Work Text:
Miranda almost doesn’t recognise Max when he steps out of the changing room. She supposes that’s a good thing, given he’s undercover. They’ve worn some outrageous outfits for these things before, memorably once making up part of an ABBA tribute band, but drag artist is definitely pushing the boundaries.
Max had tried to get her to join him as an AFAB queen, but she’d been firm in reminding him someone needed to be in the audience and it was definitely her. He’d seemed quite into the idea, getting stuck into researching the kind of queen he wanted to be and seeking Miranda’s opinion. They’d agreed that he’d have to be a comedy queen as he couldn’t manage death drops and advanced lip syncing, and his makeup skills and outfits weren’t exactly high fashion. Jokes, repartee, and impressions were going to get him through this. The old Winter charm would be getting a good airing.
They’d chucked around ideas for names together, Miranda deigning to join him in the bad puns and word play. N. Saymada had been an early frontrunner, but Max had eventually dismissed it in his concern that his audience would expect a Mallorcan performer, not a dislocated German. Bea Vee Bee after his beloved Dortmund football club had been another favourite option, especially since he liked the idea of theming his costume in yellow and black to match the club colours. In the end, it had been inspiration from a nickname Inés had occasionally used that had led to his new moniker, and Bratti Wurst had been born over drinks at Joan’s bar.
It seemed Bratti was a glamourpuss. The mood board Max had made — which Miranda felt might be getting into the role a bit too much — drew heavily on old Hollywood and the red carpet. Max had been given a budget to get a wig and makeup, and in a surprise to everyone, Roberto had revealed that he could make dresses. It turned out that the pathologist had a couple of friends who were into the drag scene and his grandmother had taught him to sew, so the two things had aligned in the past. He said he’d be able to get some of the accessories Max needed on loan too. From then, Roberto had become a sort of drag mother to Max, without actually ever getting dragged up himself.
Max’s clean-shaven face had been something of a shock to Miranda when he’d arrived at work that morning. She’d only ever seen him with his stubbly beard, and now he looked sort of baby faced and wrong. She’d had to fight an urge to touch his chin and see what that extra pale skin felt like.
His outfit for that night was a secret, for some reason, and she was desperate to see it. She sort of admired him for tackling the assignment with such dedication and enthusiasm. It was brave, what he was doing, and she didn’t envy him.
Now, standing in that back corridor of the bustling bar, she feels a surge of pride mixed with amusement and attraction. He’s in a blonde wig and a red sequinned dress that’s padded out into an extreme hourglass, with a generous chest plate that jiggles slightly as he moves, and a snatched waist. He’s got silver heels on, and glittering rhinestone jewellery, and his makeup is bold red lips, smoky eyes with feline liner flicks and enormous lashes, and judicious highlighter and contouring. He looks amazing.
“Wow,” she says, meaning it.
Max smiles, clearly pleased with himself.
Roberto appears from behind. “Doesn’t she look fantastic?” he asks.
“He— she does,” Miranda agrees. “Five minutes until you’re on, err, Bratti.”
Max takes a deep breath, getting ready for his first appearance as wonderful Ms Wurst. Miranda channels her inner RuPaul and tells him ‘good luck, and don’t fuck it up’, then heads off to take her seat for the show. There’s a brief warmup from an experienced queen, who’s hilarious and gets everyone easily into the mood. She announces Bratti Wurst as a stage virgin and says they’ve all to be nice to her. Max walks on to his opening song, rolling his hips and stepping to the beat. There are whoops, cheers, and wolf-whistles.
He gets off to a good start, and after one joke that’s too niche fails to land, he picks himself up and gets back on track. Miranda finds herself distracted from what she’s there to do by just how funny he is — he must have worked really hard on his material, because there are none of the duds that his usual attempts to be funny include. It’s all killer, no filler.
By the time he sashays away off stage to thunderous applause, her cheeks hurt from smiling and laughing so much. She watches the next couple of acts and soon realises that he’s just as good. He’s a natural.
She realises something else too: she really, really fancies him tonight. It’s the unexpected confidence, she thinks, the charisma, uniqueness, nerve, and talent. He’s serving witty sex kitten realness and she’s eating it right up.
She pays attention more to the operation they’re there for during the following acts, and things go well. Nobody’s as funny as Max. Or as voluptuously sexy, somehow. There’s a dance number at the end with all the queens on, showing their moves to ‘I Am What I Am’. Miranda can’t take her eyes off Max. He’s not doing any of the outlandish moves some of the others are, but still he’s the only one to watch. His comedy persona and diva look are a sight to behold. It’s ‘shantay, you stay’ for him, no question.
After the show, she makes her way out the back to give him her condragulations. Can she get him to drag up again, she wonders? Bratti Wurst deserves at least one more show. She’s too fierce and fabulous to be a one night stand. Although Miranda can’t say she’s not tempted…