Fic: Always Been A Ladies Man
Title: lways Been A Ladies Man
Fandom: hitechapel
Author:
Pairings/Characters: handler/Kent unrequited, Miles, Mansell, Riley (Tiny cameo from OC fro this fic)
Rating: G-13
Spoilers: one, Riley's a team member.
Disclaimer: TV/The Magnetic Fields
Warnings: rossdressing.
A/N: ritten for the prompt Chandler/Kent "Andrew In Drag" on the kinkmeme, I don't know how well the fic worked, but I really love the song and thought that I'd make a go of it. (And it's better than trying to finish my essay!)
Edit: With accompanying visuals post here
Summary: "So stick him in a dress and he's the only boy I'd shag, the only boy I'd anything is Andrew in drag."
There are only two reasons that Chandler is sitting uncomfortably in a moderately packed and unfamiliar pub holding an orange juice clasped in front of him like a shield. The first is that he knows what's expected of him and although he's no longer going to rise through the ranks he knows that they're watching and the second was the reproachful look of Miles.
"Come on sir, you've got to do your bit for the team, give the lad some moral support, and anyway, it's not like it'll be you in the dress."
It's the first that Chandler's heard about a dress.
He doesn't know who organised this particular charity event, and only has the vaguest incline as to what the money may be being raised for. Perhaps for a local women's refuge, it wasn't all murders and intrigue, they had the nasty commonplace crimes too. There's a collection bucket sitting on the bar counter and Mansell appears to be arm wrestling one of the bar staff. Chandler only hopes that it's somehow to raise money. He casts his eye around the pub, spotting Riley in the corner deep in conversation, fitting in easily with the swell of people.
"Come on sir, my round."
He doesn't know how Miles is suddenly standing in front of him, but one look in his sergeant’s eyes and Chandler knows not to disagree.
When they reach the bar Chandler finds it hard not to let a wry grin slip out at Mansell dropping money into the collection pot and the barmaid's smug smile.
Miles is just passing a drink back to Chandler when there comes a voice over what can only be the static hiss of a badly tuned microphone.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the law, and anyone else who dares being in a pub with this many policemen at once, it's time to start raising some money. And to kick off the karaoke. Well what can I say? He's raised four hundred and sixty eight pounds and counting for agreeing to do this performance this evening, and it doesn't get more exciting than this your very own Detective Constable Emerson Kent..."
It's only a makeshift curtain separating the 'contestants' from the rest of the pub but when Kent steps out Chandler feels as though every window in the pub has shattered letting the chill of the cold air outside seep right into him.
He knew that Kent would be wearing a dress, and he was expecting it to be gaudy. Perhaps pink with sequins or a feathered monstrosity. In the manner expected of drag queens and men wearing dresses for charity.
Except it isn't.
It's unmistakably a little black dress, falling just above the knee in a manner that would be aluring on a woman, but on Kent...
The dress is sleeveless and tucked in for a waist that Kent simply doesn't own, but that doesn't matter.
Chandler always had several adjectives to describe Kent with, from his first day in the unfriendly police station that would become his home and family.
Loyal. Kind. Diligent. Good. Punctual. Efficient. Smart of appearance.
Many words, but never handsome.
But now.
Kent has one hand cocked on his hips, his stance undeniably male regardless of the platform high heels that he's standing in and the other is readjusting his hair.
Except it isn't his hair. Obviously. It's a vibrant shade of auburn and falls low enough to tickle the junction of his neck.
Chandler tightens his grasp around the glass in his hand.
The most unsettling thing about seeing his DC like that is that it really isn't that unsettling at all.
There is something about Kent like this.
He's not blind, he knows, even if it's only on the periphery of his subconscious that Kent has some form of feelings for him.
Kent's hand is wrapped around the probably broken microphone and he starts to sing.
His voice is surprisingly good, but Chandler is barely paying attention to the words coming out of Kent's mouth, too focused alternately on his own thoughts and Kent himself.
The feelings that Kent has for Chandler are separate from their working lives, as quite simply neither of them accept that they exist.
But what of what Chandler may feel for Kent?
The question isn't, he realises in horror, whether or not he has feelings for Kent in return. It's whether he can ever have feelings for a Kent other than the beautifully dressed man on stage.
He'd been telling the truth when he'd said he wasn't gay, but for Emerson in drag, he'd anything.
And then it's over with a round of enthusiastic, if not long lasting applause a wobbly curtsey and an embarrassed yet pleased flush creeping up Kent's face.
He exits the stage area and there's suddenly someone else singing and the atmosphere in the pub doesn't change at all.
No one else has even noticed, it's as if they weren't watching the same Emerson Kent, as though they hadn't seen the creature that he'd become.
Chandler is just raising his drink -finally- to his lips when Mansell catcalls from further down the bar.
"Oi oi, what have we got here then?"
Kent rolls his eyes without looking at Mansell but chuckles along with him and bats his hand away from his hair.
Chandler can hear Miles clapping Kent on the shoulder, laughing gruffly, but not unkindly.
When he eventually looks up Kent is so much closer than he'd been expecting. He thinks that there should still be the distance of the crowd between them.
He's got a jacket shrugged over his shoulders and he's in the process of working his arms into it and pulling the zip up, it's just a hoodie that Chandler knows that he's seen Kent wear before, and that should be enough to make him stop wanting, but it isn't. It's only when Kent reaches up and auburn curls come away in his hand that Chandler starts, and subconsciously takes a step back only realising that he's done so when his heels knock against the bar.
He hastily takes another sip from his glass and catches Kent's eye, or would do, if the man wasn't threading the fibres of his wig through his nail varnished fingers.
"That was quite... unexpected Kent, well done. You should be proud of how much you've raised."
Kent nods, smiling and his lips are too red.
Kent has a full face of makeup on underneath a wig cap that's allowing a few black curls to peek out around the edges.
The image is so absurd that Chandler wants to laugh.
Things aren't as they should be.
He finishes the remainder of his drink, letting it burn the back of his throat.
"They wanted me to be a sexy policewoman but I drew the line at looking like a total idiot, thought this was enough."
Chandler doesn't trust himself to talk, oh Kent, if only you knew, and settles for nodding.
Kent places the wig down on the bar next to Chandler's empty glass and leans over to catch the attention of the bar maid who winks at him and passes him his helmet and a pair of battered old trainers.
Kent reaches into one of the trainers to retrieve, what by the metallic clicking when he drops them into the helmet must be several sets of keys.
Chandler's shocked stare is enough to capture Kent's attention.
"You're not going to drive dressed like that are you?"
"I only live a few roads down sir, and I need to get changed, I'm not saying dressed like this all evening, I look ridiculous."
Chandler shakes his head briefly, and it's not disappointment.
"No, of course not."
The bar is full of idle chatter and music as Kent hops up on a bar stool and pulls off and replaces first one and then the other high heel with the scuffed trainers. He hesitates for only a moment before picking up the heels and holding them in one hand, with the other cradling his helmet.
"I'll be back soon sir, you know, once I'm back to normal."
Chandler nods, a dismissal, and Kent turns towards the door.
Chandler can't help but watch him leave, when he's halfway to the door Mansell makes a grab for the wig cap and without free hands to stop him Kent's natural dark curls pop free of their confinement.
He's struggling to tell the difference between the Kent of his imagination and the Kent standing bare feet before him.
Dark compact curls. The soft swish of skirt poking out underneath an age worn hoodie. Scruffy trainers on the end of long bare shaved legs. High heels in one hand, helmet in the other. "Piss off Finley." A rich chuckle.
Then the door of the pub is opened, and it closes with a rush of cold air.
The wig is still sitting on the bar top.
He waves his hand slightly to get the attention of the bar maid and gestures at the empty glass.
"Same again."
I'll never see that girl again, he did it as a gag. I'll pine away forevermore for Andrew in drag.
Fandom: hitechapel
Author:
Pairings/Characters: handler/Kent unrequited, Miles, Mansell, Riley (Tiny cameo from OC fro this fic)
Rating: G-13
Spoilers: one, Riley's a team member.
Disclaimer: TV/The Magnetic Fields
Warnings: rossdressing.
A/N: ritten for the prompt Chandler/Kent "Andrew In Drag" on the kinkmeme, I don't know how well the fic worked, but I really love the song and thought that I'd make a go of it. (And it's better than trying to finish my essay!)
Edit: With accompanying visuals post here
Summary: "So stick him in a dress and he's the only boy I'd shag, the only boy I'd anything is Andrew in drag."
There are only two reasons that Chandler is sitting uncomfortably in a moderately packed and unfamiliar pub holding an orange juice clasped in front of him like a shield. The first is that he knows what's expected of him and although he's no longer going to rise through the ranks he knows that they're watching and the second was the reproachful look of Miles.
"Come on sir, you've got to do your bit for the team, give the lad some moral support, and anyway, it's not like it'll be you in the dress."
It's the first that Chandler's heard about a dress.
He doesn't know who organised this particular charity event, and only has the vaguest incline as to what the money may be being raised for. Perhaps for a local women's refuge, it wasn't all murders and intrigue, they had the nasty commonplace crimes too. There's a collection bucket sitting on the bar counter and Mansell appears to be arm wrestling one of the bar staff. Chandler only hopes that it's somehow to raise money. He casts his eye around the pub, spotting Riley in the corner deep in conversation, fitting in easily with the swell of people.
"Come on sir, my round."
He doesn't know how Miles is suddenly standing in front of him, but one look in his sergeant’s eyes and Chandler knows not to disagree.
When they reach the bar Chandler finds it hard not to let a wry grin slip out at Mansell dropping money into the collection pot and the barmaid's smug smile.
Miles is just passing a drink back to Chandler when there comes a voice over what can only be the static hiss of a badly tuned microphone.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the law, and anyone else who dares being in a pub with this many policemen at once, it's time to start raising some money. And to kick off the karaoke. Well what can I say? He's raised four hundred and sixty eight pounds and counting for agreeing to do this performance this evening, and it doesn't get more exciting than this your very own Detective Constable Emerson Kent..."
It's only a makeshift curtain separating the 'contestants' from the rest of the pub but when Kent steps out Chandler feels as though every window in the pub has shattered letting the chill of the cold air outside seep right into him.
He knew that Kent would be wearing a dress, and he was expecting it to be gaudy. Perhaps pink with sequins or a feathered monstrosity. In the manner expected of drag queens and men wearing dresses for charity.
Except it isn't.
It's unmistakably a little black dress, falling just above the knee in a manner that would be aluring on a woman, but on Kent...
The dress is sleeveless and tucked in for a waist that Kent simply doesn't own, but that doesn't matter.
Chandler always had several adjectives to describe Kent with, from his first day in the unfriendly police station that would become his home and family.
Loyal. Kind. Diligent. Good. Punctual. Efficient. Smart of appearance.
Many words, but never handsome.
But now.
Kent has one hand cocked on his hips, his stance undeniably male regardless of the platform high heels that he's standing in and the other is readjusting his hair.
Except it isn't his hair. Obviously. It's a vibrant shade of auburn and falls low enough to tickle the junction of his neck.
Chandler tightens his grasp around the glass in his hand.
The most unsettling thing about seeing his DC like that is that it really isn't that unsettling at all.
There is something about Kent like this.
He's not blind, he knows, even if it's only on the periphery of his subconscious that Kent has some form of feelings for him.
Kent's hand is wrapped around the probably broken microphone and he starts to sing.
His voice is surprisingly good, but Chandler is barely paying attention to the words coming out of Kent's mouth, too focused alternately on his own thoughts and Kent himself.
The feelings that Kent has for Chandler are separate from their working lives, as quite simply neither of them accept that they exist.
But what of what Chandler may feel for Kent?
The question isn't, he realises in horror, whether or not he has feelings for Kent in return. It's whether he can ever have feelings for a Kent other than the beautifully dressed man on stage.
He'd been telling the truth when he'd said he wasn't gay, but for Emerson in drag, he'd anything.
And then it's over with a round of enthusiastic, if not long lasting applause a wobbly curtsey and an embarrassed yet pleased flush creeping up Kent's face.
He exits the stage area and there's suddenly someone else singing and the atmosphere in the pub doesn't change at all.
No one else has even noticed, it's as if they weren't watching the same Emerson Kent, as though they hadn't seen the creature that he'd become.
Chandler is just raising his drink -finally- to his lips when Mansell catcalls from further down the bar.
"Oi oi, what have we got here then?"
Kent rolls his eyes without looking at Mansell but chuckles along with him and bats his hand away from his hair.
Chandler can hear Miles clapping Kent on the shoulder, laughing gruffly, but not unkindly.
When he eventually looks up Kent is so much closer than he'd been expecting. He thinks that there should still be the distance of the crowd between them.
He's got a jacket shrugged over his shoulders and he's in the process of working his arms into it and pulling the zip up, it's just a hoodie that Chandler knows that he's seen Kent wear before, and that should be enough to make him stop wanting, but it isn't. It's only when Kent reaches up and auburn curls come away in his hand that Chandler starts, and subconsciously takes a step back only realising that he's done so when his heels knock against the bar.
He hastily takes another sip from his glass and catches Kent's eye, or would do, if the man wasn't threading the fibres of his wig through his nail varnished fingers.
"That was quite... unexpected Kent, well done. You should be proud of how much you've raised."
Kent nods, smiling and his lips are too red.
Kent has a full face of makeup on underneath a wig cap that's allowing a few black curls to peek out around the edges.
The image is so absurd that Chandler wants to laugh.
Things aren't as they should be.
He finishes the remainder of his drink, letting it burn the back of his throat.
"They wanted me to be a sexy policewoman but I drew the line at looking like a total idiot, thought this was enough."
Chandler doesn't trust himself to talk, oh Kent, if only you knew, and settles for nodding.
Kent places the wig down on the bar next to Chandler's empty glass and leans over to catch the attention of the bar maid who winks at him and passes him his helmet and a pair of battered old trainers.
Kent reaches into one of the trainers to retrieve, what by the metallic clicking when he drops them into the helmet must be several sets of keys.
Chandler's shocked stare is enough to capture Kent's attention.
"You're not going to drive dressed like that are you?"
"I only live a few roads down sir, and I need to get changed, I'm not saying dressed like this all evening, I look ridiculous."
Chandler shakes his head briefly, and it's not disappointment.
"No, of course not."
The bar is full of idle chatter and music as Kent hops up on a bar stool and pulls off and replaces first one and then the other high heel with the scuffed trainers. He hesitates for only a moment before picking up the heels and holding them in one hand, with the other cradling his helmet.
"I'll be back soon sir, you know, once I'm back to normal."
Chandler nods, a dismissal, and Kent turns towards the door.
Chandler can't help but watch him leave, when he's halfway to the door Mansell makes a grab for the wig cap and without free hands to stop him Kent's natural dark curls pop free of their confinement.
He's struggling to tell the difference between the Kent of his imagination and the Kent standing bare feet before him.
Dark compact curls. The soft swish of skirt poking out underneath an age worn hoodie. Scruffy trainers on the end of long bare shaved legs. High heels in one hand, helmet in the other. "Piss off Finley." A rich chuckle.
Then the door of the pub is opened, and it closes with a rush of cold air.
The wig is still sitting on the bar top.
He waves his hand slightly to get the attention of the bar maid and gestures at the empty glass.
"Same again."
I'll never see that girl again, he did it as a gag. I'll pine away forevermore for Andrew in drag.