Title: He/She (1/1)

Author: Vera

Rating: PG

Summary: Cyanide trades personas to rid himself of a bad day.

Disclaimer: They belong to the glorious Sandra, I just like to tart them up and make them parade around on stage.

Archive: Yes.

Feedback: Want it, crave it, desire it.

Note: Never ever watch To Wong Foo Thanks for Everything Juile Newmar unless you want to imagine every man you meet for a week in drag.

Fuckin' awful day. Just miserable in every imaginable way and has to get of his clothes the minute he hits the door. Skims off jeans and clinging tank top, tosses his boxers off to side and stands, neither one thing or another, preparing for transformation.

Cyanide doesn't do anything by halves. Everything has a ritual to it and this is no exception. Shower first and he grabs a towel, wraps it tightly around his middle. The hall is blessedly empty even though he can hear his sisters chattering through the walls.

The shower is pure bliss, hot and cleansing. He shampoos and conditions long hair within an inch of it's life, leaving it soft and limpid, grazing his shoulders. A deep sigh and he uses a secret stash of sweet smelling soap his sisters would gladly rob him blind of it.

Feeling significantly more refreshed, he stepped into the steam. He luxuriated in air drying. Soft cotton and cool sting of nail polish remover take off the harsh black polish, leaving his nail beautifully manicured and clean. A quick scurry down the hall and back safe behind a locked door, he finds that polish no one knows he has. The colored of dried blood in three careful coats that he lets dry against naked thighs while his hair drips cooling water down his spine.

Dry enough, he rises and brushes the black mane of hair until it hangs straight. No gel, just let's it cling to his face like a needy lover and walks over to his closet. In the deepest darkest coroner, beyond even the few articles of clothing that he's stolen from Skids, purely to borrow and not obsess over....not. There is a hanging bag filled with what he needs right now.

Sits back on his bed and zips it open with a satisfied sigh. Black silk underwear first, wincing with discomfort as he adjusts himself. Satisfied that his bulk is no longer to obvious without being painful, he reaches for his favorite part. Black knee high pantyhose that smooth over his legs and really, somehow, make the transformation real, even if you can see his coarse leg hair underneath. Never willing to shave it because that would make it to obvious. Smoothes the softness under lacquered nails, lets the flowery lingering scent of his soap reach him. Luxuriates in the beginning of change. Rustles through the bag to find the bra. A castaway from one of his sisters that he had stolen, shamefaced when no one was looking long before he had any idea of what he was going to do with it. He used to put on just the bra, the oldest part of his collection, and stuff it full of tissues. Now, he's moved on. One day a few months ago, he got in the car and drove as far as he could. Where he was sure to see no one he knew ever. Bought falsies.

They look damn good. Their weight his heavy against him. They feel like a promise and when he squeezes them gently to press them into place, he can pretend that they're his and moan ever so slightly. It's makeup next so that he doesn't spoil his clothes. Like the nail polish, he already knows what to do. Goes the whole nine yards with false eyelashes, short enough to be mistaken for real and lip liner that matches his lipstick and nail polish. Dark bruising colors for eye shadow, but only on the lids. He isn't going for a drag queen look. He wants it to be real. He's tricked men, before and had to talk his way out of some extremely awkward situations, but he likes getting into them. Like knowing people think he's really...her.

The clothes come last and they seem almost unnecessary. Tight black leather skirt and dark red silk top that dips only enough to hint at cleavage. High heeled black leather booths that touch the back of his knees.

Steps in front of the mirror.

Transformation complete. Shitty day forgotten. Cyanide Torres, doesn't even need to change that androgynous name. Steps outside the door and no one pays him the slightest attention because they're to involved to realize that he isn't one of the many relatives who drifts in and out of the house all the time. Doesn't bother with the van. Stands on the curb and waits.

His ride pulls up, a sedate beige sedan bought off a used car lot. It's being driven by a glorious brunette. Its a wig, of course, because her natural hair wouldn't be nearly long enough to convince anyone. Brilliantly colored short J-crew dress and white sheer stockings in beige strappy sandals. Cyanide leans in to peck her on the cheek.

"Ready to go?"

"Let's blow this shithouse." Cyanide affirms.

Their hands join over the parking break. The dusky evening spreads before them like an invitation. Two fantastically beautiful girls and Cya only laughs when Skids uncaps the glitter bottle and tosses it all over the both of them in a shimmering hazy cloud of lust and fairy dust.