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It hit Will when he was in the shower. He hadn’t experienced much of it in years, but ever since he and Hannibal had run away together a few months ago, testosterone had been hard to come by. Certain things were reverting back, changing themselves in ways Will had hoped they never would again. As he looked down, Will noticed fat beginning to gather around his hips. His waist was getting skinnier. He felt sick.
As God intended, Will’s father’s voice echoed in his head.
Will shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. It felt like bugs were crawling across his skin, and no matter what he did, they wouldn’t come off. He tried to focus on the sensation of the water running down his back and splashing on his chest. It wasn’t hot enough, not hot enough to wash away everything he was. Everything he wasn’t.
My father was right.
Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. Will’s eyes jolted open and he scrambled to shut off the water. If he couldn’t hear what Hannibal was saying well enough to respond, he might try to come in. The last thing Will wanted right now was for his husband to see him naked (something of a first in their relationship.)
“Will, darling, are you alright?” Hannibal called.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Will replied, grabbing his towel. He wrapped it up under his armpits and felt another wave of dysphoria crash over him. That’s how women wear it, a nasty voice thought. Quickly, Will pulled the towel down and tied it around his waist. He couldn’t help but notice the way his hips protruded a little, the scars on his torso. Several were from fights with prey, one was a smile from Hannibal, and the last two were even underneath his pecs. Usually Will wore them with pride. Today they made him want to disappear.
“Are you sure? You’ve been in there for over an hour.”
Shit.
Will was never in the shower longer than half an hour, and he’d promised Hannibal that they would have lunch outside when he was done today. They hadn’t had much time together lately, so Will’s delay of his promise would seem excessively rude. He would have to explain himself.
Shit.
“Yeah, just give me a minute.” Will threw his towel into the laundry basket and tried not to stare at himself as he dressed. Sliding his packer into his underwear made him feel unclean, and no matter how much he adjusted his sweater, it just didn’t look right. Finally, Will took a breath and forced himself out the bathroom door.
Hannibal looked up from his watch to give Will a small smile and stood. He strided over to his husband to get a good look at him, his hair wet and shaggy and smelling like the shampoo Hannibal had bought just for him. He’d looked different ever since the day they’d left Baltimore, lighter, freer. But not today. Hannibal would have brought it up, but Will looked so nice that he nearly forgot.
“You know,” Hannibal started, reaching out a hand to touch Will’s cheek, “I do believe you would look beautiful in anything.”
Will paled a little at the compliment. Beautiful. He fought the urge to tug at the collar of his shirt, pull the fabric away from his body. Old habits.
“Thanks,” Will said. It sounded stiff even to him.
Hannibal raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. “Shall we eat?”
Will nodded. Hannibal pulled them towards the direction of the kitchen, still hand in hand.
The house was as extravagant as they could manage without drawing too much attention. Outside their master bedroom was a spiral staircase that led into a foyer larger than Will’s old living room, decorated with dozens of paintings and photographs Hannibal had deemed acceptable for their home. An unfortunate amount of dog hair littered the floor, something Hannibal had learned to live with (not happily.)
As the duo walked to the kitchen, Botticelli, a three-year-old Airedale, bounded up to Will and started licking his free hand. Will grinned and pet her.
“She seems to think she’s getting lunch, too,” Hannibal quipped, smiling himself at Will’s love for the dog.
“Maybe you can have part of my lunch,” Will spoke to the dog, “if you’re a good girl.”
Botticelli wagged her tail and ran ahead to the kitchen, causing both men to laugh.
“Nothing motivates her quite like a meal,” Hannibal said.
Will rolled his eyes and smiled wider. “Reminds me a little of someone.” Hannibal scoffed and let go of Will’s hand, heading into the kitchen alone and causing Will to laugh again. “Touchy.”
Hannibal said nothing and got behind the counter, rolling up his sleeves to begin cooking. Will sat down on a silver metal stool to watch him work. Watching his husband prepare a meal always calmed him after a tough day at work, even if he had no idea what in the hell he was making.
Hannibal opened the fridge and pulled out rosemary, some tomatoes, and the lungs of a cashier who often stole from the children’s charity bin next to the register. Will had caught her in the act twice. The second time was her last.
They sat in silence for a while, the only sound in the room Hannibal’s chopping knife. Will watched him and felt an unfamiliar jealousy begin to boil in his gut. Hannibal had always felt so at home in his own body, so sure of who he was. Yes, he knew the fear of being judged by others, but never the terror of truly judging yourself. He didn’t have to worry about testosterone, about needles and dysphoria and doubt. His body wasn’t going to change. He was as God intended.
Will felt a stab of self-hatred pierce his heart.
“So I assume there is a reason why you were in the shower for so long?” Hannibal broke the silence. He swept his hair into place with the back of his hand and looked up at Will.
Will shifted in his seat a little and looked down. He didn’t want Hannibal to see through him like he always seemed to. Will inspected his own hands and saw only what dysphoria wanted him to see: they were small, feminine. He closed his eyes again. “Yeah, sorry.”
“Is something the matter?”
Will didn’t say anything.
Hannibal set his knife down on the table and leaned a little towards Will. “I don’t mean to pry—”
“Don’t you always?” Will snapped. He cringed at the harshness of his words and chanced a look up at his husband. Hannibal was giving him something akin to a glare. “Sorry, I’m sorry. That was rude. I just...um…” There was no easy way to say this. “I haven’t had my T shot in a while.”
Hannibal didn’t speak for a moment, then reached for Will’s hand. “I know. I’m sorry, Will. I’ve been looking for testosterone, but so far have had no luck. I know that you need it, and I’m sorry that—”
“Hannibal, it’s fine.” Will sighed and rubbed a hand on his forehead. “I guess I’m just...thinking about my dad.”
“What about your dad?”
Will groaned. “Hannibal…”
“Humor me, Will. You know I can’t provide therapy anymore.”
“That doesn’t mean you get to therapize me, you bastard.”
“Will.”
“Sorry.” Will ran his hand up through his hair and felt a sudden urge to cut it. He shook it off and spoke. “My dad didn’t take my coming out very well.”
Hannibal squeezed Will’s hand tighter. “So you’ve said.”
“And when I told him that I wanted to start transitioning...he told me there was no point. That no matter what I did, I would always...look like a girl. And I tried not to let it bother me, but it made my transition a nightmare. I always felt like things weren’t changing fast enough. My voice never felt deep enough for me to pass, fat redistribution was taking forever...hell, I still can’t even really grow a full beard! And I just...now that I’m off T, things are starting to feel... not right again.”
Blood rushed loud in Will’s ears at the confession. He knew that Hannibal wouldn’t judge him, would understand, yet still anxiety burned in his gut.
Hannibal sighed and let go of Will’s hand, picking up his knife again. “Will, how did you pick your name?”
The strangeness of the question hit Will with full force. He scrunched his eyebrows together and looked up. “What?”
“How did you pick your name?”
Will blinked and locked eyes with Hannibal. His husband was fully serious. Hannibal wouldn’t just disregard his feelings like that, so... What is he up to?
“Uh…” Will tried to get his words together and watched as Hannibal began to chop meat. “When I was a kid, I really liked Shakespeare. I read all I could get my hands on, even though I couldn’t understand half of it. My dad hated it, though, thought it was all high and mighty bullshit. I suppose I chose it partially for myself and partially to spite the old man.”
Hannibal smirked. “I see. And when did you start testosterone?”
“After about two years working homicide,” Will said. He remembered his coworkers from back then. He hadn’t had many friends, but a lot of other cops had shown their support. One guy had even come out to him himself. “It was tough to transition on the job, but worth it.”
“And top surgery?”
“Just before college, I think. I watched a lot of Star Trek that week while I was recovering.”
Hannibal finished cutting a tomato and set down his knife again. “All that work, just to obtain your own body.”
His father’s cruel words echoed through his head again. Will felt his heart sink. “What’s your point?”
Hannibal met his husband’s eyes and gave him a soft smile. “Will, you had a Becoming long before I met you. One of your very own. You were sure enough of who you were to pursue it without anyone’s help, even without anyone’s support. That is strong, Will. And proof that you are the man that you say you are.”
Will felt himself blush and looked away. “Yeah, well, my dad would still say it’s not natural.”
“And he would be wrong.” A gentle but firm hand gripped Will’s chin, and he was forced to meet Hannibal’s eyes. Hannibal’s hands were perhaps the most perfect part of him: strong and focused, deft and lean. But they could be so gentle when he wanted them to be, and each and every time, that tenderness was reserved for Will. It made his heart race. “Will, you are exactly as God intended.”
Something bloomed in Will then, validation flooding through him like a drug. Hannibal had understood him again without even trying. They were two shattered halves of a whole, piecing themselves together more with every passing day. Like Will had said all those years ago, they were conjoined, the two of them orbiting each other in infinite clarity. Hannibal could always help Will remember who he was.
Without a second thought, Will leaned across the counter that separated him from his husband and kissed him. Hannibal hesitated a little, surprised, but then leaned into it, running his fingers through Will’s soft hair.
Finally, they pulled apart, and Will sat back in his chair. He was grinning, all thoughts of inadequacy and dysphoria far from his mind. “I have to hand it to you, Dr. Lecter. That was some pretty good therapy.”
Hannibal smiled and went to grab a bowl. “Only for you, darling.”
It took about an hour for Hannibal to finish cooking, during which time Will alternated between playing with Botticelli and watching his husband cook. When they finally sat down to eat together, their lunch complete with hand-squeezed lemonade (that Will had made himself,) the ex-profiler cleared his throat.
“Alright,” Will said, feeding a piece of his food to the Airedale under the table. “I have a question.”
Hannibal nodded and stilled his fork and knife.
“Is Hannibal the name you were born with?” Will asked, trying not to crack a smile. “Because it’s...it’s…” Will started snickering a little, amused by his own question. “It just seems a little too perfect.”
“It is indeed my given name,” Hannibal said, only the slightest bit of amusement in his tone. “My lifestyle is something of a divine coincidence.”
“Are you sure you didn’t just start eating people as a sort of self-fulfilling prophecy?” Will joked.
“I’m afraid not. To be honest, the rhyme never occurred to me until years later, though it should have.” Hannibal took a sip of his lemonade. He raised his glass. “I suppose we are both as God intended.”
Will smiled and reached for Hannibal’s hand across the table, lifting his own glass and clinking it against his husband’s. “Yeah. I guess we are.”