Gender confusion? What gender confusion?
Sep. 17th, 2009 05:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sermocinare(x-posted from ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
runaway_tales)
Author: Fireez
Challenge: Blueberry Yoghurt #17 (uncomfortable silence), Molasses #21 (pain in the neck), Fudge Ripple #21 (guilt)
Rating: PG (swearing, mature themes)
Word Count: 821
Summary: Dee is not what people think he is at first glance. But can you really blame people for their first impressions?
Author's Note: This probably should've been my first installment, because you need to have read it to understand some stuff about Dee. Though, of course, people not knowing is also a lot of fun ;). Anyway, as far as AU details go, the Rhenish Republic actually took off and still exists in the 1940s as part of the also still existing Weimar Republic. Lots of industry there (mainly steel and coal), and it's a melting pot of French and German culture.
The party was a blast. Girls in pretty dresses, men in elegant suits, and the champagne was flowing like no tomorrow. Hell, they even had a band who could play up a decent swing. You had to hand it to the Rhenish – their little republic had grown into a hotspot for avant-garde lifestyle. Which is why Dee had only put up a little bit of token resistance against his father’s idea of sending him over to Essen to talk with Krupp’s people. Sure, the business meetings had been long and dreary, just like he had expected them to be, but at least they were always finished early enough for him to hit the town as soon as the sun went down, and the lights of the clubs and bars went on.
If it only had not been for Roy, the evening would be perfect.
Roy McArthur. The man from United States of bloody America. Representative of Krupp’s trans-atlantic expansionist dreams. The man who just would not leave him alone for even one goddamn minute, which is why Dee had snuck out of the back door of the établissement and was now leaning with his back against the wall, lighting the cigarette that was wedged into the corner of his mouth. A quiet smoke, that would calm his nerves. And then he would go in there and have some words with that gentleman. Polite words. After all, he didn’t want to ruin a potential business deal for Hohenheim Industries. But there would be words, oh yes.
He took a deep draft of his cigarette, closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the cool brick wall, wishing for a moment that he was back in Berlin. Berlin, where people knew him, and knew not to pull shit like that. Hitting on him. Goddamn it, yes, the guy was hitting on him.
He heard the door open, a few beats of some dance tune drifting out into the night before the door clicked shut, the soft silence of night restored. Then: “Miss Hohenheim?”
Oh, fuck, no. Not Roy. Well, now was as good a time as any, and it was probably better to get this over with as little in terms of bystanders as possible. Dee took another draft on his smoke, while Roy rambled on: “It’s such a nice night. Don’t you think?”
Dee made a noncommittal noise, inwardly counting to ten. No use losing his temper.
“Listen, um, Miss Hohenheim… Diana… may I call you Diana? There’s something I…”
No. No, no, no.
“No!” Dee’s eyes snapped open, and he turned on Roy, pointing at him with the fingers that held his cigarette, the amber glow of its tip shaking slightly: “You listen.”
Roy gaped, aghast, lost for words. Good.
Dee threw up his hands: “I’ve tried being subtle, but you just don’t get it, do you? I rebuke all of your frankly clumsy advances, but you just keep going on like some car that’s missing its breaks! So I’m going to do this in the most straightforward manner, and diplomacy be damned. Stop. Hitting. On. Me.”
The American’s mouth opened and closed a few times, like a fish that has been thrown on land, and he slowly shook his head as if in shock:
“But… I mean, I can understand, really, Miss Hohenheim, but,” he gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly, “what have I done to you to deserve this? This… anger?”
He was looking at Dee like some wounded animal, all uncomprehending innocence in the face of something he did not even begin to understand, and Dee’s stomach gave a little twist.
He took a deep breath to calm himself, turning his gaze away from the man before looking at him again: “Listen, Roy, I’m…” no, he could not bring himself to say that, so he just shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair before continuing: “It’s not your fault. It’s just that I’m not what you think I am.” Roy gave him a puzzled look, and he plunged ahead, just wanting this over and done with: “You look at me and see Diana Hohenheim, daughter of Manfred Hohenheim, industry captain. But that’s not who I am. I’m… I’m not what this body is.” He let his hands sweep through the air around his torso. Small breasts, slender waist and hips. Boyish, yes, but not a boy. He looked at Roy, and even tough his face was still lined with anger, his eyes were almost pleading now: “I’m not what you see. You get it?”
The American folded his arms across his chest, letting his gaze drop to the floor. The dead silence between them stretched out, seconds, minutes, until Dee thought he could hear the band through the stones and mortar of the building. Finally, Roy nodded solemnly, turned around, and disappeared through the door, leaving Dee alone in the inky quiet of night.
runaway_tales)Author: Fireez
Challenge: Blueberry Yoghurt #17 (uncomfortable silence), Molasses #21 (pain in the neck), Fudge Ripple #21 (guilt)
Rating: PG (swearing, mature themes)
Word Count: 821
Summary: Dee is not what people think he is at first glance. But can you really blame people for their first impressions?
Author's Note: This probably should've been my first installment, because you need to have read it to understand some stuff about Dee. Though, of course, people not knowing is also a lot of fun ;). Anyway, as far as AU details go, the Rhenish Republic actually took off and still exists in the 1940s as part of the also still existing Weimar Republic. Lots of industry there (mainly steel and coal), and it's a melting pot of French and German culture.
The party was a blast. Girls in pretty dresses, men in elegant suits, and the champagne was flowing like no tomorrow. Hell, they even had a band who could play up a decent swing. You had to hand it to the Rhenish – their little republic had grown into a hotspot for avant-garde lifestyle. Which is why Dee had only put up a little bit of token resistance against his father’s idea of sending him over to Essen to talk with Krupp’s people. Sure, the business meetings had been long and dreary, just like he had expected them to be, but at least they were always finished early enough for him to hit the town as soon as the sun went down, and the lights of the clubs and bars went on.
If it only had not been for Roy, the evening would be perfect.
Roy McArthur. The man from United States of bloody America. Representative of Krupp’s trans-atlantic expansionist dreams. The man who just would not leave him alone for even one goddamn minute, which is why Dee had snuck out of the back door of the établissement and was now leaning with his back against the wall, lighting the cigarette that was wedged into the corner of his mouth. A quiet smoke, that would calm his nerves. And then he would go in there and have some words with that gentleman. Polite words. After all, he didn’t want to ruin a potential business deal for Hohenheim Industries. But there would be words, oh yes.
He took a deep draft of his cigarette, closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the cool brick wall, wishing for a moment that he was back in Berlin. Berlin, where people knew him, and knew not to pull shit like that. Hitting on him. Goddamn it, yes, the guy was hitting on him.
He heard the door open, a few beats of some dance tune drifting out into the night before the door clicked shut, the soft silence of night restored. Then: “Miss Hohenheim?”
Oh, fuck, no. Not Roy. Well, now was as good a time as any, and it was probably better to get this over with as little in terms of bystanders as possible. Dee took another draft on his smoke, while Roy rambled on: “It’s such a nice night. Don’t you think?”
Dee made a noncommittal noise, inwardly counting to ten. No use losing his temper.
“Listen, um, Miss Hohenheim… Diana… may I call you Diana? There’s something I…”
No. No, no, no.
“No!” Dee’s eyes snapped open, and he turned on Roy, pointing at him with the fingers that held his cigarette, the amber glow of its tip shaking slightly: “You listen.”
Roy gaped, aghast, lost for words. Good.
Dee threw up his hands: “I’ve tried being subtle, but you just don’t get it, do you? I rebuke all of your frankly clumsy advances, but you just keep going on like some car that’s missing its breaks! So I’m going to do this in the most straightforward manner, and diplomacy be damned. Stop. Hitting. On. Me.”
The American’s mouth opened and closed a few times, like a fish that has been thrown on land, and he slowly shook his head as if in shock:
“But… I mean, I can understand, really, Miss Hohenheim, but,” he gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly, “what have I done to you to deserve this? This… anger?”
He was looking at Dee like some wounded animal, all uncomprehending innocence in the face of something he did not even begin to understand, and Dee’s stomach gave a little twist.
He took a deep breath to calm himself, turning his gaze away from the man before looking at him again: “Listen, Roy, I’m…” no, he could not bring himself to say that, so he just shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair before continuing: “It’s not your fault. It’s just that I’m not what you think I am.” Roy gave him a puzzled look, and he plunged ahead, just wanting this over and done with: “You look at me and see Diana Hohenheim, daughter of Manfred Hohenheim, industry captain. But that’s not who I am. I’m… I’m not what this body is.” He let his hands sweep through the air around his torso. Small breasts, slender waist and hips. Boyish, yes, but not a boy. He looked at Roy, and even tough his face was still lined with anger, his eyes were almost pleading now: “I’m not what you see. You get it?”
The American folded his arms across his chest, letting his gaze drop to the floor. The dead silence between them stretched out, seconds, minutes, until Dee thought he could hear the band through the stones and mortar of the building. Finally, Roy nodded solemnly, turned around, and disappeared through the door, leaving Dee alone in the inky quiet of night.
