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“This is a bad idea,” Ford thinks to himself as he looks in the mirror, having to clasp his hands together to stop their insistent trembling. It hadn’t sunk in until just now, what he’s doing– the anxiety he thought would dissipate as soon as he finished dressing remains a hard ball of lead in his stomach, bubbling up like bile in the back of his throat. He can barely bring himself to look at his own face in the mirror, as if his reflection will narrow its eyes and scoff at him in disgust if he dares meet its eyes. He closes them instead and takes a deep, supposed-to-be-calming breath, doing his best to clear his head of all the nervous thoughts racing through it, before opening his eyes once more to look at himself with a fresh perspective.
Standing alone in his tiny, suffocating dorm room, Ford is dressed in women’s clothing, with a plan to go out in public like this.
This, the crossdressing– Ford has to take another deep breath at the word, even if only spoken in his own mind– it’s not a new thing. For the past few months, he’s been building up a small collection of various articles of clothing from the women’s sections at the shops, buying one item at a time and hiding it amongst his regular haul, shoving it as deep as it will go into the carry-out bags before he leaves with it. If anybody were to ask, which they never did, he’d have an excuse at the ready– “it’s for my girlfriend/girl friend,” he would’ve said, then tried not to be more embarrassed by the idea that a girl could like him. Once he makes it back to the dorms, he takes the regular items out and hides the remaining ones in an old, used cardboard box under his bed, unable to even look at what he’s wasted his money on.
Not until Thursday comes, the one day of the week he has a good chunk of free time carved out between classes and his roommate will be out with his girlfriend, far from him. When that time comes, his secret shame is brought back into the open, and he dresses himself up like a little kid on Halloween, pretending for just a few hours to be something he’s not.
Typically, he’ll just hang around in the dorm in the clothing, do his usual studying, only now with the advent of a long skirt flowing from around his waist, tickling his ankles when he moves. Other times, though, he’ll do exactly what he’s doing now– just stare at himself in the mirror and observe the costume he’s put together, the persona he’s created.
He’s essentially built the same type of outfit he already wears on a daily basis, just a little more… flow-y. He’s wearing a simple blouse that’s loose in the sleeves instead of his typical men’s button-down, paired with a pair of corduroy pants that flare out at the bottom, and almost resemble a skirt if he stands still with his legs together. Overtop his blouse, he threw one of his comfy sweater vests, one that fits just tight enough to accentuate the padding against his chest without it being too obvious that it’s not real– it took multiple attempts to get the stuffing of the bra to look even mildly natural, and when it finally did, he was dissatisfied. He wanted them to be bigger, to fit his frame better, but the more he tried, the worse it looked, and the more perverted he felt– hell, he already felt like the world’s biggest creep just buying the damn undergarment.
The last few months, he’s also been letting his hair grow out– which wasn’t an intentional decision, mostly just out of a lack of time and care, but it certainly works out for him now. It’s not suspiciously long, just enough so that it reasonably passes for feminine when coupled with the outfit, especially when paired with a headband that luckily matches the color of his sweater– Fiddleford’s girlfriend gave it to him when she noticed his newly long hair kept getting in his eyes while he studied (she had also called him cute with it on, and at first he thought she was making fun of him, but Fiddleford echoed the sentiment earnestly before shifting the topic to a particularly difficult question on his assignment). It’s not perfect, but it looks as good as he could make it, really. Turning his head from side to side, he looks over his reflection, at the hard lines of his face that seem to soften when framed by his curls.
He looks… pretty.
He ignores the way his throat closes at the thought, and does his breathing exercise again– takes a deep breath, then another, then grabs his coat from where it lies over the edge of his bed and throws it on. It almost completely covers the outfit, and when he props the hood over his head, carefully, so as to not disturb his hair, it obscures his face in shadow. The first step in his plan is to get out of the dorms and onto the bus without anybody recognizing him. It’s why he couldn’t wear one of the skirts or dresses for this, since it would be immediately obvious to anybody who saw his face his identity, and his secret– with the help of a coat, at worst they would see his face and assume the cold had gotten to him.
Approaching the door, the pit in his stomach grows deeper, like his certain doom waits on the other side. Merely touching the handle sends a shiver through his body and leaves him wondering, is he really about to do this? Would it not be so much easier to just lay back down in his bed, bask in the feeling of his leg hair poking through a pair of tights, and ignore the longing that burns a hole in his chest when he thinks of being a beautiful woman?
It would be, he thinks– knows. But when has Stanford Pines ever taken the easy route?
Ford takes a deep breath, steels himself, and steps out into the hall.
The walk to the bus stop and the subsequent bus rides are luckily uneventful, nobody even throwing a sidelong glance his way– nobody he can see, at least. Nobody stands up, points him out and calls attention to him, to what he’s wearing, exposes him for what he really is (“And what is that?” A voice in his head asks. He doesn’t answer). It takes three rides and a good amount of walking, pondering the feasibility of robust public transport in a place like Indiana, before he finally reaches his destination– a shopping center just outside town, just far enough from campus that it would be unreasonable to expect someone from one of his high level classes to be wasting their precious free time all the way out here. Hell, he only knows the place from trying to find an older version of DDnMD for novelty’s sake at their hobby shop.
A warm blast of air greets him as he steps inside, satisfying, but certainly going to work up a sweat if he doesn’t take off his coat– he carefully folds it and drapes it over his arm, hiding his other hand underneath the fabric and curling his free hand into a fist, effectively hiding his hands as casually as one can without putting their hands in their nonexistent pockets (speaking of which, he has quite the bone to pick with women’s fashion designers about these damn pockets, but that’s a tirade for another time). He takes another breath as he looks around, wondering if he should’ve had a plan for where to go instead of just winging it.
Well, he knows he wants to check the hobby shop again for, quite frankly, anything relating to the sci-fi tabletop game Emma-May told him about the other day, so he heads off in that direction, keeping an eye on the shops he passes just in case one of them catches his fancy.
And one of them does, as he notices that one of the storefronts, a hippie place befitting of his only friends on campus, has a series of leather-bound journals with beautiful designs punched into the covers on display, next to a few sets of pointed crystal formations he might be interested in as well. He veers off his path and steps inside, not having to go very far before he can run his fingers over the brown leather and silently judge the craftsmanship. They’re well-made, though, so his desire to make fun of something in his head is reserved instead of the obviously dyed crystals– or should he say glass? Hell, half of these look like acrylic! And none of them are natural formations, arguably the most interesting part of mineralogy. Disappointing, alongside the fact the journals are grossly overpriced– he could make his own for less. Perhaps there’s a craft store somewhere along the way, and he can prove it, he decides.
Being a shopping center, there’s quite a lot to explore, even if more than half of them aren’t interesting to him– he steps into a few of them anyway, just to take a look. There’s a hair supply store he considers, but when he gets close, the chemical smell is overwhelming, and he has to turn away– he’ll stick to unscented 2-in-1. He didn’t intend to buy anything at the candy store, but a bag of sour flavored jelly beans calls to him, and he is a weak man who cannot resist. Not only that, but he surrenders to exploring a clothing shop he normally wouldn’t even glance at, and finds an adorable pair of brown adult-sized Mary Janes. He can imagine wearing them with white socks, or perhaps a pair of black pantyhose, able to maintain his formal academic (or nerdy, as some would say) style while still looking and feeling pretty. The tiny heel would make him taller, perhaps let his height rival that of Fiddleford’s, he thinks smugly. They’re also a fair price for what they are, and he decides that it’s worth the money, even if he’s only ever going to wear them in the comfort of his dorm (unless he were to do this again…).
The hardest part, though, is whenever he has to talk to somebody. He can just smile and shake his head when the lady at the clothing store approaches and asks if he needs help as he compares the size of one of the display shoes to his own, but the cashiers are difficult because he has to talk to them, can’t just nod his way through it. He’s never practiced a more feminine voice, so he must sound ridiculous to them when he attempts, but they’re kind enough to not say a thing or react that way if he does– he still wonders if they know, if he’s given himself away by speaking. He always hurries out of the stores once he’s gotten his items, just in case.
Aside from that, though, it’s actually quite… nice. As a child, he dreamed of a place where nobody knew him, where his name was never spoken and nobody ever learned enough about him to call him a freak. He just expected fewer children on a school night and pizza smells.
By the time he gets to the hobby shop and realizes they have nothing he’s looking for (though the man sorting trading cards behind the counter is kind when he suggests they stock up on the game in question), his bag is a little heavy hanging from his hand, and his stomach feels quite light. When in Rome, you do as Romans do, and when you’re at the mall, you eat cheap food court cuisine. Though, frankly, all the food is quite messy, and he doesn’t want to get his special clothes dirty, so he settles on a coffee shop stall with a few pastries on display.
By this point, he’s settled on a voice that still feels like his while sounding like hers– the persona, he means– so he’s a little more confident asking the man behind the counter for a sugary drink and a chocolate croissant. The man nods with a smile and uses a pair of tongs to grab the pastry in question, while Ford pulls his remaining cash out of his coat’s pocket and places it on the counter. The man bags the pastry and grabs a paper coffee cup and a pen.
“Name for the order?” he asks.
“Nikola.”
Is it… wrong, to have picked out a name for this? To have thought about such a thing? No, no, it was inevitable that on this adventure, someone would ask for a name. He’s simply being prepared.
The man hums. “Pretty name,” he says, and Ford is holding himself back from explaining where he got it when he continues, “Fitting for a pretty girl like yourself.”
Ford freezes. He’s… holy shit. His face flushes and he swears he can feel his heartbeat quicken when he looks up and the man is smiling at him, leaning forward just a little bit– flirting with him.
No– he’s flirting with her. With Nikola. Because she’s a girl– but she’s not just a girl, she’s a pretty girl, a girl worthy of being complimented, of being flirted with, of perhaps even being asked out(?!). Stanford was never any of those things, boy or not.
“Oh,” Ford stutters out, unsure of how to respond. He places his free hand on his cheek, feeling the heat radiating from under his skin. A little embarrassed laugh stutters out of his chest, reflexive, but reminiscent of the reactions Stanley used to get when he told girls those horrible pick-up lines of his– is this how they felt? “Um–”
The man’s face changes, twisting with confusion– the kind that Ford is all too familiar with. Ford’s confused for a moment before realizing– his hand. He’s not hiding his hands.
Panicking, Ford hastily grabs his bag, stutters out a thanks before turning and leaving in a rush. He doesn’t even realize he didn’t get his coffee until he’s at the nearest bus stop, putting his coat back on and muttering to himself that this was a mistake. He was so caught up in hiding his six fingers so that nobody could identify him, that he forgot the reason he usually hides them. That man is probably grateful he dodged that bullet. He’s going to go back to all of his friends and tell them about the girl with six fingers he met today.
(“The girl,” that voice in his head, one he now recognizes as hers, echoes, almost mockingly).
The rides back to campus and the walk of shame back to his dorm are miserable. As soon as he shuts the door behind him and locks himself in his dorm, he hurriedly strips himself out of these clothes that used to be freeing, but now feel suffocating. As he shoves the clothes haphazardly back under his bed and grabs his pajamas to replace them, he berates himself for thinking that he could do this, for thinking that it would be okay– for thinking that it wasn’t just confirming exactly what he didn’t want to know.
He knows why the clothes made him feel so good. He knows why he wants to grow his hair out long. He knows why he had a name prepared in advance. He knows why he wanted to go out and be somebody else, and why that somebody else had to be a woman. He’s known for a long time now.
Every day since he made the realization, he’s felt like something was wrong with him. He thought that maybe doing something about it would show him why it had to be something else, why this must just be an extension of the regular shame and self-hatred he's felt since he was a little boy getting run away from on the playground.
Today, something was right.
And it was the one thing that couldn’t be.
Still shaking as he pulls the thick, oversized university hoodie over himself to hide the body that’s betrayed him in more ways than one, Ford sits at his desk and focuses all his attention, all of his racing thoughts on his physics homework.