stinglikeabee | Fic: Dress Up, G

Title: Dress Up
Claim: General DCU
Characters/Pairing: Roy, Lian
Rating: G
Word Count: 1,497
Summary: Dress up has a beauty of its own
Disclaimer: DC owns ~~my soul~~ the characters
Prompt: Writer's Choice
Author's Notes/Warnings: Also written for

shananagin's challenge May Is Crossdressing Month! Not beta-ed, so if ya catch any mistakes, let me know!

The candle blew out. With an annoyed grunt, Roy cracked open a dresser drawer and blindly thrust his hand in, cursing under his breath when fingers met sharp object. The pine drawer fell on the floor with an almighty thump. He fixated on the door for a full two minutes, ears pricked up for any sudden movements, but soon dropped beside the drawer. Inside were plenty of coins and a handful of melted plastic soldiers strewn alongside opened envelopes. He spotted a letter postmarked 1996 and beside it, the glint of a metal strip. That strip was a long thought missing six-inch letter opener with notches at one end, picked up from a forgotten Outsiders mission. He held it up. In the dim light the metal's dull gleam convincingly disguised the former weapon as harmless. He stood and walked to the closet, reaching up on his toes, and tucked the letter opener away on the highest shelf. Better safe than sorry.

A few steps in the direction of the dresser and he stubbed his toe. He threw out his hands and landed on the edge of the dresser, clamping his mouth shut. His eyes darted to the door. He audibly sighed and scanned below to verify the drawer and the contents were intact. The urge to let out a loud profanity passed, and he sat on a red velvet footstool to examine his right toe. A grape juice colored bruise appeared, an ugly sight compared to the fire engine red of his painted toenails. He smiled. None of the nails had chipped, and he dug into the drawer again for the matchbox.

The re-lit flame danced lazily. He studied the mirror, gazing at the face caught in the hazy yellow-orange glow. Shadows under his languid eyes grew. Dark pools of thoughts rose to his mind's surface, making the mocking connection to the violent need he could never escape from. He ducked his gaze and breathed in, feeling the warm air filling his lungs, and then exhaling in a dizzy rush. He tried again. The panic gnawed at his insides, and he grabbed the drawer, shoving it brusquely back into place. His cheeks flushed and he held onto the sides of the dresser, deep breaths sounding harsh to his ears. And just as quickly as it arrived, the unwanted intrusion disappeared.

He yanked flesh-toned wisps off their hanging spot on the jolly golden Buddha's outstretched arms. That had been a new present from someone's Eastern travels. Thanks to his friends, he never felt the need to go furniture shopping as long as they continued to find the most garish things as gifts. The corner of his lips lifted; surely Buddha would find it amusing his likeness was used to prevent silk stockings from bunching up in wrinkles. The smile was wrenched into a grimace however, when he caused a run in the second stocking. He glared at his fingernails, wondering why no one ever thought to make stronger stockings. Closer up, he saw the damage was minor and easily hidden in high heels. With great deliberation, he rolled the stocking further along his thigh, marveling how the tanned color stood out against his milky skin.

Taken together with his ruby red halter dress, Roy couldn’t be happier. He straightened his posture. The halter’s clear lines accentuated his strong, broad shoulders. That was entirely Donna's idea. He grinned, silently thanking her for going on shopping trips on his behalf. The dress even had a slight flirtatious ruffle at the bottom which lengthened his admittedly muscled thighs without revealing too much. It may shock some given his previous reputation, but privately he enjoyed the modesty. Who was he going to show off to, anyway? Still, he had slipped in a pair of bizarre silicon inserts Donna found in the Titans Tower, just to pad out the bra a little. He heaved his considerable chest towards the mirror. They may not be as great as Power Girl's, but they'd still give the littlest Robin naughty thoughts.

He leaned forward and plucked a fat brush from an open pearl inlay box. Inside, brushes lay beside clear lidded pots of powder, creams, and lipsticks. He dunked the brush into a powder pot named 'Doe Eyed' and swept both eyelids. Most of the samples Bette mailed him came from a makeup artist in the industry who was looking for a test subject. He then laughed at the silly names the friend had labeled the little pots, but learned better after two weeks when Bette relayed a terse message from the artist that the catchier the name, the better the effect. Artists.

The brush was replaced with one with a thin bristle. Careful to hold the skin taught, he applied eyeliner. It was stop and go, though mostly stop. The brush tip was too wet and his hand was not cooperating. Who knew it was hard work trying to make a straight line? After his tenth try, he leaned back and scrutinized the effect. The winged end of the right eyeliner smudged into the crease. To even things out, he repeated the smudge for the left eye and wiped the excess on a tissue. Next was the mascara; not only was he deadly afraid of poking his eyeball with a brush resembling a pine cone, he could never figure how to prevent it from clumping. He gave it the old college try though, and was delighted to learn wiggling the brush and coating the bottom of his light colored lashes was a skill he now had.

The second to last step was the red lipstick. As a young child he had been fascinated with the siren call of the luscious red lips that made his father lose his head. He knew back then the crimson paint symbolized something lustier than amorous feelings, and stirred up a cyclone of emotions he couldn't name or understand. Now, as he skillfully dragged the lip brush over a nub of lipstick in 'Cleopatra' and carefully coaxed the color onto his lips, he knew what those women had all those years ago. It was power.

He pressed the tissue softly against his lips to set the color. A perfect lipstick mark, just like the ones he used to get from Dinah before she switched to the modern long-lasting brand. Call him old-fashioned, but he liked to see the trail of kisses he could leave. A finger traced the shape lightly on the dresser surface. Feeling a little embarrassed, he then crumpled the tissue and shot at the trash can. The tissue fell apart three seconds into the air and slowly twisted on the way down.

The candle's light flickered. He cupped a hand behind the flame, where it sputtered for a second before gaining strength. When he withdrew, a piece of the melted wax lodged under a finger nail. It burned for a quick moment, the slight winge dulling into numbness. He scraped it away and blew on the finger.

He then pulled the Buddha towards his breastbone and lifted the Bettie Page wig. Gently, he stroked the ends, curling them inwards. A satisfied sound escaped his lips. The tips of his fingers dipped under the coarse side and he lowered the wig with great care. Turning his head from side to side, he patted and tugged until... His eyes glittered underneath the heavy bangs. He was a brunette. He corrected himself, a stunning brunette.

A dimple appeared in his right cheek. He basked in the satisfaction of the reflection in the mirror, a person he helped unearth from under the stress and guilt and distractions. The ritual helped him center.

The knowledge others would find playing dress up as a pathetic pastime, or simply misunderstand it as a kink, nevertheless affected the serenity he worked hard to achieve. He wondered what may have happened if Donna hadn't been so understanding. He remembered her strangled cry and the self-doubting, questioning gaze when his hands sought in vain to cover up the nakedness of the moment, of Roy Harper trying on women's clothes. He never thought he could face her again, and was utterly despondent at revealing himself to someone he truly loved and feared he may lose. But life taught him something that day when he finally lifted his chin and found acceptance in Donna's eyes.

The door creaked open. He swung around, clumsily wiping away the tears. His little girl stood in her Bat-pyjamas, clutching the desiccated stuffed rabbit she called Bugsy.

'Daddy?'

The lump in his throat grew, cutting off his words. He hung his head and returned to the mirror, watching the ponytailed figure's reflection cautiously approaching. She scrambled onto his knee, grabbing at his muscular arms, and swung her arms around his neck. He made no attempt to stop her, even when her little fingers splayed on his cheeks, forcing him to face her. Lian's brown eyes widened in surprise.

'Daddy,' she said again. 'You're beautiful.'