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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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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.

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

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

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

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

"We may be able to find a sufficiently decent bottle in a duty-free shop at the airport. One that will serve until we have an opportunity to find a suitable shop closer to where we are staying."

Hannibal has some ideas of what sorts of shops are around the neighborhood of their apartment, but finding the finest wine is a process not aided by an internet search. It's one of the things Hannibal is looking forward to...finding the best wine, the best bread, the best cheese, the best butcher, with Will at his side, sharing with him his passion for an exquisite gustatory experience. With time that experience will, of course, involve somewhat unorthodox ingredients, but until then he feels it worth setting the stage.

"I believe the terminal has a duty-free shop right on the other side of customs. We can obtain one there." Just as in Baltimore, Hannibal has researched the terminal at de Gaulle and knows the lay-out, the shops, knows it takes ten minutes to get from the customs area to the taxi stand. An extra three or so minutes to duck in a shop and buy a bottle of wine shouldn't be a problem. And they will almost certainly appreciate having it at hand when they reach a point that their mad desires for sex have quieted.

Will nods, and he can tell Hannibal knows more than he's saying aloud, keeping up the appearances of a man who may have been in Charles de Gaulle once or twice, or heard stories from colleagues who have been there. But Hannibal's not the kind of person who leaves anything to chance if he can prevent it, and he knows exactly where the shops are in relation to customs, to the gate they're likely to arrive in, to public transportation. It's comforting to know Will's in such good hands, and Will smiles a little at the thought; he's almost certain no one else who really new Hannibal would ever find him comforting.

"I'm really looking forward to getting off this plane," Will says, more banal banter, but it's absolutely true as well. "A glass of really nice wine sounds amazing right now."

Among other things, Will thinks, like being able to relax the spurious tension between them, allowing themselves little touches and gazes of affection. He's also looking forward to being in a bed, though he's fine if that comes after sex if not before it. He imagines they'll probably barely make it in the door before they start in on each other, but after they've at least tempered their desire, Will would love to share that bottle of wine in bed, drink and talk until they're both too drowsy to carry on, then sleep for hours, wake up and do it all again.

Hannibal's hands are steady and sure, bringing transformation to those in his influence, all in the pursuit of the beauty of darkness. It takes a certain aesthetic to appreciate his work, to understand the elevation of those he chooses to slay, to display, to serve and consume. Will's transformation is as one who appreciates the beauty, rather than the display of beauty.

"Luckily we'll have some time before we're expected anywhere," Hannibal says in an off-hand tone, a throw-away comment for anyone who might be listening, and a deeper one for Will. Hannibal is fairly certain that their potential pursuers won't come even close to figuring out where they've gone for some time, that they're going to be safe, free to relax and enjoy Paris and each other.

Hannibal goes quiet and nods toward the aisle, where the flight attendants are pushing the food and drink cart, offering the passengers fruit and cheese and crackers, a light meal before landing. Hannibal smiles and accepts the food, asking for a cup of coffee with it, a little bit of caffeine to keep him alert as they make their way to their sanctum sanctorum.

Will's eyes take a dark, desirous edge to them with Hannibal's comment, hearing what Hannibal is saying, that they'll have a day or two at least before they'll have to be more worried about Jack or his team arriving in Paris to try to find them. It means they'll have time to see the city a little, which Will is looking forward to, having never been in Europe before. But it also means they'll be able to be lovers in the City of Lights, going to cafes and restaurants together, walking along the Seine, stealing kisses as they cross the Pont des Arts. Will has never considered himself a romantic before, but there's something about Hannibal and his brand of romance that Will finds more than a little intriguing. It will start out like this, two men learning each other's hearts, but the depth of their love will reach a place that most other people's would never go, sharing a dark, murderous bond.

He knows his expression is hungry, and he's thankful for Hannibal's silent warning, able to shake off the look in time to greet the flight attendants. He takes some food himself, and his own cup of coffee, though he barely restrains himself from ordering another whiskey, knowing he needs the stimulant effect of the caffeine to not be leveled out by the alcohol.

They eat in silence, though Will finds he's having a hard time making himself do it. Since he'd made the decision to run away with Hannibal, his appetite has seemingly been only for the man and nothing else. He manages all of the berries at least, strawberries and raspberries and blackberries, all plump and darkly colored, full of juices. They're sweet and tart in his mouth, barely washed back by the bitterness of the coffee, and he wonders if the flavor will remain long enough for Hannibal to taste it later.

It's not after that before the flight attendants collect their garbage and they're told to raise their seats and tray tables, the plane on approach to Charles de Gaulle. Will is ready to be on the ground and he feels a bit of anxiety burning in his thighs, turning his head to look out the far window as he can just start to see the ground outside, trees and fields and houses, vehicles and buildings, the sprawling landscape of Paris.