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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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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.

They will have to be careful, not be too overly affectionate where they might be seen, not go to the same cafe, the same restaurant, the same museum, more than once, at least at first. They still should be careful not to attract too much attention, lest they raise the chances that, should Jack happen to come to Paris, his questions about two men of a certain description will evoke stories.

They will have to come up with some way to keep tabs on Jack, on Alana, on the FBI. Hannibal sends the thought to the back of his mind to ruminate.

The plane descends, and Hannibal is smiling faintly, outwardly appearing happy to be at the end of a long flight, inwardly simmering with the ever growing proximity to the moment that door to the apartment closes and he and Will can finally devour each other. He can feel the anticipation hot in the pit of his guts, warmly pulsing in his loins. Soon. Soon.

Once the plane has landed and taxied to the gate, Hannibal unbuckles his belt and rises, opening the overhead compartment and removing Will's bag first. As he hands it to him he leans in, as if off his balance and needing to brace himself on the back of the seats, so he can murmur right next to Will's ear.

"Go to a different customs agent. Meet me at the duty-free shop."

Then he straightens again, nods in apology, and takes down his own bag. Since there are so few passengers, they are off the plane relatively quickly, and being directed toward customs.

Will nods once, very slightly, to let Hannibal know his message has been received. When they debark the plane they stay one after the other, but once they enter the flow of passengers heading toward customs, Will slows his pace until he's a few meters behind Hannibal, suddenly adopting the persona of a man who traveled all the way from the United States along, demeanor weary, eyes down and shoulders hunched.

Standing in line, he doesn't pay any attention to Hannibal, pretends he doesn't know him. He's too far away to hear what Hannibal tells his customs agent, but it's probably better that way, his own mind clear when he's finally called up to the counter himself. He tells the agent he's here for a conference for his university in Maryland, a small gathering of professors who are interested in doing an international exchange in criminology. He sticks with what he knows in case the agent asks questions, but she seems overworked and bored, stamps his passport without really hearing a word he says.

He strides toward the duty-free like it's just a direction he's walking in, and the noise around him not is almost all French now, peppered with a dozen other languages Will recognizes but doesn't understand. He slips into the shop and doesn't look for Hannibal, rather just heads toward the selection of liquor, knowing he'll find Hannibal there already, choosing a bottle or two of wine.

Rounding a corner, he spots Hannibal, head down reading the labels of the bottles in front of him. "See anything good?" Will asks, his tone easy but tired, easily a fellow traveler, a stranger, or maybe this man's paramour.

Hannibal has a higher probability of trouble at customs, considering he's a man with an Italian name and a pronounced accent carrying a U.S. passport. He has easy explanations in mind, of how he's been a naturalized citizen for the past twenty-five years, but they prove to be unnecessary. The customs officer doesn't get past asking why he is in France (for an academic conference), which Hannibal explains in English to hide the fact that he is fluent in French. The man stamps his passport and waves him on.

When Will catches up to him, Hannibal is scanning the wine selection. He smiles but doesn't look up. "These wines are passable. Not the lowest, nor highest qualities. Ideal for the traveler who wishes to bring home an authentic French wine while not putting an additional strain on a likely already depleted pocketbook."

He looks up then, and meets Will's eyes, and gives him a smile he couldn't give him on the plane, one suffused with the warmth of familiarity, intimacy.

"Do you prefer white or red?"

A smile spreads slowly across Will's lips at Hannibal's commentary, knowing that Hannibal is passing judgement, that he knows how to select the best wine, the most sumptuous food, the all of the most luxurious things in life. Will is more than a little pleased at being able to reap these particular rewards of his partnership with Hannibal, among so many other.

Hannibal turns his eyes up to Will's, and when their gazes lock Will feels a flare of desire, so much more open in Hannibal's expression now than he's seen since they got into the cab in Baltimore. He licks his lips.

"How about one of both?" Will suggests, a hunger in his own eyes now, the idea in his head that they'll need two bottles for the amount of time they'll spend in their flat before they're decent enough to venture out for more. He doesn't know if Hannibal has food there, but a very large part of him doesn't care, can't think of anything he needs beyond the wine and Hannibal's glorious, naked body.

Hannibal sees the hunger in Will's eyes, notes how he licks his lips. His smile widens, just slightly, his own fond gaze turning sharp with desire. He glances down at Will's lips for just a moment, then up again, locking eyes again, one eyebrow cocked in acknowledgement. The facade they had maintained in their last hour or so in Baltimore and on the plane had also served to tamp down their desire, making them control it out of necessity. Now, though, with those bonds loosened, there is little keeping them from giving in right here, right now, then the necessity of decorum, of anonymity. Hannibal cannot help but think of kissing Will here and now, but he knows that once that dam is breached nothing will keep back those waters, and they still have a taxi ride ahead of them.

Best to be expedient, then.

Hannibal quickly picks two bottles, a red and a white, and makes his way to the cashier. He pays with euros (he has been building up a supply of euros for as long as he's been building up a supply of dollars) and, bag in one hand and handle of the roller suitcase in the other, he leaves at a swift clip, trusting Will to follow.

For a moment Will is sure Hannibal's going to kiss him, right here and now in the duty-free shop just beyond customs at Charles de Gaulle. He wonders if there are cameras here, if there's a chance the footage would ever been seen by Jack, his two fugitives indulging in bottles of wine, sharing a clandestine kiss once they've touched down in Paris. But Hannibal restrains himself, if only just barely, then snaps into motion, taking the two swiftly selected bottles to the counter and paying for them like he has a train to catch.

Will has to hurry to keep up with Hannibal when he exits the terminal, headed for the taxi stand. He's breathing a little hard when he stops to stand beside Hannibal, just one person ahead of them, waiting for a car. He licks his lips again, sways slightly in Hannibal's direction, leaning in toward Hannibal's ear.

"I feel like I'll die if you don't kiss me soon," he whispers, and he knows it's a little dramatic, but he's been aching for so long, yearning, and all that's left is this one car ride, a short walk, and then they'll finally be alone. Will can practically taste it, his entire body tight with desire and anticipation, so ready, beyond ready.

Hannibal's eyes drift closed at the words as he draws in a slow breath, the scent of Will filling his lungs. He turns his head, his cheek just barely brushing Will's as he whispers back. "We'll die together." As calm as he is, he is aching inside, wanting to touch Will, to taste him, to rip off his clothes and press him to a wall and hold him helpless while he fondles him roughly, dragging moans out of his lover...

Hannibal sighs and opens his eyes again. He can feel his cock stirring in his trousers, thickening, hungry for Will's touch, to be buried in Will's ass or Will's mouth. There's nothing for it. The growing erection will not be quelled until his hunger, his lust, his need, is sated.

The taxi ahead of them pulls out, and their taxi pulls up. The driver gets out and helps them put their bags in the trunk, then they get in. Hannibal gives the driver the address of the hotel a couple blocks from the apartment, and they pull away, heading off, not nearly fast enough.

The minute they hit the highway, Hannibal reaches over, takes Will's hand, and threads their fingers together, squeezing tight.

Hannibal's reply sends a wave of love and desire through Will that he can barely withstand, and he has to close his eyes under the onslaught of Hannibal's words, the very bare brush of their faces together. Hannibal wants this just as much as Will does, is just as affected, just as desperate, and knowing it leaves Will helpless, shaken and burning from the inside out.

He takes a measured breath at the same moment Hannibal sighs, and they are so close to the culmination, so near to the end that neither of them can hold back anymore. Will is dazed and half hard as the cab arrives and the driver loads their bags, and he's sure anyone who sees him can tell how much he wants this man at his side, can see his flushed skin and thrumming pulse, can smell his undeniable desire.

In the backseat, Will can swear he feels the heat radiating off Hannibal beside him, and he's both shocked and intensely grateful that Hannibal reaches for his hand, holding onto him with a firm, desperate grip. The way their fingers are laced Will can feel the steady thumping of Hannibal's heartbeat, the sensation of Hannibal's fingers between Will's own almost too erotic to stand in this moment.

By the time the taxi drops them off at the hotel Will feels like he wants to crawl out of his skin, and he sees nothing of the architecture, pays no attention to anything that isn't Hannibal. Taking his bag in numb fingers, he can't even manage to get the strap over his shoulder, and he turns his gaze to Hannibal's face, his eyes dark and hungry, begging silently for Hannibal to lead the way home.

It's just three blocks, but as torturous as it is it feels like three thousand, like they have to cross the entire width of Paris. Hannibal takes the walk at a steady clip, ignoring the discomfort of the tightness in his trousers, ignoring any looks from passersby. It's late afternoon, and the Parisians are going about their own business, as they are wont to do, so the likelihood that anyone will pay attention long enough to notice his increasingly obvious arousal is low.

When they reach the building Hannibal pulls a set of keys out of his pocket, unlocks the front entrance, and holds the door for Will. The building is from well before the time of elevators, so there's a four story climb to get to the top floor. Hannibal would take the steps two at a time were he not dragging a suitcase. Again, it feels like forever, like the staircase winds up into infinity. But finally, finally, they reach the top. Hannibal's hands are still miraculously steady as he unlocks the door, opens it, strides in just far enough to allow Will to enter. Then he drops his suitcase, sets the wine down, closes the door behind Will, grabs his lover's face, and crushes his lips to Will's.