerous, their minds and souls united as a dark god of vast destruction. He looks forward to exploring that potential almost as much as he looks forward to exploring Will's body. While Will fantasizes about frantic intimacies, Hannibal's mind is filled with images of he and Will prowling the streets of Europe, reveling in the beauty of the blood-soaked darkness.

Hannibal has planned it so that they will have as little wait time as possible, so when they get to the gate and Will asks his question, Hannibal barely has the time to say, "Soon," before a flight attendant gets on the microphone and starts calling rows. It's a very late flight and a weeknight, so there are relatively few passengers. Hannibal and Will are on the plane within ten minutes, and when they reach their seats Hannibal puts his suitcase in the overhead compartment, then turns to take Will's bag and put that up as well, being a courteous companion.

Hannibal had requested the two seats closest to the aisle, both for Will's comfort and for ease of escape should some dire situation require it. Hannibal settles into the seat second from the aisle, buckles his belt, and sighs, relaxing and closing his eyes for a moment, the picture of a weary academic. In truth he's measuring his breathing to calm the deepening desire for the man who must, for these next ten or so hours, be little more than a colleague.

Will's nudge to get Hannibal speaking only just barely works, and he only gets a single word for his trouble, but he supposes it's better than nothing, and probably safer that they continue to playact as weary travelers with almost no relationship of which to speak. He imagines when they arrive in Paris and get through customs, away from Charles de Gaulle, they can begin assuming their more intimate interactions, at least verbally. They'll have to remain in character, of course, but the two colleagues who barely know each other will become ones that know each other very well.

Will's grateful that Hannibal's reserved him an aisle seat, no doubt knowing that sitting next to a stranger on an international flight would leave him anxious and unpleasant by the time the wheels touched down in Paris. It's helpful for his cover as well, allowing him to remain detached instead of panicky; a panic attack on the plane would bring far too much notice, even if Will managed to mostly contain it.

Settling in beside his companion, Will buckles his seat belt and takes a moment to calmly survey their surroundings. The rest of their row save one seat at the other end is thankfully empty, meaning the reading lights will be off and their seats allowed to remain in complete darkness, and no one will have to disturb them in order to answer the call of nature. The jet is a standard Boeing 777, eight emergency exits and five lavatories in coach. Based on the ratio of passengers to empty seats Will doesn't think anyone will ever have to wait long for an open bathroom. His mind wanders for a moment, wondering how much money is lost on a mid-week flight like this, based on how much fuel a jet this size must require and the sparseness of the passenger population.

It also makes their haystack smaller; international flights from BWI the night of his and Hannibal's disappearance will be Jack's first target, and though their aliases and having paid in cash will make it more difficult to track, it's impossible to say if there are any other parties including two men on this flight tonight. Will wonders if it might have made more sense to pay separately, but then their window was small and two men paying for the same flight in cash within minutes of each other would have undoubtedly raised red flags.

There's nothing they can do about the trail they've left now. By the time Jack decides this flight might be one to investigate they'll be in the wind, traveling by their aliases, but Hannibal's flat is surely rented under a different assumed name, his accounts in Europe possibly under a third. If they low long enough they should be able to travel within Europe without even their alias names showing up anywhere prominent enough to appear on the FBI's radar.

By the time Will's managed to quiet his mind he realizes he's missed the entire safety presentation and they're just lifting off the runway. Hannibal's still relaxed in his seat beside Will, eyes closed with every appearance of relaxation, but Will knows his mind is busy too, making plans for when they land. Will takes a breath and removes his glasses, sliding them into the inner pocket of his jacket and closing his eyes, letting the feeling of the plane climbing to cruising altitude calm his thoughts even more, bringing his focus to the ambient sound of the engines, the soft and steady breathing of his companion beside him.

There are ways that the FBI would be able to learn that Hannibal and Will left this night, on this plane, and flew to Paris. But that is where the paper trail ends. The apartment in Paris had been under another name for a long time, as have the bank accounts, both contingencies for just this possibility (or, perhaps more truthfully, eventuality). The only thing the FBI will have at that point is the vain hope that they will be able to comb through a city of millions for two people who are motivated to stay hidden and know how to do so. Once they leave this plane, they are in the wind...and there's no reason for anybody to even start looking for them until Dr. Bloom gets Will's message on her voice mail, by which time they will either be landed or very near to it.

Hannibal ponders the practical concerns of their arrival and time in Paris, everything from the method of transportation to the apartment (taxi to a nearby hotel then walk from there) to how they will stock their larder (several small shopping trips by each of them alone to stock up, and then only infrequently as absolutely necessary). He settles on a few tentative plans, then his mind goes quiet and alert as they lift off, as they depart the United States for, hopefully, a long time, if not forever. Once the plane has leveled out into its cruising altitude, he opens his eyes to glance over at Will and assess how he's doing, a casual glance from a casual traveling companion disguising a concerned one from a friend and lover. Will is taking all of this very well, but it would not surprise Hannibal if he had some difficulty at some point. Some stress or panic or the like. After all, he has just left his entire life behind to throw his lot in with a man he had once sought to murder. Hannibal does not doubt Will's loyalty for an instant, but some cognitive dissonance would not be wholly unusual.

Will can feel Hannibal's gaze on him, though he's not entirely sure how. Perhaps it's a slight change in the cadence of Hannibal's breathing, or just an unexplainable instinct, but when Will opens his eyes he is indeed met with Hannibal's gaze.

Hannibal is assessing, though Will doesn't feel scrutinized. It's more like Hannibal is checking in on him, not on his physical well being so much as his mental one. Will's tired, and a lot has happened in a very short period of time, so he's not very surprised that his mind is avoiding taking stock in this moment. At the start of this evening, Will had still been very sure that he was going to help Jack Crawford capture (or murder) the man sitting beside him now. Since then he'd thrown away the very notion in the most complete way he could, not only changing his mind about assisting Jack but giving himself up to Hannibal entirely, mind, body, and soul.

He felt more calm about what he was doing than he suspected he should. He wasn't naive enough to think that they'd go to Europe and live together like newly weds, seeing the sights and sampling the food, sleeping late and making love all night. Despite Hannibal's tenderness toward Will, he was still a violent serial killer, and part of the pact Will was making here with him meant that, sooner or later, Hannibal would kill again, but this time with Will by his side. The part of Will that he'd tried to force to stay dormant, the thing inside him that caused him to enjoy taking lives, was fully uncovered now, like an exposed nerve. And while he knew he could no longer deny the drive, the ingrained morality he'd clung to for so long hadn't just evaporated. The two desires were diametrically opposed, taking life and preserving it, and there would come a time when Will would have to renounce the latter and fully accept the former.

For now, he put that future struggle out of his mind. Their gazes still locked, Will again is overcome with the desire for physical contact. He takes a deep, quiet breath as he looks down at Hannibal's mouth, exhaling long and slow before he licks his own lips. It's silent communication, and it's not particularly subtle, but the man at the end of the row is already asleep and no one else can see them well enough to notice.

Hannibal is looking forward to that process, to watching Will as his personal battle with that aversion to taking life continues. He suspects the struggle is different now than before tonight, because that moment of decision, of shift in allegiance, of becoming wholly Hannibal's, marks a turning in that tide. Will had come to a peak, where his drive for the beauty of death and his pull of conventional morality were evenly balanced, waiting only on his choice for one or the other. And Will had chosen. And now it was merely for the remaining traces of that morality to be snuffed out. Hannibal imagines killing someone as Will watches, as the act stirred up emotions in his lover's chest, excitement, fascination, even arousal. Then they would kill together, and find ecstasy in the act and each other while covered in the lifeblood of their worthy sacrifice. Hannibal imagines the person beneath their knife to be Jack; even though it is likely to not actually be the man they had once plotted to kill, symbolically it would be, since Will would be slaughtering what Jack represented once and for all.

Will's silent signal is quite clear, and Hannibal smiles, allowing his eyes to drift down to his lover's lips, as that lovely tongue smoothed over them. He desires greatly to kiss him, fondle him, undo Will's pants and take out his cock and stroke him right here, right now, until his lover cried out as his seed spilled over Hannibal's hand. But they can't. He must save that impulse a little longer.

Soon, he mouths.

Will can easily see that Hannibal wants the same thing he does, that the desire is right beneath the surface for him as well, threatening to spill over. They're strong men, and denying themselves this for only a few more hours is far less difficult than almost any other denial they've had to face, but it feels torturous in this moment, so close to each other and yet unable to touch. When they finally can have what they're so desperate for their patience will be rewarded, but the payoff is far enough away that Will can't imagine enduring for that long.

When Hannibal replies silently, the same word as the last one he'd spoken aloud, Will has to close his eyes to fight off a wave of arousal, taking a deep breath through his nose before he opens his eyes again. He knows he should break eye contact with Hannibal, because they longer they look at each other the farther from their characters they become, and the harder it is for Will to keep his very obvious attraction under wraps. As it is his blood is pooling, his body reacting, and Will squeezes the muscles of his pelvic floor, feeling the soreness from earlier that evening, the dampness of the skin and the fabric of his underwear. He can feel heat rising his his cheeks, his lips, and he knows his expression is hiding absolutely nothing.

Reluctantly, he shifts his eyes away, and turns his head, staring at the back of the seat in front of him. He thinks of the beach of the frozen Atlantic, the frigid air blowing off the waves, cold enough to sting the exposed skin of his face. He think about crunchy, unblemished snow, deep enough to get into his shoes if he tried to walk across it, the burning ice against his ankle bones. It's helping a little, to cool him down, but it's difficult to not think about Hannibal, his body heat and his smell, the sound of his breathing. A battle goes on inside Will's brain, between ice and snow and wind and the memory of the heat of Hannibal's hands on his skin, Hannibal's mouth on his own, Hannibal's cock inside him.

He thinks about getting up to use the bathroom, but he knows if he does he won't be able to stop from touching himself, and if he does he won't be able to stop. There's no way to cover up the smell of that, and it will immediately put him on the flight attendants' radar. Not only that, but he knows it will be so much better if he waits, if, by the time they reach the apartment in Paris, he's so raw from waiting he's coming apart at the seams. He decides instead he'll ask for ice water when the beverage service starts, hoping that will help in tempering him.

Even in the dim light and the dry air, Hannibal can see that flush in Will's cheeks and that shiny red in his lips, can smell the heat in his blood, in his loins, underscored even now by the scent of sex that clings to his lover, that clings to them both. Add the expression on his face and Will might as well be naked before him. When Will looks away Hannibal smiles and turns his head as well, settling again into his seat. He is just as tortured as his companion, but enjoying it more deeply. Hannibal is both a sadist and a masochist, enjoying pain and torment from both sides, and this pain, this torment, both his own and that he is inflicting on Will, is sweeter than any other he has experienced. He knows there will come a breaking point, when he cannot stand it any longer lest he lose his mind. but he's confident he can forestall that moment until they reach safety. Moment by moment, his idea of what that will be like grows more and more intense, until he wonders in mild amusement whether either of them will survive, or if they will merely tear each other apart in their need.

The flight attendants come down the aisle with the beverage cart, moving as quietly as possible to not disturb the sleeping passengers (who are in the majority...Hannibal can only see two others who are still awake). When they reach their row the attendant ass quietly if they'd like something to drink. After Will requests ice water Hannibal asks for wine. What he's given is far from the best red he's ever had, but for the moment he's less concerned with taste (which airplane travel tends to dull) and more with its soporific effect (which airplane travel tends to increase).

The cool water doesn't help, exactly, but it doesn't hurt either. Hannibal orders a glass of wine, and Will wonders if he should have gotten a whiskey for himself, something to make him drowsy, knowing sleep will hasten their arrival, at least from his perspective. Will's glass of water goes down too quickly, and it wakes him up as much as it calms the unrelenting undercurrent of desire he feels for Hannibal. It's late and he feels a little raw around his eyes, a little prickly through his nerves. Resting his head back against the headrest, he closes his eyes again, feeling heavy and tired but awake and alert at the same time.

It's insane, what he's doing, what they're doing together. But it's also exactly where their pasts have lead them, apart at first and now completely aligned. A dam broke tonight, at Hannibal's table, a torrent of desires and longings that Will hadn't ever let into the light before. Not all of it is sexual, but Will's physical yearning for Hannibal is the most difficult to ignore. Before tonight Will had never wanted sex with this much voracity, had never felt as thoroughly satisfied as he had when Hannibal sent him roughly into orgasm. There's probably a lot therapists would say about what that means about him, but Will doesn't care. Maybe his own psychiatrist can give his opinion next time he fucks Will into ultimate bliss. It would be the best pillow talk Will had ever experienced.

Taking a breath, Will lets his mind wander, thinks about Hannibal in bed after sex, a time when they'll be able to talk without having to worry about a plane they need to catch. He wonders what they'll talk about, if Hannibal will be tender, touching just to touch, if they'll sleep side by side, wake up and fuck again at sunrise. The notion is romantic, but at the same time there's something else, an equality Will's never felt with a lover, a desire to be overpowered without giving up his strength. Hannibal is the embodiment of everything Will's always wanted and needed without really realizing it, and now that he's had a taste of it, he only wants more.

Hannibal lives his life like a chess game, moving his pieces, anticipating reactions, and planning at least three moves ahead. These past few days, however, have put him into a situation where those three moves were brushed away by an unexpected development, by Will's plans of betrayal. He's been walking in the dark since then, his options limited, the directions of each road unclear. This direction, where Will has accepted his offer of redemption, is probably the most clear path, the one that he can see down for the next couple steps. Had this night gone differently, had they gone into Will's betrayal itself, then there would have been a much more indistinct path. So many decisions would be made on the fly, so many things left up to chance, or the dubious grace of God.

As it is, Hannibal is not fleeing a murder scene. The trap has not been sprung, and so the purpose of the trap, to prove that Hannibal is in fact a murderer by catching him in the act, has not been accomplished. While they may yet be pursued, it will not be as hotly as it might be otherwise. Perhaps the forces within the bureau against Jack Crawford may yet prevail, limiting his resources and making a manhunt, if not impossible, then impractical. Perhaps after laying low for a while they will be able to live quite comfortably in Paris. Perhaps a trip to Florence will be for the purpose of holiday rather than hideout.

The wine is certainly making him feel more sleepy. He is a light sleeper, with the saying "sleeping with one eye open" only just shy of literal, and the wine will not alter that, but it will make it easier to drift off. It is rare that he literally sleeps in the company of a lover, but this doesn't really count, being the least intimate sleep could be. He's merely a weary traveler getting a few moments of rest. Soon, however, after they have drunk their fill of one another, they will sleep, exhausted, tangled together, and it will be an experience more profound for Hannibal than he believes Will can even know.

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.