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Doc had bitched and moaned about trading in his girly crop tops and butterfly clips for a respectable leather jacket and some hair gel, but honestly, he'd adjusted just fine. He looked like any other lanky gearhead at the auto show; the slicked-back hair and Donald’s pair of brown boots were as natural on him as the fucking tutus he sometimes prances around in when Mendez swings by for a booty call.
At first, Donald was just pleased Doc was acting normal and not making a scene, but by the time they leave two hours later, he’s starting to get a little creeped out. Maybe he’s just gotten so used to Doc gesticulating wildly when he gets excited and the easy, sashaying sway of his hips when he moves that the squared-shoulder posture and more deliberate gait look weird in comparison.
He’s all splayed out on the drive back too, legs spread wide like they usually aren’t. For a moment Donald wonders if he’s mirroring him, before he remembers, with a thrum of unease, that Doc was in the army, same as him. That’s where Donald learned how to embody the kind of man people really respect – Doc probably did, too.
It’s sometimes easy to forget they’re the same person with the same past in so many particulars when Doc spends most of his time decked out in sparkly jewelry and pretty clothes. It’s harder to forget it when the corner of Doc’s mouth is curved into an absent half-sneer, and he’s leaning back in his seat like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
Soon as they’re home, Doc’s shrugging out of his jacket and stalking across the living room to his bedroom in a few loping, heavy strides. After a brief consideration, Donald kicks off his shoes and pads after him.
He slips in to find Doc studying himself in front of his floor-length mirror. He doesn’t react to Donald entering, but in the reflection Doc’s eyes cut towards him and then away again. Doc runs a bionic finger along the tan collar of the undershirt Donald had picked for him, something complicated playing across his face.
“Haven’t butched up like this in a good long while,” Doc says finally.
Donald’s not sure if he’s addressing him or talking to himself. Normally he blows Doc off when he’s being weird, but for some reason he thinks back to this morning, when he’d exasperatedly begged Doc not to embarrass him at the auto show. A tug of guilt has him awkwardly shuffling closer.
“You look good,” he promises him. “Handsome.”
Doc doesn’t immediately respond, and Donald has to swallow back the childish urge to ask if he’s mad at him.
Doc finally meets his eyes in the mirror. “Y’really think so?”
It sounds like a rhetorical question. It’s a little sharp, and more than a little disbelieving. Luckily, he doesn't wait for an answer. He turns around and smiles at Donald wryly. “Your turn, cowboy.”
“’Scuse me?”
“C’mon, darlin’,” Doc coos. His eyes are bright and mischievous, so much like Donald’s used to that it’s like a spell breaking. He’s so relieved he’s not even upset when Doc adds, “I played G.I. Joe for you. Now you owe me.”
Donald’s starting to piece together where Doc’s going with this, and he scowls. “It ain’t the same.”
“You’re right,” Doc drawls. “I ain’t gonna make you parade ’round in public. An’ don’t worry. I’ll give ya some good options.”
“Fuck you, I don’t do that shit.”
“No?” Doc cocks an eyebrow. “Funny, ’cause I know we talked ’bout all those sleepovers we had with Emily when her ma was outta town. She an’ I got dolled up more times than I could care to count.” He tsks reproachfully. “You tryin’ to tell me that never happened with y’all?”
Donald’s face heats. “That was different.” It was about fifteen fucking years ago, for starters, back when Donald was lighter than Doc is now. He’d hated how pretty he’d been, wide-eyed, full-lipped, and androgynous enough that it’d sometimes been a problem, but at least the skirts and lipsticks had looked sort of right. Now…
Doc waves a dismissive hand. “Hey, if ya wanna pussy out, be my guest.”
Donald knows what he’s doing, but it doesn’t stop it from working. He rubs his temple. “Mendez comin’ by?” he asks gruffly.
He doesn’t like that he’s disappointed when Doc shakes his head. He’s glad nobody else is gonna see him, but he’s always been kind of jealous of how gently reverent Mendez gets when Doc’s all femmed up, touching him like he’s handling the most fragile, precious piece of glass.
“Just you ’n me.”
Donald glances at his reflection. The beard immediately demands his attention. It would look so fucking absurd paired against a dress.
“Gimme an hour.”
The bathroom in the basement that’s been Donald’s de facto apartment for the last two months is actually pretty fancy. It’s got a big, baroque-style mirror hanging over the faux-marble sink, and a sinfully deep bathtub. He’s discovered, somewhat to his dismay, how much he likes unwinding in the tub, up to his chest in hot water, reading and sipping some of Doc’s herbal tea.
He shaves his face, making sure to get it close enough that there’s not even the hint of stubble. As lithe and waxed as he keeps himself, Doc can pull off the fruity clothes he wears. Donald already knows he’s gonna feel ridiculous next to him, but there’s no way he’s gonna risk the shadow of a beard on his face making it worse than it has to be.
He rubs lotion over his cheeks. He watches his reflection do the same. Without the beard, it’s easier to see how much he looks like Doc, or how much Doc looks like him: the high cheekbones, the faint softness of his mouth.
He admires himself, slowly tracing the curve of his lips. He doesn’t mind it as much as he thought he might. He’s gonna grow it back out after this – clean-shaven works better on Doc than it does on him, but it can’t hurt to enjoy it while it lasts.
Maybe that’s the reason he hops in the tub with the razor and shaves his legs next. He’s never done this before and he’s a little clumsy with it: nicks himself once or twice, but the process is kind of calming. By the time he’s done there’s a haze of fine, golden-brown hairs floating on the surface of the water, and none on his legs.
He rubs his calves together experimentally as he towels off, and a thrill goes through his belly at the sleek smoothness of the hairless skin. Shit, he’s not at all surprised why girls do this – it kinda feels fucking awesome.
He doesn’t bother with anything more than a pair of boxers as he heads upstairs. Doc’s just gonna make him strip down anyway.
Doc’s waiting for him in his room, sprawled out on his belly and grinning as he texts someone. Soon as he sees Donald, he pushes his phone away and bounces out of the bed. His hair’s freshly washed and he’s wearing a pair of booty-shorts and a ripped band tee that make him look like some 19-year-old’s idea of a cool girl. He looks like himself again.
He beams when he sees Donald. “Aw, don’t you look pretty as a picture.”
Donald ignores the glow of pleasure that flares through him at the compliment. He rolls his eyes. “Look. M’here. Tell me what I gotta do to get’cha off my ass.”
Doc laughs and darts in to press a quick, innocent kiss to his cheek before he dances towards his closet. “Got a couple I think might suit ya,” he says over his shoulder.
Donald folds his arms over his chest as he waits for him, and a minute later Doc’s returning triumphantly with two dress hangers dangling off his wrist.
He lays them on the bed. One is a pastel blue sundress, like the kind Emily used to wear in the summer: sleeveless, with a tight-fitted bodice and a looser, pleated skirt. The other’s a more conservative black knit, form-fitting in a way that would be hot on a girl, and maybe Doc.
“Most of my stuff prolly won’t fit,” Doc says apologetically.
Donald knows it’s not meant to be mean, but a cold wash of shame still rolls through him. It’s stupid that he cares – he’s glad that he’s not a weak twig like Doc. It’s only–
“Whaddya think?”
Donald told him he’d play along, so he leans in and investigatively runs the fabric between his fingers. He’s always liked how much softer women’s clothing is. The blue dress is a little starchier, but the black one is some kinda woolen material that feels downright silken against his skin.
“I can pull out more options,” Doc offers. “Got a couple others that might be good if these ain’t up your alley.”
“Nah, it’s fine.”
He picks up the black one. It feels like the safe choice. Back when he was a teen he used to gravitate towards the brightest dresses in Emily’s closet, the ones with the silky ribbons and lace sleeves and bold colors. Guess he’s not as brave as he used to be.
“That one?” Doc sounds a little excited. He’s enjoying this far more than he should be. He grins so big when Donald reluctantly nods. “Ooh, you’re gonna look awesome.”
“We’ll see ’bout that,” Donald mutters, but he sort of hopes Doc’s right.
Donald’s never really felt the need for privacy from his own doppelgänger before, but he actually wishes he had some now. He retreats from the merciless gaze of the mirror as he tugs the dress over his head, grateful there aren’t any zippers or complicated straps to fumble with.
The dress is a little tight around the torso, although it's stretchy enough not to feel constricting. It’s looser around the arms and lower body, and the skirt swishes pleasantly as he obligingly does a 360 when Doc spins his finger. He’s suddenly glad he decided to shave his legs; not only would it’ve ruined his mood to look down and see two hairy calves poking out from under the skirt, the feeling of the fabric against his smooth thighs feels fucking incredible.
Doc claps his hands delightedly. “Aw, don’t you look good enough to eat in one bite!” Somehow, Donald just knows that’s a Mendez line, something Doc’s boyfriend’s probably purred right before a brutal fucking, and he shivers.
If Doc notices, he moves past it. “Got this last Halloween for a witch costume I did,” he chatters on. “All very goth. Black lipstick, black boots, the works.” He rakes his gaze up and down the outfit. “You fill it out better’n I did. How d’ya like it?”
Donald chances a look in the mirror. Yeah, it’s not as bad as he’d feared. He doesn’t look cartoonish, at least, which is saying something. It’s mostly just a solid black dress, form fitting around the chest, loose below. It gives him the suggestion of tits in a way he’d probably be less keen on if he wasn’t play-acting a girl, and the skirt flares out nicely over the ass he doesn’t actually have.
“Don’t mind the shape,” he hedges. “But it’s, uh, kinda plain.”
“We can fix that.”
Doc does to his shoe rack first, and after a brief hesitation skims past a pair of chunky black boots that were probably the ones accompanying this dress last Halloween.
“I think you’re a more delicate girl than I was,” Doc says as he selects a pair of ballet flats instead. He winks at the look on Donald’s face as he hands them over. “At least tonight.”
“’S that so?” But Donald guesses he must be, ’cause he slips them right on his feet, and sits primly on the edge of the bed as Doc goes to his jewelry box next.
He fishes out some costume jewelry, and quickly polishes it off with the hem of his shirt before he brings it over to show Donald. He’s got a pair of dangly clip-on earrings set with fake rubies, and a big gold cuff bracelet.
“’Member all the stuff Emily’s ma had?”
Donald laughs as Doc snaps on the earrings, his lobes pinching with a familiar, nostalgic discomfort. “’Course. She had so much shit. Didn’t even matter it was all fake.”
“Emily an’ I used to pretend we was princesses in hiding.” Doc snickers. “Like, the story always changed, but it was usually us getting sent to bumfuck, USA to safeguard the kingdom or some shit. Y’all ever play that game?”
“Nah. But we did have tea parties with her ma’s fine china and my stepdad’s shitty beer. Pretended to be old timey movie starlets at some ritzy event. Never stopped being paranoid her ma would walk in and catch us, though.”
“Ain’t nobody here but us,” Doc says firmly, and it does help, just a little.
Doc tells him he’s gonna dab on a little makeup, and Donald agrees once he gets him to promise he won’t do anything too crazy. He obediently closes his eyes as Doc swipes on the mascara, and feels silly as he pouts his lips for the lip balm.
“I think you’re done!” Doc tugs him up and puts his hands on his shoulders to steer him back towards the mirror. “How’s that? Better?”
Donald warily checks himself out. Ms. Harrison’s method of gussying up a bland outfit does the trick. Real or not, the earrings glimmer alluringly as he turns his head, and the makeup Doc applied is subtle enough to be pretty without looking like bad drag.
All things considered, he's pleasantly surprised. He's not as slender as he used to be, but the makeup, the jewelry, and the forgivingly low light in Doc's bedroom all contribute to him thinking he's pretty enough to pull off the dress.
Doc circles his arms around Donald’s waist and rests his chin on his shoulder. He smiles at him coyly in the mirror. “If you’re wonderin’. Diego would go fuckin’ feral if he saw ya.” He grins wider when Donald sucks in a sharp, startled breath. “Hell I’m goin’ a li’l feral for you.”
He jumps as Doc suddenly squeezes his ass. Doc only flutters his eyelashes innocently when Donald whirls around to fix him with a dirty look.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” he drawls. “Can’t help myself ’round somethin’ so pretty.”
He grabs Donald’s hips and hauls him close. Donald always forgets how strong Doc is – benefits of lugging around heavy machinery – and he thinks he might hate it if it were almost anyone else. Doc starts to walk backwards, dragging both of them to his bed, and when he’s there he spins them around deftly and drops to the mattress. Now Donald’s flat on his back, and on top of him, Doc grins like he won something.
“This how it’s gonna be?” Donald asks breathlessly. “You make me the girl, an’ you get t’be the boy, that it?”
Doc’s hair curtains around his face, and he pushes a lock behind his ear. His blue eyes sparkle with a humor that doesn’t look even a little mocking. “Maybe.”
He pauses for a second, like he’s seeing if Donald’s gonna try to wriggle free, and when he doesn’t he slowly slides his hand up Donald’s thigh, caressing the smooth skin.
Donald wraps his legs around Doc’s waist. It feels like the sort of thing a girl wearing this kind of dress would do with the boy who took her to bed.
Doc leans down to nibble kisses along Donald’s neck and jaw, making him moan.
“So fuckin’ pretty,” Doc breathes. “Just gotta have you, baby.” His fingers dig into Donald’s thigh just hard enough to dimple the skin. “But pretty girls get to pick. How d’ya wanna be treated, sweetheart?”
It’s always easy to ask for things when it’s Doc.
“Carefully,” he says, because he’s a delicate girl tonight, and when Doc smiles down at him so sweetly and fondly, he knows he agrees.