FIC: Unbecoming
Well, I'm positive I win the prize for the 'most unique fic' of the contest award - if there were such an award. It's also frighteningly long. My apologies, monroe_nell for the late posting. I was sick in the weeks leading up to the contest and, well, I got distracted by more research than was good for me for this fic! Inspired by 'Some Like it Red', of course but also 'Tootsie', which is a damn good movie.
Alas, due to my poor timing, this story has not been beta'd. As I'm not too sure about this story anyway, that adds that lovely extra frisson of panic :)
For:monroe_nell
Title: Unbecoming
Author: x_tricks2000@yahoo.com
Rating: Grown-up!
Pairing: Miss Pinset (nee Ms. Fraser)/Ray Vecchio
Warnings: Uhhh ... one off screen and pre-story death (my story, not canon) of a character. Somewhat AU. Pantyhose.
Disclaimer: Not my characters and I'm sure that Paul Gross and Paul Haggis and Alliance wouldn't recognize them either!
Author's Notes: My prompt: cross-dressing, Dief's puppies, not-composed!fraser. You'd think a story about cross dressing and puppies would be short and light, wouldn't you? I'm not sure I got 'not-composed Fraser' in here but I tried!
Summary: Fraser left Chicago abruptly six months ago, and died in the line of duty. Miss Pinset, nee Ms. Fraser, has returned to the city searching for the Chicago cop that stole her heart.
Luck was with him. The lingerie shop was still there, though Padduchi's shoe shop had been replaced by a dollar store. Fraser glanced in the window, hesitating before going in, but he saw no customers and recognized Lilly's blonde hair. Fraser stepped inside, accompanied by the jingle of the doorbell.
"Hey," she said with a smile, recognizing him immediately. "Need to check out any more of my corsets?"
"Ah." He shuffled his feet awkwardly. "Actually, yes, in a manner of speaking."
He swung the clothes bag off his shoulder and onto the counter, unzipping it to reveal Ms. Fraser's pale blue dress, the molded bra he'd used last year and the brunette wig. "You were … well, very helpful before and I was wondering if I could call on your services again."
Lilly picked up the forms. "You doing another drag job?"
"Hmm." Fraser scratched his forehead uncomfortably. "Well … "
Lilly looked at him patiently, brows raised.
"I'm looking for a more … long-term solution." He blurted.
"Oh." She said, then. "Oh! Well, that - you need to see a therapist and get a letter and hormones and - "
"No," Fraser said, startled. "No, I don't want a sex change … well, not in that fashion. Exactly."
"Long term, huh?" Lilly looked him over thoughtfully. "You mind if I call in some reinforcements? You're talking about a project here."
"No," he said, relived she was willing to help him at all. "No, of course not."
It was a project but, in two weeks, Fraser stood in front of a floor length mirror a new man … actually, a new woman.
The original Ms. Fraser was visible, of course, he couldn't eradicate that any more than he could the width of his shoulders or his height (so, in a manner of speaking, traces of Benton Fraser also remained). However, with more time and a half-dozen of Lilly's 'reinforcements', including Cherry Tang - a black drag queen three inches taller than Fraser himself was - he was much more than a blue dress and a wig.
"Well, that's rather remarkable," Fraser said, talking more from the roof of his mouth, as he'd been practicing. He was still wearing a blue dress, as blue suited him, but this dress was slightly fitted along the waist, and this time he wore a waist cincher that actually gave him a curve at the waist. The gentle, asymmetrical scoop neck helped to distract the eye from the size of his shoulders and bared his collar bones which were, supposedly, a feature.
The stockings he wore flattened out, well, certain inappropriate parts of his anatomy and were designed to contour, lift and separate his buttocks - another feature - and ones Lilly had claimed, with a wink, hardly needed any artificial enhancement.
The same could not be said for his chest and the 'rack' - as Cherry so quaintly put it - that filled out the top of his dress so convincingly was the most expensive single purchase of the entire lot. The forms even had nipples, matched in color to his own skin tone and were made of medical grade silicone, weighted to mimic natural breasts; they were a convincing and distracting weight on Fraser's chest, especially since the bras chosen to replace his original 'built-in' forms of last year were thinner and less … sturdy. They swayed slightly when he walked and even jiggled occasionally. Cherry had insisted on a "C' because "Honey, you got plenty of room on that chest for a nice rack, so don't be shy." The only reason Fraser had, mute with discomfort, acquiesced, was the reason he was doing this at all.
"You're going to knock 'em out, missy." Cherry said with satisfaction.
"If someone impacts my breasts, I might possibly." Fraser said as he adjusted his wig and brushed the long hair back from his face. It was his original wig and oddly comforting for that.
His make-up was subtle, similar to the Ms. Fraser Chicago had known so briefly, the jewelry spare and he even had a touch of familiar perfume - Passionflower. Fraser picked up his purse, clutching it and staring at his astonishing reflection. He was, he realized, ready. All the preparations were done.
"I guess it's time," he said, stroking a knuckle over his lightly plucked eyebrows, and couldn't move. His blue - big, pretty - eyes looked stunned and rather bovine.
Finally, Cherry took pity on him and put her arm around his shoulders, turning him away from the mirror. "Since you don't drink, sweetie, lets get you a nice cup of tea and then it's time to leave the nest."
Fraser closed his eyes and nodded. "Yes. I agree."
The 2-7 was unchanged, the only difference was the way one of the patrolwomen held the door for Fraser as he approached.
"Thank you kindly," Fraser glanced at the pin on the woman's jacket. "Officer Simms."
"No worries, miss," Officer Simm, surely half Fraser's age, said and bounced down the steps. Fraser watched her walk, Cherry's advice ringing in his ears. "Watch the ladies, honey, even the butch ones. Watch them pick up their coffee cups and lose their temper. There ain't no better teacher than Mother Nature and you've got all those natural-born women out there to show you the way to your inner lady." Even with the heavy patrolman's belt, Officer Simms managed a sway to her hips. Fraser walked up to the duty officer's desk, taking careful steps and trying to visualize swaying. Cherry had despaired of ever getting Fraser's posture to soften up like a proper woman.
"Excuse me," Fraser said, looking up into the desk sergeant's face and not seeing a blink of recognition. "Where could I find Detective Vecchio?"
The Sergeant never bothered to raise his eyes from Fraser's rack as he pointed to the side door and passed across a visitor's badge. Flushing Fraser fumbled to pin it … where? He couldn't bring himself to pin it to his chest. His … front was drawing far too much attention as it was. He shouldn't have agreed to the C-cup. Finally, he pinned it to the strap of his sensible navy purse and walked briskly throng the halls to major crimes, skirt swirling around his calves.
Dewey saw him first, with a smirk and again, Fraser's chest was the primary point of interest. Huey was the one to actually speak to him - and he spoke to his face, not his chest.
"Can I help you, Ma'am?"
"Yes," Fraser glanced over Huey's shoulder, Vecchio's desk was frustratingly empty. "I was hoping to see Detective Vecchio."
He looked back to catch Huey's swift glance chestward before he looked back to Fraser's face. Fraser sighed, shifting on his low heels … but at least Huey had tried to be a little discrete, unlike his partner, who Fraser could still feel staring at his … rear assets.
"He's out. I could take a message …"
"I'd like to wait, actually," Fraser gave Huey a hopeful smile. "If that's not a problem, of course. I don't want to distract anyone."
Huey shot a sour glance at Dewey then led Fraser back towards Vecchio's desk. "He sits here and he's got to come back - " Huey glanced at the clock, it was nearly six. "Before he ends his shift, so he should be back soon. Would you like some coffee?"
"No, thank you kindly." Fraser sat and crossed his legs carefully then set his purse in his lap. He heard Huey's startled grunt and looked up curiously. The man was staring down at him with a frown.
"Are you Canadian, Mrs…?"
"Yes, actually," Fraser said and offered his hand, forgetting to turn it palm down in the proper ladylike fashion. "Miss. Pinset. Bell Pinset."
"Right. Well," Huey shifted uncomfortably. "He'll be back soon, I'm sure."
"Thank you."
But it wasn't Vecchio who found him but Leftanant Welsh.
"I understand you're waiting for Detective Vecchio," Welsh's rumble was rather sour but Fraser was fairly sure he could chalk that up, noting the leftanant's dyspeptic look, to a flare up of his ulcer. "Miss. Pinset."
"Yes, I am."
"About a case? A crime?" Welsh studied him and Fraser watched - with horror - recognition bloom on the man's craggy face. "Hey, aren't you … "
Fraser swallowed, feeling the blood leave his face.
"… that school teacher?" Welsh finished.
"Pardon me?" Fraser squeaked. The words didn't make sense, not when Fraser had been expecting 'Constable!?' and 'what the hell is going on?'and 'oh, my god.'
"From last year. The Catholic school girl thing."
"Ah." Fraser smiled brightly, suddenly quite thrilled to see even Welsh was not immune to the rack. Those breasts were beginning to achieve the status of secret weapon. Fraser tried a little test, breathing deep and, yes, Welsh's eyes flickered down briefly to watch Fraser rise and fall. "Yes, that's it. St. Fortunata. I only worked there for a very short time."
"Fine, fine," Welsh grunted. "And here is our prodigal, returned at last. Vecchio! Get over here, you have a guest."
"You bellowed, Sir?"
Fraser stood and turned, biting his lip hard, heart thumping painfully behind all the silicone and silk. This was the moment. "Ray," Fraser said softly. Ray looked startlingly tired, slim and elegant in a dark silk shirt and twill pants with suspicious mud stains on his fingers. It looked like Ray had taken to jumping in dumpsters without Fraser's assistance.
This time, there was no hesitation in Vecchio's eyes, and he looked shocked enough that Fraser had to abort his reach to steady him mid-gesture. "Oh, my god," Ray breathed. Then louder. "My god, what are you doing here?"
Fraser watched Ray open his mouth, knowing the next words, the ones that would expose him here and now. He shuddered and, dear god, Ray glanced down to his breasts, which had transformed his horrified flinch into something else entirely.
"Vecchio!" Welsh snapped and Ray's mouth shut with an audible click of his teeth. His face was slowly turning a particularly violent shade of red. The Leftanant turned to Fraser. "I'm sorry, Miss. Pinset, obviously our last departmental training in remedial human behavior must have worn off."
"No," Fraser swallowed, Vecchio's eyes were brilliantly green with fury. "I quite understand. I'm sure Detective Vecchio wasn't expecting to see me again."
Ray inhaled sharply, nostrils flaring. "That's for sure." Ray glanced at Welsh who was glaring at him and visibly set his jaw. "How can I help you … Miss. Pinset?"
Fraser glanced sidelong at Welsh, who was thankfully drawn away by the sudden appearance of a troupe of child dancers, mixed in with a few patrol officers and one of the second shift detectives covered in crepe paper flowers.
"I..." Fraser stared down at his purse, kneading the leather nervously. "I thought we should talk about … " he looked back to Ray's face straightening his back into military posture, not caring that it wasn't exactly a feminine gesture. "...our future together."
Ray blinked, several times, motionless. "I think I need a drink." He finally said, then came to life again, clapping his hands briskly together then grabbing his jacket. "Okay - ! I'm done here. If you want to talk, let's walk."
Ray didn't wait for an answer, leaving Fraser to hurry after him, dodging someone's stray paper rose. The didn't talk in the elevator either but, quivering, Ray couldn't hold back any longer than that. As soon as the car doors on the Riv slammed he turned to glare at Fraser, this time ignoring his breasts.
"What the hell is this, Benny?" His hands were shaking, even the edge of his jacket was quivering in anger. "This - " he swept a glance down Fraser's body, from wig to sensible shoes. " - and what the hell happened to you? You just up and left then I get told you'd been killed!"
"Constable Benton Fraser has been killed." Fraser said carefully. "In the line of duty."
Ray stared at him, motionless again, and Fraser waited for the leap of understanding - hearing it in Ray's irritable snort. "Undercover?"
"In a manner of speaking."
"Yeah?" Ray gunned the engine and raced out of the parking garage. "So, speak, already."
Fraser drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I'm afraid I'm not authorized to give complete details but suffice to say that a few months after the episode with the Fisheries Minister - "
"Macon LaRue."
Fraser went on as if Ray hadn't spoken. " - the CICS felt Benton Fraser was an ideal fit for a very specific job. In the complications ensuing after the successful completion of a multi-province operation, Benton Fraser's life was … endangered and, finally, sacrificed to preserve the lives of … others."
"You're in a witness protection program?" Ray said incredulously. "As a girl?"
"I chose it." Fraser glanced sidelong at Ray. "Her. I chose her."
He had. Rather to the shock of the agents assigned to oversee his case. After finally finding and being forced to kill Macon LaRue - and losing Diefenbaker in the process - Fraser had become more than weary of the RCMP, of his duty and even of himself. Losing, he thought with bitter grief as he stared down at his manicured hands clasped tight around his purse, what a lovely, generic word. The loss was not generic at all, he knew precisely what he missed; from Dief's snores at night to the cold, impatient press of his nose in the mornings to the simple knowledge that Fraser always had someone there, at his back. Diefenbaker had died for Fraser's duty and that, finally, had been too much.
The necessity of a new identify had been obvious and Fraser had enough pull, then, to set his own terms. The CICS had come through for him, no matter how bizarre his request had been. He had a Canadian passport in his purse under the name Belladonna Caroline Pinset, with his doctored picture and statistics. He had a birth certificate on record, just as Benton Fraser had a death certificate and an empty grave. He had an, admittedly, somewhat sketchy background but record keeping in the Northwest Territories had never been particularly thorough.
Belladonna was a rural girl, born in the Northwest Territories in a town that didn't exist anymore. She had a history as a traveling school teacher and a recent windfall of money due to the fact that her home was now under the Gordon Spring reservoir. Fraser even knew how she (he) was distantly related to Constable Fraser, through his mother. And, now, Belladonna - call me Bell - had decided to come back to Chicago and visit the American detective who she'd helped briefly, a year ago.
The same detective who'd rejected Benton Fraser for very painful and specific reasons; reasons having to do with family and marriage and the future two guys couldn't possibly have together. Love, Ray had told him then, voice shaking, wasn't enough. Fraser brushed his hand across his chest, feeling the soft give of his breasts. Perhaps there was no future with Benton Fraser but Miss Pinset was a different matter.
"You wanna eat, Benny?" Ray said abruptly. "I'm starving. Where do you wanna go?"
"Someplace with dancing, Ray."
Ray didn't want to dance. He glared mutely at Fraser across the dining table, clutching the glass of wine he'd ordered but barely touched. "Don't be ridiculous."
Fraser smiled stubbornly. "I'm not, Ray."
"God, Benny - "
"Belladonna."
" - look at yourself!"
"I have Ray," Fraser said, flushing, feeling a sick surge of shame. If all Ray saw was a foolish man wearing a dress that would be all Fraser could be. "Have you?"
"Have I what?"
"Looked at me, Ray." Fraser swung his hair back, feeling it stroke his cheek and hoping his make-up was still adequate. "Or, rather, look at the gentleman three tables over, looking at me."
Ray glanced over and scowled.
"What do you think he's looking at?"
Ray looked back at Fraser uncomfortably. He took a sip of wine and licked his lips and Fraser ran his tongue across his own lip, aware of how much he'd missed Ray and how precarious this chance was. "I dunno, Benny - "
And, as if providence was actually on Fraser's side for once, the man three tables over walked up with a rather charming smile. "Forgive me, this is very rude but I was hoping you would allow me a brief dance with you, miss…?"
"Pinset," Fraser said tilting his head to the side with a smile. "And I'd love to," he glanced at Ray. "My companion isn't in the mood to dance, I'm afraid."
"Well then," the man held out a hand. "Please allow me the honor, Miss Pinset. I'm Gordon Lightfoot."
Fraser set his hand, delicately, in Gordon's and stood. "Please, call me Bell."
Gordon was a gentleman, his hand never drifting too high or too low, leading Fraser firmly through a simple dance. Dancing was suddenly a whole new experience, it was difficult to remember to follow instead of lead but that was less problematic than his breasts, which swayed rather alarmingly every time Lightfoot turned Fraser. The heels weren't easy either, no matter that they were barely 3/4s of an inch high and he found himself intimately breast to chest far too often for his preferences. He desperately hoped that Mr. Lightfoot couldn't feel the rise of his artificial nipples through the bra and dress and his jacket and shirt.
He couldn't help being stiff in Gordon's arms but he had to prove a point - to Ray and to himself as well. He'd burned most of his bridges and it would be somewhat difficult to develop yet another new identify, especially one as well constructed as this.
"You reminded me very much of my wife and I thought … one dance wouldn't hurt anyone."
"No," Fraser barely managed to avoid stepping on Gordon's feet. "Indeed not. Is she traveling?"
"She's dead."
"Ah. I'm sorry to hear that."
Mr. Lightfoot shrugged and it was a surprising thing, to feel a stranger's body move under his hands. Fraser was aware, suddenly, that - as polite as they were both being - he was dancing in a man's arms. In public. He was wearing a dress, resting his hand on the wool jacket of man he'd never spoken to before. No one was looking at him oddly. There were no catcalls, no shocked looks. Everything was perfectly normal. Fraser stumbled badly.
Gordon Lightfoot supported him, like any man would a woman he was dancing with, his hand firm on Fraser's waist, then led him back to his table where Ray waited, fuming.
Fraser took his seat and gave Ray a brilliant smile. Then he smiled up at Mr. Lightfoot. "Thank you very kindly for the dance."
The man bowed slightly and smiled and took himself away again. A gentleman. Fraser looked at Ray, waiting patiently as Ray paid the bill and signed the credit slip. Ray was not necessarily a gentleman but Fraser knew who he'd chose, every time.
"You said you wanted a future, Ray." He said when the hostess had left again. "When I spoke with you before."
Ray glanced at him sourly. "And this is it?"
Fraser blushed painfully, dropping his head. "It can be - I want a future as well, Ray and I want it with you, whatever shape it is." He looked up, then pushed his hair back so he could see. "Mr. Lightfoot was pleased to dance with me, Ray, what about you?"
"No, I'm not gonna dance with you, Benny." Ray leaned over the table, intent, and Fraser ached with misery. He was going to lose Ray.
"Belladonna, Ray."
"Benton." Ray hissed. "What are you saying? You're gonna spend the rest of your life in a dress? You're no more a woman than I am … unless - god, Benny you didn't get anything… cut off - "
"No!" Fraser said hastily to the horror in Ray's face. "No. I'm all…original equipment, Ray. Simply repackaged. And, yes, Ray - it's not so different from the serge, after all, simply another costume and another way for people to not see who I really am."
You're the only one who ever did, Ray." Fraser touched the napkin to his mouth one last time, leaving a coral pink smudge. "I'm not different from who I was before. You said you loved me even then, but that anything real was impossible because two men don't have relationships, they don't fall in love, they fuck each other and end up alone and and bitter and chasing after bar clones."
Ray gestured sharply, then went around the table to hold Fraser's chair as he stood. "Yes, it's impossible - two men, Benny, and I'm a cop and I'm an Italian and my mother wants to see me safely married off before she dies, I got nieces and nephews I'm gonna be putting through college and a baby sister who's probably gonna end up pregnant and single, god help me. And I don't want to die in some shoot-out because my back-up was 'late'. The two-minute delay, Benny, it's a classic. I want a home, and friends who aren't specially screened for their politics and I want to go to the bar and talk about girls and when I go on a date I don't want to pretend it's 'just friends.'"
By the time Ray finished his rant, they were outside where night had fallen and Chicago was full of shadows and lights. Fraser's heels clicked sedately beside Ray's more restless footsteps.
"We can do that, Ray." Fraser said simply. He stopped and turned to Ray and thought again, how well he fit into his city. Urban and urbane, eyes bright with emotion, as fast paced and restless as the city itself. Fraser felt, in himself, the steady stubbornness of his own home - persistent, private and driven. Surely they'd be a good couple. "We can do all that, if that's all your objections are, so long as - " Fraser ran a hand carefully down his front, highlighting his curves, and watched Ray's eyes follow. " - what's under all this isn't the true problem. Because, Ray, I have no trouble wearing a dress, and putting on make-up every day and letting Dewey stare at my chest …" Ray blinked, and Fraser was startled at the flash of jealousy in Ray's eyes. "If I can take all that off, with you, in private, and you will still want me. You see me with my clothes on, Ray. Can you see me with my clothes off?"
"Benny - "
Fraser held up his hand, stopping Ray's words for once. "Just think about it. If you would, Ray. If you could."
He snapped open his purse and fished out a small pad of paper and a pencil stub. Fraser had packed his purse himself, with an eye towards verisimilitude. Not everything in it was new, the pad of paper was half used, like the pencil and there were mismatched earrings rattling in the bottom along with a few pieces of candy. He wrote out his phone number and gave Ray the paper.
"Call me, Ray." He murmured, dropping the pad back in his purse and snapping it closed. "If you decide you're willing to try. That's my phone number."
"You have a phone?" Ray said, nonplussed. "Now you have a phone, but not before?"
Fraser just smiled. "Call me. When you're ready."
"Little Wing Montessori School." Fraser read out loud, momentarily forgetting - then remembering with a pang of grief - that he was alone. When he stretched his fingers out, there was no cool nose reaching back, any longer. He brushed the side of his skirt instead. "This is it."
But he remained on the sidewalk, hearing the sounds of children playing on the other side of the wooden fence that bordered the sidewalk. The heavy heads of giant sunflowers bobbed over the top of the eight foot slat fence, showering seeds on the sidewalk to crunch under Fraser's navy pumps. He smoothed his hands one last time down his knit dress, squared his shoulders, climbed the steps, and opened the door.
That distinctive smell was immediately apparent; children and chalk, the faint persistent odor of books, even in the age of electronics, and that undefinable scent of 'education'. Beyond the smell, Little Wing had little resemblance to the usual Chicago public schools Fraser - as a Mountie - had given public service lectures in. The building had once been a well-to-do brownstone and the original hardwood floors were polished to a mirror-like shine, the walls were painted a discrete ivory and various certificates and trophies were lavishly displayed under spotlights and behind glass. The open doors Fraser passed revealed former parlors now converted to classrooms and old-fashioned book libraries that had been gutted in favor of state-of-the-art computers. The metronome of his heels reminded him of library teachers from his childhood. In fact, Fraser paused to look at his own faint reflection in the glass front of a trophy case, he looked rather like a librarian from his own childhood. Or a teacher. Or his grandmother. He certainly hoped he looked suitably like a teacher but not, god help him, his grandmother.
There was a certain satisfaction in knowing so intimately his own public records, Fraser had filled out an application and the permission to run a criminal check forms last week without a qualm. Everything he was writing down was true except in the strictest factual sense; he'd insisted on duplicating his own history, down to his childhood act of vandalism, when Miss Pinset had been constructed. He sat in the pleasant waiting room, trying not to fiddle with his hair or wonder if his breasts were too big while a crowd of pre-adolescent children were herded past the doorway and back to class.
"The Dean will see you now," the elderly receptionist, who looked like she'd been installed behind the desk back in the 1930's when the building was built, said, jerking Fraser out of his worries.
"Thank you," his voice cracked and Fraser hurriedly coughed into a handkerchief. "Excuse me," he said without the baritone undertones this time. "I have a slight cold."
The receptionist only gave him a gimlet eye and nodded to the polished door marked 'Dean Anderson'. Fraser bravely pushed on.
"Good afternoon," the woman behind the desk smiled at him in such a friendly fashion that Fraser felt a great deal of his worries simply fade away. Slender, elderly and dressed in a crisp cotton blouse, she was a far cry from his prior boss, not so affectionally named 'The Dragon Lady' by Ray. "Miss Pinset?"
"Yes," Fraser took the indicated seat, settling his skirt carefully and crossing his ankles. He could see his application peeking from a folder on the woman's desk. "Belladonna Pinset."
"And I'm Wilmina Anderson," they shook hands across the desk. Fraser hoped that neither his sweaty palms nor his strength showed. "Let's get started shall we?"
"Of course," Fraser said and they began.
"Honestly," Dr. Anderson was saying as they walked down the hallway towards the back of the building. Fraser believed he'd managed to acquit himself well during the interview; at least well enough that the Dean had suggested they take a brief tour of the school. "It's your language skills that leapt out at me. How many do you speak, again?"
Fraser had no doubt that Dr. Anderson knew precisely how many he'd listed on his application, perhaps she didn't believe him. "Five. English and French, of course, some Mandarin Chinese, International Sign Language and Iniktuit."
"Inik-?"
"Iniktuit," Fraser glanced at her. "The language of the indigenous peoples who live above the Arctic circle in Canada. I grew up in the Northwest Territories. I must admit that my Mandarin and Russian are rather rusty," he finished apologetically.
Dr. Anderson was shaking her head with a disbelieving half smile on her face, similar to the one Ray often wore when Fraser talked for more than about five minutes. "Are they now?"
"Yes."
"As I'm sure you know," Dr. Anderson turned them around a corner and opened a door marked 'Faculty Lounge'. The small room overlooked the playground and hollyhocks grew outside the windows, pink and white blossoms heavy with bees. "Little Wing is a language intensive Montessori school. I imagine that was one of the reasons you applied here."
She went on at Fraser's nod. "We're committed to a fully rounded education for the children here and I'm committed to a welcoming environment. We have teachers who are native speakers of all the languages you speak - but for one."
"And that is?"
"Sign."
"There are approximately 20 million hearing impaired people in the United States," Fraser said helpfully. "Equalling or exceeding some immigrant populations in numbers."
"Exactly." Dr. Anderson nodded, pale blue sapphire earrings winking in her ears. Fraser found his attention caught by the earrings briefly. Should he get his ears pierced? He wasn't fond of the jewelry choices available for clip earrings, they looked dated. "So, when can you start?"
"I have the job?" Fraser said, startled. He'd expected, well, he hadn't known what to expect, never having actually applied for a job before. It wasn't the sort of skill a Mountie needed. "Well then, I can -"
Outside the window, someone screamed.
Fraser was over the sill - his stockings catching on a shrub - before Dr. Anderson had reached the back door. Across the playground, by what looked to be a storage shed, one of the teacher's aides was standing in a scattered pile of bright plastic toys, hands clasped in front of her mouth. Skirt bunched in one hand, Fraser sprinted across the playground.
"What?" he skidded to a stop, the coughed into his hand again, clearing his throat.
"That poor dog!"
Fraser leaned over to peer into the shadowy space between the shed and the back fence. A pair of yellow eyes met his and a soft growling whine drifted out of the dark. "Oh, dear."
The dog had wedged itself deep into the corner, Fraser could smell signs of injury and those eyes were full of suspicion. The dog was such an exact match to the dusty ground that either it was bred for it or utterly filthy. Diefenbaker would have been able to coax the animal out he thought and then he realized that he had to save this dog. Strange animal or not, he couldn't bear the thought of a casual gunshot to destroy a 'dangerous animal'.
"We should call Animal Control," Dr. Anderson's voice startled Fraser and made the dog growl again. "Holly, go and call them."
"And bring back a blanket or large towel!" Fraser called after, as the aide's footsteps retreated.
"Oh, no, Miss Pinset," Dr. Anderson said. "Let Animal Control take care of it."
"I have no intention of letting Animal Control take care of anything," Fraser said and crouched down, murmuring softly. The dog's ears pricked, listening at least, but it showed no signs of moving. "I think it's just frightened."
"Well, of course, it's frightened!" Dr. Anderson said firmly behind him. "And likely to bite. Let it alone, if you please."
Fraser chose a moment of selective deafness as the young aide returned with an oversize towel. He would not leave the dog to the absent mercy of animal control.
"Thank you, kindly," Fraser said to Holly and took the towel out of her hands before she could change her mind. His skirt was no more inconvenient than his jodhpurs had been and he sidled into the tight space, murmuring reassurances to the dog as it backed up until its grubby rear was pressed against the fence. "Easy," he said patiently. "I assure you, I mean no harm." At least there was no deafness to concern himself with, on the dog's part anyway. Dr. Anderson was still protesting behind him. He tossed the towel over the dog's head and front, catching it as it tried to lunge towards freedom, barking wildly. The two of them tumbled out into the playground, Fraser wrestling for a solid grip and discovering that the animal had been injured; there was blood on the towel and smeared on his hands.
"It - she - needs to go to a veterinarian," Fraser said, blowing a strand of his wig from the corner of his mouth and hoping desperately that it was still on straight. Beneath his hands the dog whined and struggled, thrashing under the towel. Fraser could feel the frantic heartbeat under his fingers. "Can I borrow a phone?"
"Benny," Ray said softly, several hours later.
"Belladonna," Fraser muttered, hands clasped tightly behind his back as he stared out the window to the veterinarian's parking lot. "Or Bell."
"Oh, for god's sake," Ray said irritably. "Can you give it a rest for just a moment?"
"Ray!"
He heard one of Ray's long, put upon sighs then. "Come on, B-Bell - lets get out of here."
"I'm waiting for the veterinarian," Fraser said stubbornly and didn't move.
"Hey," Ray stepped closer, even touched Fraser's shoulder lightly and that was enough to make Fraser look around and see - beneath the irritation Ray so often used as a mask - the sympathy on Ray's face. "This stray isn't Diefenbaker. You bought it in, they'll take care of it. You don't need to get all wound up about it."
"I'm aware of that." But Fraser didn't move. Ray stood by his side for several moments and they studied the nearly empty lot together. Ray's Riv was the only vehicle there, lovingly waxed and just as Fraser had remembered, with longing, during his months up in Canada.
"Okay," Ray said abruptly, clapping Fraser on the shoulder, then steered him away from the window. "Come on."
Fraser found himself oddly passive, content to let Ray steer him where he willed. The ended up in one of the restrooms where Ray urged him to sit on the edge of the vanity. Fraser caught sight of himself in the mirror and winced. His mascara had run, his lipstick was smeared and his wig disheveled. Pale dust smeared his navy dress along with dog hair, he looked bizarre and hideous. "I look like a hag."
"Hey," Ray grabbed a paper towel and ran it under the water. "None of that, Benny."
Ray gripped Fraser's chin and dabbed carefully at his cheeks. "Close your eyes," he said.
Fraser did so, letting Ray wipe the dust and sweat from his face. He was reminded of Ray's lovingly waxed car and wondered if the Riv felt the same appreciation for Ray's attention as he did now. Fraser squeezed his eyes tighter shut, throat suddenly aching. What kind of fool was he to apply feelings to a machine? The same one who applied feelings and friendship to a dumb animal, clearly. He leaned into Ray's hand, pulse fluttering like a wounded animal. Grief was frozen just under the surface, stiff and immobile like ice, Fraser was choking on it. "Ray -" his voice broke. He'd wanted Ray, oh, god, he'd wanted Ray the night he'd buried Diefenbaker, the night he'd killed Macon LaRue, the night he'd buried his own identity in an empty grave. "Ray...."
"Benny, Benny ..." Ray murmured roughly, pressing his paper-towel under Fraser's eyes. "Don't cry, all right?"
"Why shouldn't I cry!" Fraser jerked his chin from Ray's hand. "Because it's too unmanly? I didn't cry when my father died - I didn't cry when my mother died and I was six years old!"
He pressed his fists against his temples, sick and overheated and aching to simply cry. "I was a big boy then - everyone was so proud of me - I'm sick of being too grown-up, too dutiful, too heroic to cry! Why shouldn't I cry for my father, my mother, my ... damn ... wolf!"
"Aww, Benny," Ray patted his shoulders and awkwardly pulled his head down to rest against Ray's chest. He pressed his cheek against crisp cotton, smelling Ray's expensive cologne, and sweat and gun oil. Fraser's eyes burned and his chest ached beneath the hot breast forms but he could barely squeeze out a handful of tears.
"Damn it," he choked out miserably. "I don't even know how to cry anymore."
Ray chuckled roughly, the sound echoing in his narrow chest and drumming comfortingly against Fraser's ear. "There's been enough tears, Benny. When we heard you were dead ... my house practically washed away in 'em."
"Tears, Ray?" Fraser murmured. "Fransesca's or yours?"
"What do you think?" Ray said hoarsely, his hands closed spasmodically on Fraser's shoulders, squeezing tight. "What do you think?
End Part 1
Alas, due to my poor timing, this story has not been beta'd. As I'm not too sure about this story anyway, that adds that lovely extra frisson of panic :)
For:monroe_nell
Title: Unbecoming
Author: x_tricks2000@yahoo.com
Rating: Grown-up!
Pairing: Miss Pinset (nee Ms. Fraser)/Ray Vecchio
Warnings: Uhhh ... one off screen and pre-story death (my story, not canon) of a character. Somewhat AU. Pantyhose.
Disclaimer: Not my characters and I'm sure that Paul Gross and Paul Haggis and Alliance wouldn't recognize them either!
Author's Notes: My prompt: cross-dressing, Dief's puppies, not-composed!fraser. You'd think a story about cross dressing and puppies would be short and light, wouldn't you? I'm not sure I got 'not-composed Fraser' in here but I tried!
Summary: Fraser left Chicago abruptly six months ago, and died in the line of duty. Miss Pinset, nee Ms. Fraser, has returned to the city searching for the Chicago cop that stole her heart.
Luck was with him. The lingerie shop was still there, though Padduchi's shoe shop had been replaced by a dollar store. Fraser glanced in the window, hesitating before going in, but he saw no customers and recognized Lilly's blonde hair. Fraser stepped inside, accompanied by the jingle of the doorbell.
"Hey," she said with a smile, recognizing him immediately. "Need to check out any more of my corsets?"
"Ah." He shuffled his feet awkwardly. "Actually, yes, in a manner of speaking."
He swung the clothes bag off his shoulder and onto the counter, unzipping it to reveal Ms. Fraser's pale blue dress, the molded bra he'd used last year and the brunette wig. "You were … well, very helpful before and I was wondering if I could call on your services again."
Lilly picked up the forms. "You doing another drag job?"
"Hmm." Fraser scratched his forehead uncomfortably. "Well … "
Lilly looked at him patiently, brows raised.
"I'm looking for a more … long-term solution." He blurted.
"Oh." She said, then. "Oh! Well, that - you need to see a therapist and get a letter and hormones and - "
"No," Fraser said, startled. "No, I don't want a sex change … well, not in that fashion. Exactly."
"Long term, huh?" Lilly looked him over thoughtfully. "You mind if I call in some reinforcements? You're talking about a project here."
"No," he said, relived she was willing to help him at all. "No, of course not."
It was a project but, in two weeks, Fraser stood in front of a floor length mirror a new man … actually, a new woman.
The original Ms. Fraser was visible, of course, he couldn't eradicate that any more than he could the width of his shoulders or his height (so, in a manner of speaking, traces of Benton Fraser also remained). However, with more time and a half-dozen of Lilly's 'reinforcements', including Cherry Tang - a black drag queen three inches taller than Fraser himself was - he was much more than a blue dress and a wig.
"Well, that's rather remarkable," Fraser said, talking more from the roof of his mouth, as he'd been practicing. He was still wearing a blue dress, as blue suited him, but this dress was slightly fitted along the waist, and this time he wore a waist cincher that actually gave him a curve at the waist. The gentle, asymmetrical scoop neck helped to distract the eye from the size of his shoulders and bared his collar bones which were, supposedly, a feature.
The stockings he wore flattened out, well, certain inappropriate parts of his anatomy and were designed to contour, lift and separate his buttocks - another feature - and ones Lilly had claimed, with a wink, hardly needed any artificial enhancement.
The same could not be said for his chest and the 'rack' - as Cherry so quaintly put it - that filled out the top of his dress so convincingly was the most expensive single purchase of the entire lot. The forms even had nipples, matched in color to his own skin tone and were made of medical grade silicone, weighted to mimic natural breasts; they were a convincing and distracting weight on Fraser's chest, especially since the bras chosen to replace his original 'built-in' forms of last year were thinner and less … sturdy. They swayed slightly when he walked and even jiggled occasionally. Cherry had insisted on a "C' because "Honey, you got plenty of room on that chest for a nice rack, so don't be shy." The only reason Fraser had, mute with discomfort, acquiesced, was the reason he was doing this at all.
"You're going to knock 'em out, missy." Cherry said with satisfaction.
"If someone impacts my breasts, I might possibly." Fraser said as he adjusted his wig and brushed the long hair back from his face. It was his original wig and oddly comforting for that.
His make-up was subtle, similar to the Ms. Fraser Chicago had known so briefly, the jewelry spare and he even had a touch of familiar perfume - Passionflower. Fraser picked up his purse, clutching it and staring at his astonishing reflection. He was, he realized, ready. All the preparations were done.
"I guess it's time," he said, stroking a knuckle over his lightly plucked eyebrows, and couldn't move. His blue - big, pretty - eyes looked stunned and rather bovine.
Finally, Cherry took pity on him and put her arm around his shoulders, turning him away from the mirror. "Since you don't drink, sweetie, lets get you a nice cup of tea and then it's time to leave the nest."
Fraser closed his eyes and nodded. "Yes. I agree."
The 2-7 was unchanged, the only difference was the way one of the patrolwomen held the door for Fraser as he approached.
"Thank you kindly," Fraser glanced at the pin on the woman's jacket. "Officer Simms."
"No worries, miss," Officer Simm, surely half Fraser's age, said and bounced down the steps. Fraser watched her walk, Cherry's advice ringing in his ears. "Watch the ladies, honey, even the butch ones. Watch them pick up their coffee cups and lose their temper. There ain't no better teacher than Mother Nature and you've got all those natural-born women out there to show you the way to your inner lady." Even with the heavy patrolman's belt, Officer Simms managed a sway to her hips. Fraser walked up to the duty officer's desk, taking careful steps and trying to visualize swaying. Cherry had despaired of ever getting Fraser's posture to soften up like a proper woman.
"Excuse me," Fraser said, looking up into the desk sergeant's face and not seeing a blink of recognition. "Where could I find Detective Vecchio?"
The Sergeant never bothered to raise his eyes from Fraser's rack as he pointed to the side door and passed across a visitor's badge. Flushing Fraser fumbled to pin it … where? He couldn't bring himself to pin it to his chest. His … front was drawing far too much attention as it was. He shouldn't have agreed to the C-cup. Finally, he pinned it to the strap of his sensible navy purse and walked briskly throng the halls to major crimes, skirt swirling around his calves.
Dewey saw him first, with a smirk and again, Fraser's chest was the primary point of interest. Huey was the one to actually speak to him - and he spoke to his face, not his chest.
"Can I help you, Ma'am?"
"Yes," Fraser glanced over Huey's shoulder, Vecchio's desk was frustratingly empty. "I was hoping to see Detective Vecchio."
He looked back to catch Huey's swift glance chestward before he looked back to Fraser's face. Fraser sighed, shifting on his low heels … but at least Huey had tried to be a little discrete, unlike his partner, who Fraser could still feel staring at his … rear assets.
"He's out. I could take a message …"
"I'd like to wait, actually," Fraser gave Huey a hopeful smile. "If that's not a problem, of course. I don't want to distract anyone."
Huey shot a sour glance at Dewey then led Fraser back towards Vecchio's desk. "He sits here and he's got to come back - " Huey glanced at the clock, it was nearly six. "Before he ends his shift, so he should be back soon. Would you like some coffee?"
"No, thank you kindly." Fraser sat and crossed his legs carefully then set his purse in his lap. He heard Huey's startled grunt and looked up curiously. The man was staring down at him with a frown.
"Are you Canadian, Mrs…?"
"Yes, actually," Fraser said and offered his hand, forgetting to turn it palm down in the proper ladylike fashion. "Miss. Pinset. Bell Pinset."
"Right. Well," Huey shifted uncomfortably. "He'll be back soon, I'm sure."
"Thank you."
But it wasn't Vecchio who found him but Leftanant Welsh.
"I understand you're waiting for Detective Vecchio," Welsh's rumble was rather sour but Fraser was fairly sure he could chalk that up, noting the leftanant's dyspeptic look, to a flare up of his ulcer. "Miss. Pinset."
"Yes, I am."
"About a case? A crime?" Welsh studied him and Fraser watched - with horror - recognition bloom on the man's craggy face. "Hey, aren't you … "
Fraser swallowed, feeling the blood leave his face.
"… that school teacher?" Welsh finished.
"Pardon me?" Fraser squeaked. The words didn't make sense, not when Fraser had been expecting 'Constable!?' and 'what the hell is going on?'and 'oh, my god.'
"From last year. The Catholic school girl thing."
"Ah." Fraser smiled brightly, suddenly quite thrilled to see even Welsh was not immune to the rack. Those breasts were beginning to achieve the status of secret weapon. Fraser tried a little test, breathing deep and, yes, Welsh's eyes flickered down briefly to watch Fraser rise and fall. "Yes, that's it. St. Fortunata. I only worked there for a very short time."
"Fine, fine," Welsh grunted. "And here is our prodigal, returned at last. Vecchio! Get over here, you have a guest."
"You bellowed, Sir?"
Fraser stood and turned, biting his lip hard, heart thumping painfully behind all the silicone and silk. This was the moment. "Ray," Fraser said softly. Ray looked startlingly tired, slim and elegant in a dark silk shirt and twill pants with suspicious mud stains on his fingers. It looked like Ray had taken to jumping in dumpsters without Fraser's assistance.
This time, there was no hesitation in Vecchio's eyes, and he looked shocked enough that Fraser had to abort his reach to steady him mid-gesture. "Oh, my god," Ray breathed. Then louder. "My god, what are you doing here?"
Fraser watched Ray open his mouth, knowing the next words, the ones that would expose him here and now. He shuddered and, dear god, Ray glanced down to his breasts, which had transformed his horrified flinch into something else entirely.
"Vecchio!" Welsh snapped and Ray's mouth shut with an audible click of his teeth. His face was slowly turning a particularly violent shade of red. The Leftanant turned to Fraser. "I'm sorry, Miss. Pinset, obviously our last departmental training in remedial human behavior must have worn off."
"No," Fraser swallowed, Vecchio's eyes were brilliantly green with fury. "I quite understand. I'm sure Detective Vecchio wasn't expecting to see me again."
Ray inhaled sharply, nostrils flaring. "That's for sure." Ray glanced at Welsh who was glaring at him and visibly set his jaw. "How can I help you … Miss. Pinset?"
Fraser glanced sidelong at Welsh, who was thankfully drawn away by the sudden appearance of a troupe of child dancers, mixed in with a few patrol officers and one of the second shift detectives covered in crepe paper flowers.
"I..." Fraser stared down at his purse, kneading the leather nervously. "I thought we should talk about … " he looked back to Ray's face straightening his back into military posture, not caring that it wasn't exactly a feminine gesture. "...our future together."
Ray blinked, several times, motionless. "I think I need a drink." He finally said, then came to life again, clapping his hands briskly together then grabbing his jacket. "Okay - ! I'm done here. If you want to talk, let's walk."
Ray didn't wait for an answer, leaving Fraser to hurry after him, dodging someone's stray paper rose. The didn't talk in the elevator either but, quivering, Ray couldn't hold back any longer than that. As soon as the car doors on the Riv slammed he turned to glare at Fraser, this time ignoring his breasts.
"What the hell is this, Benny?" His hands were shaking, even the edge of his jacket was quivering in anger. "This - " he swept a glance down Fraser's body, from wig to sensible shoes. " - and what the hell happened to you? You just up and left then I get told you'd been killed!"
"Constable Benton Fraser has been killed." Fraser said carefully. "In the line of duty."
Ray stared at him, motionless again, and Fraser waited for the leap of understanding - hearing it in Ray's irritable snort. "Undercover?"
"In a manner of speaking."
"Yeah?" Ray gunned the engine and raced out of the parking garage. "So, speak, already."
Fraser drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I'm afraid I'm not authorized to give complete details but suffice to say that a few months after the episode with the Fisheries Minister - "
"Macon LaRue."
Fraser went on as if Ray hadn't spoken. " - the CICS felt Benton Fraser was an ideal fit for a very specific job. In the complications ensuing after the successful completion of a multi-province operation, Benton Fraser's life was … endangered and, finally, sacrificed to preserve the lives of … others."
"You're in a witness protection program?" Ray said incredulously. "As a girl?"
"I chose it." Fraser glanced sidelong at Ray. "Her. I chose her."
He had. Rather to the shock of the agents assigned to oversee his case. After finally finding and being forced to kill Macon LaRue - and losing Diefenbaker in the process - Fraser had become more than weary of the RCMP, of his duty and even of himself. Losing, he thought with bitter grief as he stared down at his manicured hands clasped tight around his purse, what a lovely, generic word. The loss was not generic at all, he knew precisely what he missed; from Dief's snores at night to the cold, impatient press of his nose in the mornings to the simple knowledge that Fraser always had someone there, at his back. Diefenbaker had died for Fraser's duty and that, finally, had been too much.
The necessity of a new identify had been obvious and Fraser had enough pull, then, to set his own terms. The CICS had come through for him, no matter how bizarre his request had been. He had a Canadian passport in his purse under the name Belladonna Caroline Pinset, with his doctored picture and statistics. He had a birth certificate on record, just as Benton Fraser had a death certificate and an empty grave. He had an, admittedly, somewhat sketchy background but record keeping in the Northwest Territories had never been particularly thorough.
Belladonna was a rural girl, born in the Northwest Territories in a town that didn't exist anymore. She had a history as a traveling school teacher and a recent windfall of money due to the fact that her home was now under the Gordon Spring reservoir. Fraser even knew how she (he) was distantly related to Constable Fraser, through his mother. And, now, Belladonna - call me Bell - had decided to come back to Chicago and visit the American detective who she'd helped briefly, a year ago.
The same detective who'd rejected Benton Fraser for very painful and specific reasons; reasons having to do with family and marriage and the future two guys couldn't possibly have together. Love, Ray had told him then, voice shaking, wasn't enough. Fraser brushed his hand across his chest, feeling the soft give of his breasts. Perhaps there was no future with Benton Fraser but Miss Pinset was a different matter.
"You wanna eat, Benny?" Ray said abruptly. "I'm starving. Where do you wanna go?"
"Someplace with dancing, Ray."
Ray didn't want to dance. He glared mutely at Fraser across the dining table, clutching the glass of wine he'd ordered but barely touched. "Don't be ridiculous."
Fraser smiled stubbornly. "I'm not, Ray."
"God, Benny - "
"Belladonna."
" - look at yourself!"
"I have Ray," Fraser said, flushing, feeling a sick surge of shame. If all Ray saw was a foolish man wearing a dress that would be all Fraser could be. "Have you?"
"Have I what?"
"Looked at me, Ray." Fraser swung his hair back, feeling it stroke his cheek and hoping his make-up was still adequate. "Or, rather, look at the gentleman three tables over, looking at me."
Ray glanced over and scowled.
"What do you think he's looking at?"
Ray looked back at Fraser uncomfortably. He took a sip of wine and licked his lips and Fraser ran his tongue across his own lip, aware of how much he'd missed Ray and how precarious this chance was. "I dunno, Benny - "
And, as if providence was actually on Fraser's side for once, the man three tables over walked up with a rather charming smile. "Forgive me, this is very rude but I was hoping you would allow me a brief dance with you, miss…?"
"Pinset," Fraser said tilting his head to the side with a smile. "And I'd love to," he glanced at Ray. "My companion isn't in the mood to dance, I'm afraid."
"Well then," the man held out a hand. "Please allow me the honor, Miss Pinset. I'm Gordon Lightfoot."
Fraser set his hand, delicately, in Gordon's and stood. "Please, call me Bell."
Gordon was a gentleman, his hand never drifting too high or too low, leading Fraser firmly through a simple dance. Dancing was suddenly a whole new experience, it was difficult to remember to follow instead of lead but that was less problematic than his breasts, which swayed rather alarmingly every time Lightfoot turned Fraser. The heels weren't easy either, no matter that they were barely 3/4s of an inch high and he found himself intimately breast to chest far too often for his preferences. He desperately hoped that Mr. Lightfoot couldn't feel the rise of his artificial nipples through the bra and dress and his jacket and shirt.
He couldn't help being stiff in Gordon's arms but he had to prove a point - to Ray and to himself as well. He'd burned most of his bridges and it would be somewhat difficult to develop yet another new identify, especially one as well constructed as this.
"You reminded me very much of my wife and I thought … one dance wouldn't hurt anyone."
"No," Fraser barely managed to avoid stepping on Gordon's feet. "Indeed not. Is she traveling?"
"She's dead."
"Ah. I'm sorry to hear that."
Mr. Lightfoot shrugged and it was a surprising thing, to feel a stranger's body move under his hands. Fraser was aware, suddenly, that - as polite as they were both being - he was dancing in a man's arms. In public. He was wearing a dress, resting his hand on the wool jacket of man he'd never spoken to before. No one was looking at him oddly. There were no catcalls, no shocked looks. Everything was perfectly normal. Fraser stumbled badly.
Gordon Lightfoot supported him, like any man would a woman he was dancing with, his hand firm on Fraser's waist, then led him back to his table where Ray waited, fuming.
Fraser took his seat and gave Ray a brilliant smile. Then he smiled up at Mr. Lightfoot. "Thank you very kindly for the dance."
The man bowed slightly and smiled and took himself away again. A gentleman. Fraser looked at Ray, waiting patiently as Ray paid the bill and signed the credit slip. Ray was not necessarily a gentleman but Fraser knew who he'd chose, every time.
"You said you wanted a future, Ray." He said when the hostess had left again. "When I spoke with you before."
Ray glanced at him sourly. "And this is it?"
Fraser blushed painfully, dropping his head. "It can be - I want a future as well, Ray and I want it with you, whatever shape it is." He looked up, then pushed his hair back so he could see. "Mr. Lightfoot was pleased to dance with me, Ray, what about you?"
"No, I'm not gonna dance with you, Benny." Ray leaned over the table, intent, and Fraser ached with misery. He was going to lose Ray.
"Belladonna, Ray."
"Benton." Ray hissed. "What are you saying? You're gonna spend the rest of your life in a dress? You're no more a woman than I am … unless - god, Benny you didn't get anything… cut off - "
"No!" Fraser said hastily to the horror in Ray's face. "No. I'm all…original equipment, Ray. Simply repackaged. And, yes, Ray - it's not so different from the serge, after all, simply another costume and another way for people to not see who I really am."
You're the only one who ever did, Ray." Fraser touched the napkin to his mouth one last time, leaving a coral pink smudge. "I'm not different from who I was before. You said you loved me even then, but that anything real was impossible because two men don't have relationships, they don't fall in love, they fuck each other and end up alone and and bitter and chasing after bar clones."
Ray gestured sharply, then went around the table to hold Fraser's chair as he stood. "Yes, it's impossible - two men, Benny, and I'm a cop and I'm an Italian and my mother wants to see me safely married off before she dies, I got nieces and nephews I'm gonna be putting through college and a baby sister who's probably gonna end up pregnant and single, god help me. And I don't want to die in some shoot-out because my back-up was 'late'. The two-minute delay, Benny, it's a classic. I want a home, and friends who aren't specially screened for their politics and I want to go to the bar and talk about girls and when I go on a date I don't want to pretend it's 'just friends.'"
By the time Ray finished his rant, they were outside where night had fallen and Chicago was full of shadows and lights. Fraser's heels clicked sedately beside Ray's more restless footsteps.
"We can do that, Ray." Fraser said simply. He stopped and turned to Ray and thought again, how well he fit into his city. Urban and urbane, eyes bright with emotion, as fast paced and restless as the city itself. Fraser felt, in himself, the steady stubbornness of his own home - persistent, private and driven. Surely they'd be a good couple. "We can do all that, if that's all your objections are, so long as - " Fraser ran a hand carefully down his front, highlighting his curves, and watched Ray's eyes follow. " - what's under all this isn't the true problem. Because, Ray, I have no trouble wearing a dress, and putting on make-up every day and letting Dewey stare at my chest …" Ray blinked, and Fraser was startled at the flash of jealousy in Ray's eyes. "If I can take all that off, with you, in private, and you will still want me. You see me with my clothes on, Ray. Can you see me with my clothes off?"
"Benny - "
Fraser held up his hand, stopping Ray's words for once. "Just think about it. If you would, Ray. If you could."
He snapped open his purse and fished out a small pad of paper and a pencil stub. Fraser had packed his purse himself, with an eye towards verisimilitude. Not everything in it was new, the pad of paper was half used, like the pencil and there were mismatched earrings rattling in the bottom along with a few pieces of candy. He wrote out his phone number and gave Ray the paper.
"Call me, Ray." He murmured, dropping the pad back in his purse and snapping it closed. "If you decide you're willing to try. That's my phone number."
"You have a phone?" Ray said, nonplussed. "Now you have a phone, but not before?"
Fraser just smiled. "Call me. When you're ready."
"Little Wing Montessori School." Fraser read out loud, momentarily forgetting - then remembering with a pang of grief - that he was alone. When he stretched his fingers out, there was no cool nose reaching back, any longer. He brushed the side of his skirt instead. "This is it."
But he remained on the sidewalk, hearing the sounds of children playing on the other side of the wooden fence that bordered the sidewalk. The heavy heads of giant sunflowers bobbed over the top of the eight foot slat fence, showering seeds on the sidewalk to crunch under Fraser's navy pumps. He smoothed his hands one last time down his knit dress, squared his shoulders, climbed the steps, and opened the door.
That distinctive smell was immediately apparent; children and chalk, the faint persistent odor of books, even in the age of electronics, and that undefinable scent of 'education'. Beyond the smell, Little Wing had little resemblance to the usual Chicago public schools Fraser - as a Mountie - had given public service lectures in. The building had once been a well-to-do brownstone and the original hardwood floors were polished to a mirror-like shine, the walls were painted a discrete ivory and various certificates and trophies were lavishly displayed under spotlights and behind glass. The open doors Fraser passed revealed former parlors now converted to classrooms and old-fashioned book libraries that had been gutted in favor of state-of-the-art computers. The metronome of his heels reminded him of library teachers from his childhood. In fact, Fraser paused to look at his own faint reflection in the glass front of a trophy case, he looked rather like a librarian from his own childhood. Or a teacher. Or his grandmother. He certainly hoped he looked suitably like a teacher but not, god help him, his grandmother.
There was a certain satisfaction in knowing so intimately his own public records, Fraser had filled out an application and the permission to run a criminal check forms last week without a qualm. Everything he was writing down was true except in the strictest factual sense; he'd insisted on duplicating his own history, down to his childhood act of vandalism, when Miss Pinset had been constructed. He sat in the pleasant waiting room, trying not to fiddle with his hair or wonder if his breasts were too big while a crowd of pre-adolescent children were herded past the doorway and back to class.
"The Dean will see you now," the elderly receptionist, who looked like she'd been installed behind the desk back in the 1930's when the building was built, said, jerking Fraser out of his worries.
"Thank you," his voice cracked and Fraser hurriedly coughed into a handkerchief. "Excuse me," he said without the baritone undertones this time. "I have a slight cold."
The receptionist only gave him a gimlet eye and nodded to the polished door marked 'Dean Anderson'. Fraser bravely pushed on.
"Good afternoon," the woman behind the desk smiled at him in such a friendly fashion that Fraser felt a great deal of his worries simply fade away. Slender, elderly and dressed in a crisp cotton blouse, she was a far cry from his prior boss, not so affectionally named 'The Dragon Lady' by Ray. "Miss Pinset?"
"Yes," Fraser took the indicated seat, settling his skirt carefully and crossing his ankles. He could see his application peeking from a folder on the woman's desk. "Belladonna Pinset."
"And I'm Wilmina Anderson," they shook hands across the desk. Fraser hoped that neither his sweaty palms nor his strength showed. "Let's get started shall we?"
"Of course," Fraser said and they began.
"Honestly," Dr. Anderson was saying as they walked down the hallway towards the back of the building. Fraser believed he'd managed to acquit himself well during the interview; at least well enough that the Dean had suggested they take a brief tour of the school. "It's your language skills that leapt out at me. How many do you speak, again?"
Fraser had no doubt that Dr. Anderson knew precisely how many he'd listed on his application, perhaps she didn't believe him. "Five. English and French, of course, some Mandarin Chinese, International Sign Language and Iniktuit."
"Inik-?"
"Iniktuit," Fraser glanced at her. "The language of the indigenous peoples who live above the Arctic circle in Canada. I grew up in the Northwest Territories. I must admit that my Mandarin and Russian are rather rusty," he finished apologetically.
Dr. Anderson was shaking her head with a disbelieving half smile on her face, similar to the one Ray often wore when Fraser talked for more than about five minutes. "Are they now?"
"Yes."
"As I'm sure you know," Dr. Anderson turned them around a corner and opened a door marked 'Faculty Lounge'. The small room overlooked the playground and hollyhocks grew outside the windows, pink and white blossoms heavy with bees. "Little Wing is a language intensive Montessori school. I imagine that was one of the reasons you applied here."
She went on at Fraser's nod. "We're committed to a fully rounded education for the children here and I'm committed to a welcoming environment. We have teachers who are native speakers of all the languages you speak - but for one."
"And that is?"
"Sign."
"There are approximately 20 million hearing impaired people in the United States," Fraser said helpfully. "Equalling or exceeding some immigrant populations in numbers."
"Exactly." Dr. Anderson nodded, pale blue sapphire earrings winking in her ears. Fraser found his attention caught by the earrings briefly. Should he get his ears pierced? He wasn't fond of the jewelry choices available for clip earrings, they looked dated. "So, when can you start?"
"I have the job?" Fraser said, startled. He'd expected, well, he hadn't known what to expect, never having actually applied for a job before. It wasn't the sort of skill a Mountie needed. "Well then, I can -"
Outside the window, someone screamed.
Fraser was over the sill - his stockings catching on a shrub - before Dr. Anderson had reached the back door. Across the playground, by what looked to be a storage shed, one of the teacher's aides was standing in a scattered pile of bright plastic toys, hands clasped in front of her mouth. Skirt bunched in one hand, Fraser sprinted across the playground.
"What?" he skidded to a stop, the coughed into his hand again, clearing his throat.
"That poor dog!"
Fraser leaned over to peer into the shadowy space between the shed and the back fence. A pair of yellow eyes met his and a soft growling whine drifted out of the dark. "Oh, dear."
The dog had wedged itself deep into the corner, Fraser could smell signs of injury and those eyes were full of suspicion. The dog was such an exact match to the dusty ground that either it was bred for it or utterly filthy. Diefenbaker would have been able to coax the animal out he thought and then he realized that he had to save this dog. Strange animal or not, he couldn't bear the thought of a casual gunshot to destroy a 'dangerous animal'.
"We should call Animal Control," Dr. Anderson's voice startled Fraser and made the dog growl again. "Holly, go and call them."
"And bring back a blanket or large towel!" Fraser called after, as the aide's footsteps retreated.
"Oh, no, Miss Pinset," Dr. Anderson said. "Let Animal Control take care of it."
"I have no intention of letting Animal Control take care of anything," Fraser said and crouched down, murmuring softly. The dog's ears pricked, listening at least, but it showed no signs of moving. "I think it's just frightened."
"Well, of course, it's frightened!" Dr. Anderson said firmly behind him. "And likely to bite. Let it alone, if you please."
Fraser chose a moment of selective deafness as the young aide returned with an oversize towel. He would not leave the dog to the absent mercy of animal control.
"Thank you, kindly," Fraser said to Holly and took the towel out of her hands before she could change her mind. His skirt was no more inconvenient than his jodhpurs had been and he sidled into the tight space, murmuring reassurances to the dog as it backed up until its grubby rear was pressed against the fence. "Easy," he said patiently. "I assure you, I mean no harm." At least there was no deafness to concern himself with, on the dog's part anyway. Dr. Anderson was still protesting behind him. He tossed the towel over the dog's head and front, catching it as it tried to lunge towards freedom, barking wildly. The two of them tumbled out into the playground, Fraser wrestling for a solid grip and discovering that the animal had been injured; there was blood on the towel and smeared on his hands.
"It - she - needs to go to a veterinarian," Fraser said, blowing a strand of his wig from the corner of his mouth and hoping desperately that it was still on straight. Beneath his hands the dog whined and struggled, thrashing under the towel. Fraser could feel the frantic heartbeat under his fingers. "Can I borrow a phone?"
"Benny," Ray said softly, several hours later.
"Belladonna," Fraser muttered, hands clasped tightly behind his back as he stared out the window to the veterinarian's parking lot. "Or Bell."
"Oh, for god's sake," Ray said irritably. "Can you give it a rest for just a moment?"
"Ray!"
He heard one of Ray's long, put upon sighs then. "Come on, B-Bell - lets get out of here."
"I'm waiting for the veterinarian," Fraser said stubbornly and didn't move.
"Hey," Ray stepped closer, even touched Fraser's shoulder lightly and that was enough to make Fraser look around and see - beneath the irritation Ray so often used as a mask - the sympathy on Ray's face. "This stray isn't Diefenbaker. You bought it in, they'll take care of it. You don't need to get all wound up about it."
"I'm aware of that." But Fraser didn't move. Ray stood by his side for several moments and they studied the nearly empty lot together. Ray's Riv was the only vehicle there, lovingly waxed and just as Fraser had remembered, with longing, during his months up in Canada.
"Okay," Ray said abruptly, clapping Fraser on the shoulder, then steered him away from the window. "Come on."
Fraser found himself oddly passive, content to let Ray steer him where he willed. The ended up in one of the restrooms where Ray urged him to sit on the edge of the vanity. Fraser caught sight of himself in the mirror and winced. His mascara had run, his lipstick was smeared and his wig disheveled. Pale dust smeared his navy dress along with dog hair, he looked bizarre and hideous. "I look like a hag."
"Hey," Ray grabbed a paper towel and ran it under the water. "None of that, Benny."
Ray gripped Fraser's chin and dabbed carefully at his cheeks. "Close your eyes," he said.
Fraser did so, letting Ray wipe the dust and sweat from his face. He was reminded of Ray's lovingly waxed car and wondered if the Riv felt the same appreciation for Ray's attention as he did now. Fraser squeezed his eyes tighter shut, throat suddenly aching. What kind of fool was he to apply feelings to a machine? The same one who applied feelings and friendship to a dumb animal, clearly. He leaned into Ray's hand, pulse fluttering like a wounded animal. Grief was frozen just under the surface, stiff and immobile like ice, Fraser was choking on it. "Ray -" his voice broke. He'd wanted Ray, oh, god, he'd wanted Ray the night he'd buried Diefenbaker, the night he'd killed Macon LaRue, the night he'd buried his own identity in an empty grave. "Ray...."
"Benny, Benny ..." Ray murmured roughly, pressing his paper-towel under Fraser's eyes. "Don't cry, all right?"
"Why shouldn't I cry!" Fraser jerked his chin from Ray's hand. "Because it's too unmanly? I didn't cry when my father died - I didn't cry when my mother died and I was six years old!"
He pressed his fists against his temples, sick and overheated and aching to simply cry. "I was a big boy then - everyone was so proud of me - I'm sick of being too grown-up, too dutiful, too heroic to cry! Why shouldn't I cry for my father, my mother, my ... damn ... wolf!"
"Aww, Benny," Ray patted his shoulders and awkwardly pulled his head down to rest against Ray's chest. He pressed his cheek against crisp cotton, smelling Ray's expensive cologne, and sweat and gun oil. Fraser's eyes burned and his chest ached beneath the hot breast forms but he could barely squeeze out a handful of tears.
"Damn it," he choked out miserably. "I don't even know how to cry anymore."
Ray chuckled roughly, the sound echoing in his narrow chest and drumming comfortingly against Fraser's ear. "There's been enough tears, Benny. When we heard you were dead ... my house practically washed away in 'em."
"Tears, Ray?" Fraser murmured. "Fransesca's or yours?"
"What do you think?" Ray said hoarsely, his hands closed spasmodically on Fraser's shoulders, squeezing tight. "What do you think?
End Part 1