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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 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.

In Hannibal's dreams, he and Will are walking together down the center aisle of the night-hushed, candle-dim chapel in Palermo. They stop when they come to the mosaic of death laid in the floor, and stand on top of that memento mori, that reminder of the pervasive beauty of death, facing each other.

"Churches are wombs," Hannibal muses quietly, gazing up at the dome high above them, and then looking back down at Will. "Places of transformation. Of development. Developing our souls until we again enter the world, changed."

He looks down the aisle, to the altar, and sees behind it not a crucifix, but himself, arms bound to a rod, hanging by a noose around his neck, a scene that Will had put in motion what seems like forever ago, when he sent the orderly to kill him. Hannibal smiles and looks back at Will, who is also turning his head, moving his gaze from that tableau back to the man standing before him. Hannibal's smile deepens, and he slowly begins to unbutton the white shirt he is wearing, his eyes never leaving Will's. When his chest is bare, he digs his fingers into the center of his chest. Blood begins to trickle, then pour out as his fingertips tore their way through flesh, and with a steady pull his chest opens up, ribs spreading outwards like the doors of a reliquary, exposing his chest cavity to Will. It is filled with flowers, the scent heady and sweet. Will watches, his expression curious. He looks up at Hannibal with a question in his eyes.

"Yes, Will," Hannibal answers, his words almost a whisper.

Will reaches into the flowers, and from them slowly extracts Hannibal's heart, still beating within Will's hands. He lifts it reverently to his mouth, and bites into it, blood welling up and spilling over his fingers. He looks up again at Hannibal, and smiles with his bloodied mouth. Hannibal smiles back.

Then Will begins to gasp, and Hannibal, alarmed, reaches out to him...

But the dream fades, leaving Hannibal on the plane, and Will breathing a little hard next to him.

"Are you all right?" he murmurs, looking his lover over with some concern.

He isn't surprised that his abrupt awakening stirs Hannibal as well, both of them well on edge until they reach safety in Europe, short on sleep and highly tuned to everything around them. He feels a bit guilty in cutting Hannibal's rest short, and he tugs up the sleeve of his coat to see there are still a few hours left before they land. He rubs his eyes.

"Yeah," he says dismissively, his voice low, but he turns to Hannibal when he pulls his hands away from his face, meeting Hannibal's eyes. "I was dreaming," he admits, and when he thinks about it he realizes it wasn't a nightmare, though he's no stranger to those. The way Hannibal is looking at him, he thinks Hannibal must have been dreaming too, and their gazes stay locked a lot longer than they ought to as two men who are supposed to barely know each other.

Will swallows, turning his head so he's looking at the back of the seat in front of him. "It wasn't a bad dream," he tells Hannibal, keeping his voice down. "I'm not good at sleeping on planes," he adds, tossing a look in Hannibal's direction before looking straight ahead again.

He wants to tell Hannibal about his dream, or at least about what he thinks it means, but he can't do that, not here. "I'm ready to be in Paris," he says instead, hoping that will convey how much he'd rather they were alone, how ready he is to start to live his new life, to cultivate his facade and learn to live behind the veil at Hannibal's side. He's changed, already, but there are still new parts of him growing into being, and he's ready to unfurl his wings, to stop feeling contained in the ill fitting shell he's residing been inside all his life.

Hannibal is aware of his friend's nightmares, in part due to their former doctor-patient relationship. That a dream that caused such a physical response was not a nightmare is interesting. It makes Hannibal wonder if it was sexual, although if it had resulted in ejaculation Hannibal would smell it. As it is, he is quite curious what the dream was. He knows Will cannot share here and now, but perhaps later. In the safety of their destination, and after they've been thoroughly sated.

It's a good thing that most of the other passengers are sleeping, that the cabin is still dimly lit even though the sky is growing brighter, that the flight attendants are engaged in their tasks. Otherwise the look that he and Will share might attract unwanted attention, not only because it contradicts their current facade, but also based purely on the intensity between them, at least in part plainly sexual. Hannibal looks away as well, both pleased by Will's yearning and yearning himself for their time in Paris to begin, when they don't have to wear masks with each other, where they can hang up the veil and merely exist together with their souls naked.

"I'm ready for it as well," he murmurs. "It will be good to be able to relax."

He glances briefly at Will before looking forward again. The relaxation he's speaking of is, of course, relaxing their restraints on their desires, and not what anyone else would necessarily find relaxing.

Hannibal's words, his tone, they're even and measured, but Will can hear the intent behind them, the same impatience Will feels all the way into his dreams, the same desire that's making these few hours of denying their natures the most difficult of their lives. Will checks his watch again, and time is progressing more slowly than Will would like, but the little bout of sleep they both managed has gotten them within about two hours of scheduled touchdown.

"I'm sorry for waking you," Will says, his tone friendly and apologetic, Giacomo's young colleague, feeling guilty for disturbing his companion's attempted rest. "Can I get you another glass of wine?" he asks, turning toward Hannibal, hoping for another few seconds of careful eye contact.

The truth is Will could use the whiskey he'd considered earlier, and maybe Hannibal wouldn't mind another drink as well. It's a good distraction too, something to keep Will's hands busy, take the sharp edge off the unquelled hunger he feels running through him no matter how hard he tries to quiet it.

It's amazing, Hannibal muses, how meeting Will's eyes and hearing his voice have become so significant, so vital. Both make that hunger for his lover ache all the more intensely, but it's worth it just to have those moments of connection. Will's tone is perfect for their roles, and Hannibal inclines his head in a small nod, the gracious older colleague holding no grudges against the younger man.

"That would be very kind of you, thank you," he answers. He doesn't anticipate being able to sleep much, or very long. After all, they will likely start the descent into Paris in an hour, hour and a half. But the wine may soften the edges of the hunger, just a little, as he holds on just a little longer, and having the contrite junior colleague fetch it for him is a good show, for anyone who may be watching.

And he's fairly certain Will wants a drink as well.

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

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

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

Hannibal watches as Will stands and sees the way Will's glutes clench, and he smiles, pleased that his lover is still feeling the physical effects of their sexual encounter. Hannibal knows that he is deep inside Will's mind, deep inside Will's soul, and he finds it pleasing, and not a little arousing, knowing that his seed is still inside Will's body, his lover's flesh bruised from the force of his claiming. Hannibal watches Will walk down the aisle for a moment, then takes a slow, deep breath, closes his eyes, and breathes out slowly, willing his alerted and aroused body to calm.

By the time Will returns he's breathing evenly again, his pulse again slow and steady, his trousers not quite so tight. He opens his eyes and accepts the glass...and that touch of Will's fingers makes his pulse quicken again. He lifts his glass to Will, his eyes deep with his own desires, the depth of his emotion, with Will deep in his heart and deep in his soul.

"To Paris," he says.

"To Paris," Will agrees, and they hold the eye contact between them as they each take a sip of their drinks. It sounds vague and meaningless, two weary travelers ready to be at their destination, perhaps tiredly excited for what the city holds in store for them. In truth it's something both broader and more specific.

Immediately, Paris is relief. Will had no idea when he said yes to running away with Hannibal that his emotional and physical attachment to Hannibal would become so immediately intense, and he's fairly certain a similar floodgate has been opened in Hannibal as well. Will's body seems incapable of ignoring the sexual attraction it has to Hannibal, and the more hours they have to go without being able to touch, the rawer and edgy Will feels. When they get to Paris, when they make it to Hannibal's flat, they will finally get the contact they've been longing for, and they won't stop until they're both utterly sated.

But on the whole, Paris is the start of their new life together, one that will include sex, but so many other things as well. They both have learning to do about each other, Will uncovering more of Hannibal's true self as he uncovers and reveals his own. They'll tune their simpatico, merge their styles and tastes into one blended thing that is comprised from pieces of each of them. It will extend from the decoration and furnishing of the flat to the way they eat, from their daily routines to their nightly activities. Their personalities together will change how each of them relates to each other, how they touch, how they make love, and how they hunt. And Will, despite the tenacity of his lingering morality, is more than ready to find how each of those things will play out.

Paris is a gateway into a wider world for both of them in so many respects. Hannibal is eager to share many things about Paris (and Europe in general) that any more worldly person might enjoy introducing a less experienced friend to. But for Hannibal, and for Will, so much of the exploration will be internal, exploring each other's minds and hearts. Hannibal finds, much to his fascination, that he is almost as eager to explore his own psyche with Will as he is to explore his lover's mind. Hannibal is used to being in utter control, in remaining constant, eternal, and only revealing himself in deliberate glances. Yet now, with Will, he's feeling a sea change deep in his being. Will not only has access, he has influence, and Hannibal is curious to see how this connection, this love, might alter his very being.

Hannibal holds Will's gaze as he slowly takes a sip, then lowers it, considering his glass. "One thing I can certainly promise," he says, amused, "is that the wine is much better."

Will laughs softly, unable to help himself. One thing about Hannibal he's always appreciated is his dry sense of humor, though there was a period of time where some of it felt a great deal more macabre than it does to Will now. The man at the end of their row shifts in his sleep but doesn't stir, and Will thinks his slight outburst was quiet enough that no one else will have noticed it. And, if they did, two traveling companions sharing a laugh isn't the strangest thing in the world, even if they aren't close friends.

"I have to say," Will offers, his voice low but conversational, "I'm more than a little excited to try the wine."

Again, as with everything they say to each other, there are layers in this statement. Will does fully intend to sample French wine, imagining the enjoyment Hannibal will get from selecting the bottles and then recording Will's reactions. But he isn't only talking about wine.

Like the expanded options of grape varieties Paris has to offer, there is a whole world of experiences awaiting Will and Hannibal in France. The ones Will is most looking forward to are those they'll discover in the bedroom, but beyond that there's a consummation they haven't yet partaken, one Will's sure isn't too far off, once they're sure they've hidden themselves well enough that a Parisian or two disappearing won't immediately send the FBI to search for them. There's an excitement of anticipation in that too, separate from but just as insistent as his desire to know Hannibal's body as intimately as he can.

Hannibal gives Will an easy, comfortable smile. They are almost through this stage of their journey, when they need to be like near strangers with each other. After they have landed, after they have gone through customs, they can be overtly friendly, familiar, and Hannibal is looking forward to it.

"The French rightly pride themselves on their wine. It distills the heart of the land and the souls of the people."

Wine is itself richly symbolic. It was not for nothing that Christ's first miracle was turning water into wine, nor that the wine became his blood. Mere water is necessary for life, but wine is the art that transforms simple life into something divine. When Hannibal shares wine, when he shares food, he is offering a certain kind of elevation. And with Will, where there is truth and understanding, it is communion, a mingling of souls.