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Deimos is a smart guy, y’know. He might be a clone but he’s not a completely sheltered moron. He does his job, he blends in with the crowd, he thinks about joining the 1337 squad.
But then he met Sanford, after the latter was brought in. He’s not sure who put “ugly” on the man’s wanted poster—he was one of the most captivating people he’d seen.
Different too. He knew that queer people existed—he did have the internet, after all—but he’d never met one. Sanford was so… confident. He wore his scars with pride, and he rarely saw the dude wearing a shirt—even on missions, the man refused a shirt, leaving his muscles and scars to flex and gleam as he ripped and tore his way through the AAHW agents he used to call coworkers. Sweat rolling down his spine, trailing down to meet soft plump-
Khm. Don’t know where that one came from. He just thinks the guy is cool. The back tattoo is cool, that’s all that caught his attention. It’s not his fault the thing draws the eyes downward! He wants the see the full piece, that’s the only reason why he wants to tear those bandages off to reveal the man’s hips. And body.
He meets others like Sanford too, once they join SQ. Soft voices, strong bodies, scars and stitching twisting bodies to forms he never would have even known possible. Hank showers alone, but Deimos has “done enough research” to know what phalloplasty scars look like. Even Doc has scars—Hank jokes that they look like a cat walked across his belly, leaving claw marks in its wake. He’s captivated by it all. Despite having so many different features, they all have one thing in common—he’s just an outsider.
Y’know, this isn’t important. I mean, he’s a mercenary. He’s a man, with the muscles and body to match. He’s got better things to worry about. He’s extremely secure in who he is.
When he dreams, he thinks of twisting tattoos, scarred abdomens, soft voices, and he wakes with a yearning he can’t understand.
He tries to prove himself to himself again and again, even as Hank laughs at his obsession with the gym, with extra hours at the shooting range. He sees how his muscles grow in appreciation of his efforts, and it’s not enough.
One time, Hank emerges from his post-mission shower wearing a skirt instead of pants. Doc and Sanford chuckle and he cracks a femboy joke, but there’s a fire inside of him now.
When Hank leaves the next day, he cracks the door, picking the skirt off the floor. Something in him begs him to put it on.
He spends the rest of the day in the gym.
He feels weak. He feels small. He sees how soft Sanford looks the few times the man wears a sweater, the delicacy Doc carries like a weapon when it’s got on stockings. How even the Nevadean beast will wear nail polish, to “feel a little pretty.”
He wishes he could feel pretty. At some point, he’s started sharing a bed with Sanford. At some point, they’re kissing, and he feels like it’s filled a piece of him that he never realized was missing. At some point, Sanford’s riding him and it’s heaven, but something’s missing still. Sanford praises his manhood with his words and his body, and acid burns his throat.
He feels he will never look this way. He will never be able to look this way. He will only ever look bulky, and blocky, and ungainly, and hairy, and ugly.
He hates himself.
He’s shot in the back, and he survives literal hell. He’s rebuilt and shattered into a new man, a man that’s all sharp edges and jagged pieces.
He’s strong. He went to practice on his punching bag, and accidentally put a fist clean through the thing.
He’s so
completely
devastated.
Even Sanford—light of his life, his other half, is at a loss for this new side of Deimos. The one that cracks far less jokes, that snaps when people get too close, that hides away to drink (now that smoking is unavailable). When asked, Doc snorts that it’s Deimos’s job to sort it out. Hank buys a carton of 11 eggs, saying the 12th is in Deimos’s room drinking. He earns a smack with a rolled-up magazine from 2B for that one.
Deimos takes on more and more missions. While showering after a supply run, Hank has his fun, and Deimos returns to find his wardrobe
changed.
His hands shake as he stares into the closet. He’s not sure why. His pants are gone. It’s all skirts, delicate laces, flowery undergarments, stockings and soft socks and hoodies with delicate fuzz lining the hoods. After nearly beating Hank senseless, he manages to at least recover his underwear. Outside of his locked door, he hears 2B scolding a not-at-all repentant Hank.
He’s alone in the dark now, and the dress in the back of the closet is now in his hands. Soft fabric in gentle spring colors flows through his hands, the cool cotton felt dully through the stone.
It’s a beautiful little thing.
He wants to feel beautiful.
He’ll never be beautiful. He’s too far gone to ever be beautiful.
His chest squeezes and he throws it away from him, curling his knees to his chest and letting the tears finally roll down his cheeks.
At some point, his love is with him, a hand gently rubbing his back as sobs tear through his very soul, the strong and capable hands gently wiping tears off his cheeks.
“Do you want to try it on?”
He’s too ugly. He’s too misshapen, he’s-
Sanford kisses him.
He nods numbly.
The dress hugs his body, and he feels at home. He stares into the closet mirror.
He looks…
Sanford twirls his finger, a smile on his face, and he does a little spin. His heart twirls and soars, and tears glitter in his eyelashes.
He feels…
Sanford comes up behind him, wrapping his arms around his waist.
“You look beautiful.”
He giggles wetly, pulling Sanford in for a kiss.
They fall asleep. He forgets to take the dress off. Doc and Hank slip in through the unlocked door.
“I can’t believe he ruined a perfectly good sundress by wearing panties.”
2B smacks Hank over the head again, but spares a smile for the sleeping pair.