gunpowdergelatine | (no subject)

(no subject)

The biggest couch by the fire is occupied.

The person sprawling there is wearing a purple velvet dress with short puffed sleeves and a long, heavy skirt. A rather attractive pair of feet, in sheer black stockings, are crossed at the ankle and propped up on one arm of the couch; the head leaning against the other arm has shoulder-length brown curls streaked with fading green, tucked back behind one ear to reveal a small pearl earring. No makeup. A glass of whiskey in one hand, a small bag of jelly beans in the other, and a pair of black shoes with low wedge heels perched on a couch cushion beside the feet they presumably came off of.

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"Nice dress," comments a grinning young man on his way towards the hearth.

Come on, like he can't recognize a drag queen at thirty paces. Tony likes drag queens, even the bitchy ones; he's only been picked up by one once, but he's partied with them before, and those girls know how to have fun.

"Thanks," cheerful, friendly.

"There a show tonight or somethin'?"

"Nah." A grin. "It's just, y'know... mmme."

"--Oh."

Whoops. Did he call drag queen and actually get trans? Awkward.

"Well, uh. You look really nice."

"Thank you," says the indeterminately gendered stranger with a flutter of eyelashes, setting the glass down on a table beside the couch and smoothing that hand down the bodice of the dress. "Made it myself."

"No shit?"

"No shit. Why, you want one?"

Tony wrinkles his nose.

"I ain't got the legs for drag."

(This is totally not true, for the record, but Tony thinks it is.)

For this, the seamstress actually sits up, holding the bag of jelly beans against nonexistent cleavage to balance it and leaning over to peer at Tony's legs.

"The fuck you don't," is the conclusion.

"Well, okay, but if I tried to walk in heels I'd die."

"So skip the heels."

"What's the point of doing drag if you ain't wearing heels?"

"Becaaaaaause it's fun?"

In no reasonable universe should that word be that long, or go up and down that many times.

. . . Is he or she high?

Tony gives the fabulous person a sidelong glance.

He or she laughs. Unhelpfully.

"If you say so," he tries.

"It's the best reason to do anything, isn't it? It's definitely why I dress like this."

"Best reason to do anything is 'cause you're getting paid," Tony says with a sardonic grin.

"Ahhh." A finger lifts. "You do have a point there, my friend. But," leaning forward, voice dropping conspiratorially, "what is money for, if not - fun?"

Promptly: "Food."

A laugh.

"Mm, I've been there." Casually: "I'm dead now, though, so it matters less."

"Oh, another dead guy?"

"What, you know a lot of us or something?"

"Well, at least one."

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