Work Text:
"Frank?" Betty says, from the other side of the bathroom door. "You can come out. It's alright, it's only me."
Frank Spencer adjusts his dress for what must be the hundredth time, smoothing his palms over the soft pink fabric, trying very hard not to end up with his fingers tangling nervously in the folds of his skirt. That wouldn't be very ladylike.
He can manage, if he keeps his eyes on the dress. The dress is beautiful. But when he looks up, meeting his own terrified gaze in the mirror, he is still only Frank Spencer: poor and clumsy and generally useless, and he doesn't know what his wife sees in him, let alone why she would ever want to see him in a dress. Not in a pantomime, but in their home, in their bedroom, without pretense.
Frank swallows convulsively, and raises one of his hands to his lips, nervously placing one of his knuckles between his teeth.
"Frank," Betty's voice comes again, softly. "You don't have to do this. If you don't want to. If you're not comf–"
"I want to!" Frank interrupts, a little too loudly. He winces, then steels himself, squaring his shoulders as he regards himself in the mirror. "I'm a man," he says, somewhat incongruously, and before he can lose his nerve, unlocks and opens the door, stumbling slightly as he steps out into the bedroom.
Betty beams at him, looking positively pleased as punch.
"Oh, Frank," she says softly. "How well you look! Here, give us a spin, darling!"
Frank feels his skin go as pink as his dress, and something inside him gives an odd sort of lurch, but he spins, and as the fabric of the skirt gently flares out around his legs, he finds that he cannot stop smiling.