Chapter Text
At first he didn’t see it. The blouse. The coffer.
Vague memories floated back: wanting to look at it, wear it, burn it. Apparently he’d done none of those things.
The blouse lay on the bed. The coffer stood open beside.
“What’s this, Victor?”
It begun with Lily. Victor needed to get her some proper clothes, not just his cast-offs. Knowing he’d need help to get all she’d need, he asked Ms Ives to accompany him. The world of women’s clothing was a fascinating mystery, entirely opaque to him.
Once outside the shop he almost regretted the decision to come. Stepping inside felt akin to taking a peek beneath a lady’s skirt – disrespectful, despite Victor having done the latter at several occasions in his profession.
“Honestly, doctor,” Ms Ives said. “This is the last thing I expected.”
Victor might have been a bit vague on the nature of the help he required.
“Yes, well…” The modiste’s door loomed above them. “What’s life without surprises?”
They stepped inside.
It wasn’t an instant thing. At first, he felt only deep uneasiness in the unfamiliar setting, stammering his way through explanations of what he had in mind. Then came mortification, as they were presumed to be husband and wife. Victor almost turned and left, wondering how he ever could have believed this to be a good idea.
But Ms Ives took him by the arm and led him further inside, teasing, prodding him with questions about the dresses displayed. And, despite himself, Victor began to take an interest in the alien world of lace and silk that surrounded them. Quite unlike a men’s tailor, every inch of the rooms seemed designed to invite touch. Victor found himself running his fingers over the shoulder of a deep brown day dress, tracing the texture of the brocade pattern while his eyes traced the lace at the neck.
Much later, he would wonder, had part of him always noticed these stores? Always been curious at what lay inside?
There was so much more work expended on a dress than on a jacket or waistcoat, much more flourish and artistic freedom. Ms Ives pulled out dress after dress, and most seemed too immodest, too brash for his delicate Lily, but all were beautiful. Ms Ives smiled and Victor blushed, trying to explain what he had in mind for his ‘cousin’.
Several such soft, lace-edged stores later, Victor had his arms full of parcels of soft skirts and blouses, stockings, shoes, undergarments and even a magazine of the latest fashions from the first store. He’d tried to choose the less expensive options, but it had still cost him more than he’d thought. But when Ms Ives bade him goodbye, he did not feel poorer.
He was spellbound by the sight of Lily in the dress he’d chosen. Had he been asked a month ago to describe the perfect woman, he could not have described one more beautiful than she. The love he felt was the purest, most transcendent feeling Victor had known.
He hemmed Lily’s skirts himself; he’d always been good with a needle. As a child, he’d enjoyed sitting in his mother’s lap, watching her create needlework. Once or twice, when his father wasn’t around, she’d let him put a few uneven stitches on her embroideries. She never took them out, but kept them, nestled among flowers and birds.
Then he’d learnt to suture skin and flesh, as well as live without his father’s money, mending and making do. So it seemed only natural to save a small sum and do the work himself, and he did it gladly. And if he enjoyed the work for its own sake, was that wrong?
Their life together was perfect until it was not. Something changed her. No, not something. Victor knew very well who had changed her: Dorian Gray. Turning her head and seeking to steal her heart with wealth Victor could never match.
He told himself that Lily wouldn’t fall for something as mundane as that. He spent hours waiting for her, and when the wait became unbearable he went to her small, curtained-off bedroom and picked up a blouse or a dress, just to have the scent of her for company.
It became a habit much like the morphine. He’d tell himself he was looking for holes to mend, but in fact he just sat there, running his fingers over the fabric. It took his mind off his heartache more efficiently than the needle ever could. The billowing skirts fell across his lap, covering his legs, leaving his feet to poke out from under it.
The idea came fully fledged into his mind, stilling him with its horrible, seductive clarity.
He couldn’t.
Could he?
He remembered picking out this skirt with Vanessa. It was one that Lily didn’t often wear, fine cotton, patterned in vertical stripes of light brown on white and meant for everyday use. It was its delicate pattern of small, pink roses which had caught his fancy.
Victor had seen it and had yearned to see Lily in it.
Hadn’t he?
The thought wouldn’t release him, his hands measuring now, judging the circumference of the skirt’s waist. Lily was so slender. But a skirt…
Maybe he never made a conscious decision. Perhaps he’d made it long before, and hidden it to himself beneath lies and evasions. Before he lost his nerve he rose, stepped into the skirt and pulled it up around his waist.
It wouldn’t quite close; the waist was too narrow, but he held it with one hand. The fabric fell heavily around his legs, feeling strange as he slowly walked to his narrow, not-quite-full length mirror.
He didn’t look like a woman. He looked like a man in a skirt, his shirt and braces ill-matched to the width of it. But if he squinted…
There was a slight tremor in his muscles as he let the skirt go to hang low on his hips. He very carefully didn’t think about what he was doing as he slid the braces off his shoulders. Pulling the skirt up again and watching himself through eyes narrowed almost to closing, he saw the shape of a woman in a skirt and blouse, though her hair was mannishly short.
A feeling fluttered in his stomach. Unnameable. Unknowable.
Undeniable.
Excitement perhaps. Or fascination. The sorrow of something lost. Something not unlike the consuming drive that fuelled his work.
But softer. More fragile. A feeling like spun glass, threatening to break into a thousand bleeding shards.
Victor moved, just a little, just to feel the fabric brush against his legs. There was a tremble in his heart, overflowing, infecting his limbs, making his teeth want to chatter.
The shiver stayed with him until long after he’d put the skirt back where he found it, until finally he silenced it with the prick of the needle.
The feeling didn’t leave him; it remained a burning itch in his bones. The memory of the mirror-image taunted him, revealing ugly truths about his own nature. Truths he wasn’t ready to face.
He took it out on Lily. Argued with her, berated her for her neglect of him.
She grew colder in return.
To add to Victor’s troubles, his creation, his demon, seemed to finally have grown tired of waiting for his bride. Now, when Victor was already losing her, the monster came after him, threatening his life and putting him in an impossible situation. How could he make Lily love ‘Mr Clare’, when he could barely make her love Victor himself?
Victor did the only thing he could, driven by the memory of the monster’s boot against his sternum. He fled. Left Lily behind. He tried to persuade her to go with him, but she wouldn’t listen. He told himself she would remember her love for him in his absence, that the distance would make her grow fonder. That she would wait for him, ready to forgive and be forgiven. And he had no choice, lest he prefer her to find him dead on the floor.
Sir Malcolm opened his house to Victor and Ms Ives greeted him like family, letting him in from the madness that had become his life. He was appreciated there, and at least some of his weakness was known and accepted.
Did it matter if his heart was too broken to let him fully engross himself in the mysteries they pursued? That it tore a little further with each crisis? That every day he cared a little less?
He sought Ms Ives’ company, her presence like a balm. His comforts were her and the needle and, late at night, the dog-eared magazine with the beautiful prints of fashionable ladies. Victor hated himself more every time he turned to the latter.
It was early morning and Victor had driven himself mad trying to fall back to sleep. He’d woken from a dream where Lily held him to her bosom and could not bear the silence of his own company any further. It was early, but he knew Ms Ives would be awake and likely not to mind his company. He knocked on her door, waiting for her call to enter.
What met him took him aback. Ms Ives was sat at her dressing table, hair down, and apparently just about to start her morning toilette, jars of cosmetics all around her.
“I’m sorry,” Victor muttered, flushing. “I’ll come back later.”
Her voice stopped him. “Nonsense. Come in, doctor.” Her eyes said she understood what drove him to seek company.
He took a chair next to her, watching her apply pale powder to her cheeks with something unnameable bubbling in his gut. He found himself committing the motions to memory with the same studiousness he’d applied to his anatomy classes.
“Did you never watch your mother do this?” There was humour in Vanessa’s voice.
Victor started. “No… She… I was too young.” He didn’t know if she even had worn makeup, having never entertained the thought that she could be anything but beautiful.
“No sisters?”
“No.”
Vanessa smiled at him though the mirror, one eye closed so that she could apply shadow to it. “Do you paint?”
“I draw. Or I used to.” It had become difficult recently, his hands no longer as steady as they’d been.
“This is very similar; you add colours and shadows, to emphasise or hide.” There was no humour in her demeanour now; she was simply explaining the procedure as if it was something he could reasonably have an interest in.
Victor was glad. Had there been any trace of mocking, he wouldn’t have been able to take in the sight of the small brush darkening her lashes. He was so absorbed that he almost missed her next question.
“I’m sorry?”
She turned fully around then, a mischievous glint in her eye. “When I was young, we used to do it with Peter.”
There was a hint of sorrow clinging to that name, and Victor remembered hearing of her close friendship with Sir Malcolm’s late son.
“He objected vehemently of course, but indulged us. And since you’ve never had sisters, I thought perhaps a bit of silliness might cheer you up.”
“I can’t…” It was too weak a protest and, to Victor’s horror, the mere suggestion made his heart flutter with desire to accept Ms Ives’ offer.
Perhaps she saw that. Perhaps her second-sight had given her a window into that darkest corner of Victor’s soul. She leaned closer, smile both mischievous and kind. “It’s just you and I here. And it will wash off without a trace.”
He protested a bit more, for prudence’s sake, but let himself be persuaded. Vanessa picked up a brush, whispering that he had lovely eyes and making him blush until his skin burned. Then she begun.
What Victor saw happen in the mirror could only be described as magic. She turned his skin white and smooth, softened his hollowed features and put health into his cheeks. She painted his eyelids, making his eyes larger and somehow bluer. Brushed his eyelashes into long, dark lace. Lastly, she ran her finger over his lips, making his stomach squirm and tinging his lips a pale pink.
Then she leaned back, leaving him frozen.
It wasn’t him. Though he had seen the transformation, the vision in the mirror couldn’t be him. That face was far too lovely, far too soft and feminine. It couldn’t be.
“Take it off,” Victor whispered, lowering his gaze as from the sun.
The sight hurt. It couldn’t be him. He could never be that.
“Victor?”
“Take it off!”
His heart cracked and bled. He stared at empty nothing as Vanessa cleaned the cosmetics from his face, leaving his skin raw beneath.
The horrors never ended. The witches, the sorcerous vision of his creations, Sembene’s death.
Victor needed to go home. Needed to see Lily. The true Lily, and not some twisted conjuration.
She was gone.
She had left him.
Victor cursed himself. Deep down he’d truly believed she would wait for him. He still believed she loved him, in truth. That Gray had only turned her head. There was no doubt in Victor’s mind where she was. With him. And Victor had no power to bring her back.
The only thing that remained to him was the needle.
Victor never remembered writing Henry, but suddenly there he was, stood outside Victor’s door as if just stepped out of memory. Beneath the crushing shame, Victor felt a small tendril of relief. Henry looked suspicious and bitter, but he would help Victor with what needed to be done. Neither Victor nor his flat was in any condition to entertain, but he did his best, showing Henry to the table, preparing tea.
“Is it love, or work?” Henry asked, his voice impassive as if he still withheld judgement.
“Both,” Victor murmured. His hands shook; his last injection was too long ago, and it took all his focus to put Henry’s cup on the table without spilling.
Henry caught his wrist, his grip like iron and his skin warmer than the cups. Shame flooded Victor as he realised Henry’s eyes were on the needle-marks, ugly, inflamed and marching up Victor’s arms. Henry’s fingers felt like brands as he lightly turned Victor’s hand over, examining the smaller pricks between his digits.
Victor pulled his hand away, and Henry let him go. He would have seen enough. He’d seen how far Victor had fallen, how little right he had to his former grand proclamations. How foolish he’d been to turn his back on Henry in the first place.
Oh, yes, Henry must feel very vindicated indeed.
But it changed nothing. Victor still needed him. He swallowed his pride and bared his soul. And, miraculously, Henry’s demeanour softened and he offered Victor salvation. A way to get Lily back.
Only one thing did Victor not share with Henry. He had seen the evidence of Victor’s addiction, and must be told of Lily, but he didn’t need to know of Victor’s deeper depravity. Ironically, Henry’s return to his life merely made that depravity grow.
Henry was too keen-eyed, and too averse to the morphine. Victor had no choice but to try to limit his usage. And with his mind clear in the empty hours, it turned to other things.
Lily had left some of her plainer clothes behind. A nightgown that still smelled like her, regrettably small. A blouse with a high collar that perhaps didn’t suit her new suitor’s taste. The light brown skirt with the roses. And Victor was weak.
It had started out as simply moving a button, simply seeing if the skirt could fit. Before he knew it, he was altering the shape of the blouse and taking detours home after seeing Henry, buying clothes for his ‘sisters’.
It was perhaps less strenuous on the body than narcotics, but twice as shameful and equally addictive.
At least it was easier to hide.
Before long he’d amassed a set of clothes for himself, including an ill-fitting corset and a pair of petticoats that turned his silhouette into something delicate. At last, with money he could ill-afford to waste, he bought powder and paint for his face. It was of far poorer quality than Vanessa’s but it did the job.
Victor felt a stab of guilt for having been a poor friend to her lately; he’d not visited in the weeks since Lily had left.
He had to take it slow, allow for his trembling hands and stop to carefully wipe away any pigment that went astray. He tried to disregard the creeping fear that the tremor might never get better, that his hands would never be steady enough for the scalpel again. He had only himself to blame. He focused on turning his lips faintly red, not too bright, just a little. The last touch.
When finally he was done it had taken a good portion of the evening, but the change was stunning. When he stepped in front of the mirror he felt… complete. As if he’d found a piece of himself that he’d never known was missing. Carefully, painstakingly dressed and painted like this he felt like a porcelain doll. The ridiculousness of the thought made him blush in embarrassment, but pleased him all the same. He felt precious. Delicate. And fragile. As if the illusion would shatter into a thousand pieces if he moved.
But he did. Turned and twisted in front of the glass, distantly aware of how ridiculous he looked, but completely absorbed by his own mirror-image.
Whenever Henry was busy and his door closed, Victor was as likely to turn to the coffer beneath his bed as the case that held his narcotics. The sleeves of the blouse were long and tight at the wrists, decorated with a row of white buttons. It felt somehow wrong to undo them and bare his marred and distinctly masculine arms, not to mention add more blemishes. It didn’t belong to this part of him.
So instead he’d turn to chores long neglected, restoring his apartment to something at least bordering on respectability. After all, if – when – Henry’s plan succeeded, Lily would be back and Victor didn’t want her to return to the chaos that had sprung up in her absence.
He resolutely didn’t think about what her return would mean for his new habit.
But he couldn’t dress up more than twice a week at most. Not when the price for getting caught would be so high. There would be no way of making himself respectable in a hurry, and he couldn’t risk Henry stopping by unexpectedly.
In the in-between days, it was harder to stay away from the needle.
And then: disaster.
It had been time. The serum that would return Lily to herself was ready. The sedative that would bring her to the lab had been in Victor’s hand. Lily had been in the room with him.
But the plan had failed, and Victor been near to losing his life in the process. As soon as he’d entered Gray’s manor, three garishly dressed women had sprung upon him with knives. Before he could properly recognise the threat, one of them had the blade to his throat.
And Lily had considered letting them kill him.
It had been Gray that had spoken up on Victor’s behalf.
Henry had been furious, his words sharp and stinging, his voice booming in his cavernous lab. Victor had already been hollow, already lost himself in the coldness of Lily’s voice. He left with Henry’s reproach ringing in his ears and his heart full of deep failure.
This had been his chance. He might not get another, now that Lily knew of his plans.
The morphine called to him, offering forgiveness and forgetfulness. It was what Victor deserved; the poison in his veins, rendering him useless. Erasing him, if only for a moment. He gave himself to it, fully.
He wasn’t quite sure of what time it was, or even where he was, just that there was a lot of noise and pain. With an effort he lifted his head.
It was bright. The bed was hard. No, the floor.
The floor was hard, sending dull pain through his ribcage. It was his floor. He was in the downstairs room; he recognised the underside of the table, the door.
Someone was pounding on it. Calling his name.
Finally, Victor recognised Henry’s voice.
With vague, panicky guilt he pushed himself off the floor. He nearly fell, muscles screaming and nausea roiling in his stomach. Somehow he got the door open.
Henry looked frustrated, but perhaps there was relief there too. Victor would have liked to think so.
“You didn’t come.” Henry pushed past Victor.
“You said not to come today.” Victor’s voice cracked. His tongue stuck to his gums.
Henry’s actual words had been ‘don’t bother showing up tomorrow, or for that matter at all if this is the best you can manage.’ And they’d not been so much spoken as shouted.
“I said not to come yesterday.” Henry looked at Victor, irritation beginning to turn into concern. “What have you been doing, Victor?”
His eyes flickered to Victor’s rolled-up sleeves and it was Victor’s turn to be annoyed.
“What else?” He turned away, not willing to see if Henry’s eyes filled with pity, or worse, disgust. He needed the wall for support as he shuffled over to the sink to get a glass of water. It did nothing for the headache developing behind his eyes.
Nor did Henry’s careful hand on his shoulder. “Do you often lose days?”
Victor swallowed his harsh reply, letting Henry draw his own conclusions. Besides, he had no defence. Apparently, a day had turned into two without his notice. Who knew how many others had?
Henry sighed, a sound that dripped with pity and resignation. “Come, old man. You’re going to bed.”
Victor was too weary to protest. The points of his body that had been pressed to the floorboards while he’d lain unconscious ached. His thoughts felt slow and distant. He let Henry lead him by the arm to his small bedroom, trying not to lean on him too much.
At first he didn’t see it. It was only when Henry stopped that Victor noticed.
The blouse. The coffer.
Vague memories floated back: wanting to look at it, wear it, burn it. Apparently he’d done none of those things.
The blouse lay on the bed. The coffer stood open beside.
“What’s this, Victor?”
Henry entered the room, leaving Victor at the threshold and picking the blouse up between thumb and forefinger. He turned, demeanour speaking of weariness, and again, pity. Then he saw Victor’s face and stilled, taking a second look at the coffer’s contents.
Victor must have looked guilty. Guilty, ashamed and terrified.
Only later did he realise that if he’d acted normal, Henry might have mistaken the clothes for Lily’s.
What he did was flee. He couldn’t bear it. Couldn’t stomach the thought of someone knowing, the panic of it drowning out anything else. He could think only of getting away, illogical as it was. He felt light-headed. Dread crawled down his throat, meeting the nausea of dawning withdrawal, with Victor as the loser in the clash.
He hit the floor hard, vomiting up a thin stream of water-mixed bile. His stomach wouldn’t stop convulsing, wouldn’t stop trying to expel the wrongness and sickness and addiction. Victor wished it could succeed.
Finally it seemed to accept that it was empty, and Victor became aware of Henry’s presence. He stood like a dark statue, face unreadable apart from his wide and startled eyes.
“Don’t say anything,” Victor mumbled, lowering his gaze and fumbling though his pockets for his handkerchief. “Please, Henry, I can’t hear it, just don’t say anything.” His face was covered in sick and tears and mucus. He folded his chin to his chest, hiding in the only way that remained to him. “Just go, please go.” This time Henry would not return, not ever, and Victor still couldn’t find his handkerchief. Couldn’t keep track of even that. “Please, Henry.”
A square of fabric landed next to Victor’s hand, white and immaculate.
“I take it it’s yours.” Henry’s voice was as reserved as the first time he’d walked into this room. It was clear he wasn’t talking about the handkerchief.
Victor took it with shaking hands. “Please, don’t.” If he could have run he would, but he felt weak and feverish.
Broken.
Small.
A pause. Then Henry’s footsteps across the floor. The door opening.
Closing.