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titusnowlTitle: Dolled Up
Characters: Simon'n'Roger
Summary: It is vitally important that Roger wear a dress.
Notes: For Jen, on account of an early-1950s Saint comic book cover we saw MONTHS ago; establishing a bit of fanon.
"The beauty of the thing, o my Roger, is in its simplicity."
"That's not a very good answer as to why, Saint." Roger eyed Simon's activities with mistrust. "You don't plan to get that pointy stick near my eye, surely."
"You won't get poked if you'll just hold still, buttercup. You won't look right without a bit of paint around those lovely hazel orbs. Here, do your best impression of a Kit-Kat Klock."
"What do you want me to wag in place of a tail?"
"Stop wagging your jaw, or I'll get your lipstick on crooked." A moment's solemn application later, and the Saint stepped back to survey his handiwork with no small satisfaction. "You'll be beating the boys off left and right, just like the poor cat i' the adage."
Roger's response to his reflection was less rhapsodic. His was not a slender, waifish frame - though, luckily, neither was it the brickish sort of Rugby Union type - and although pleated tweeds (borrowed from one of Miss Holm's society friends, so he mustn't allow anyone to bleed on them), low-brimmed hat over his too-masculine haircut, and the makeup Simon had applied startlingly well managed a considerable contribution to a passably gamine appearance (in low light, and with low standards) he felt like the world's greatest prat.
"Of all the mad buggers in this world, Saint," he grumbled, "you're the maddest."
"But not the buggerest," Simon replied cheerily. "I do believe that title goes to the one wearing the dress."
Roger said something decidedly unladylike.
---
"Do try to be vivacious and sparkling, darling; you're our bait. And mind those stockings - they're Pat's, they come from Asprey's at an outrageously extortionary price per pair, and they ladder if you so much as look at 'em crooked."
"This had better be worth it, Saint."
"Hmm. Perhaps you'd better try to be vivacious and sparkling without opening your mouth; your dulcet tones lack a certain feminine quality. And I beg you not to take that as an invitation to try falsetto - it would be like a penitentiary's production of Pygmalion or something."
"Tell me again why Pat's not here."
"She's in Edinburgh for the Festival, honeybunch," Simon said with ineffable patience. "So we're using you instead. Here we are - there's your alley. We'll be along shortly."
---
Blimey, thought Roger, there's that damned cop again. I'm going to be picked up for loitering on suspicion of... they're going to think I'm a bloody hooker.
The same uniformed policeman passed him no fewer than three times. Each time, he smiled as girlishly as he could and tried very hard not to look like a Scarlet Woman. If he got pinched in this getup he would have to die. There could be no question of bail or escape or even of lawful release. He would die, plain and simple. How did the Saint always get him into these kinds of situations? Why didn't he ever just say "sod off, you lunatic"?
Well, because you couldn't say such things to the Saint. While he was there, explaining things in that sweetly reasonable tone, it all made, if not perfect sense, then at least a certain amount of logic.
It was different after he dumped you off the running board and left you in an alley in a dress. It stopped feeling rational, somehow.
Roger had just made up his mind to go jump off the nearest bridge if that bobby passed him again when a door in the alley opened. He turned and recognized the fish he was supposed to be baiting. Oh, blinkin' lovely. What did Simon expect me to do with him?
Luckily the question was moot, as the fish was followed by the sharks, in the form of Simon and Norman. The latter, who had not yet seen Roger's getup, was momentarily stunned into stillness, which nearly blew the lid off the pot, but Simon managed to do something one-handed, and then he and Norman, with the fish supported between them, were blowing past Roger to the mouth of the alley, where the Hirondel appeared and paused just long enough for them to get in.
"Well, honeybunch, are you coming?"
Roger broke free from his own stunned stillness and took off running, although he broke a heel on the way. He just knew those stockings had gotten laddered too, damn them.
Norman was still staring at him with wide eyes and a suspicious tic about the mouth, making it evident that only the greatest depths of self-control were keeping him from braying like a donkey.
Simon was relaxed in the corner, of course, smoking the inevitable cigarette.
The fish was laid out on the floorboards.
"What the hell goes on here?" asked Roger, thoroughly lost.
Simon pulled out a handkerchief and extended it. "Does this smell like chloroform to you, darling?"
So help him, he almost sniffed it.
Unconsciousness would have been a mercy. Especially when he glanced up into the front seat and realized that the driver was that bobby who'd passed him three times, and that moreover the bobby was Pat.
"You!" Roger sputtered. "You're supposed to be in Edinburgh! Why aren't you? Why did you two even ask me along? And - and - why me? Why couldn't you have made Norman wear the dress?"
Simon looked at him in polite surprise. "Why, old sugar-maple, you know Norman wouldn't have fallen for it."
Roger sank into the darkest corner of the back seat. "Oh, tear in a bucket."
Characters: Simon'n'Roger
Summary: It is vitally important that Roger wear a dress.
Notes: For Jen, on account of an early-1950s Saint comic book cover we saw MONTHS ago; establishing a bit of fanon.
"The beauty of the thing, o my Roger, is in its simplicity."
"That's not a very good answer as to why, Saint." Roger eyed Simon's activities with mistrust. "You don't plan to get that pointy stick near my eye, surely."
"You won't get poked if you'll just hold still, buttercup. You won't look right without a bit of paint around those lovely hazel orbs. Here, do your best impression of a Kit-Kat Klock."
"What do you want me to wag in place of a tail?"
"Stop wagging your jaw, or I'll get your lipstick on crooked." A moment's solemn application later, and the Saint stepped back to survey his handiwork with no small satisfaction. "You'll be beating the boys off left and right, just like the poor cat i' the adage."
Roger's response to his reflection was less rhapsodic. His was not a slender, waifish frame - though, luckily, neither was it the brickish sort of Rugby Union type - and although pleated tweeds (borrowed from one of Miss Holm's society friends, so he mustn't allow anyone to bleed on them), low-brimmed hat over his too-masculine haircut, and the makeup Simon had applied startlingly well managed a considerable contribution to a passably gamine appearance (in low light, and with low standards) he felt like the world's greatest prat.
"Of all the mad buggers in this world, Saint," he grumbled, "you're the maddest."
"But not the buggerest," Simon replied cheerily. "I do believe that title goes to the one wearing the dress."
Roger said something decidedly unladylike.
---
"Do try to be vivacious and sparkling, darling; you're our bait. And mind those stockings - they're Pat's, they come from Asprey's at an outrageously extortionary price per pair, and they ladder if you so much as look at 'em crooked."
"This had better be worth it, Saint."
"Hmm. Perhaps you'd better try to be vivacious and sparkling without opening your mouth; your dulcet tones lack a certain feminine quality. And I beg you not to take that as an invitation to try falsetto - it would be like a penitentiary's production of Pygmalion or something."
"Tell me again why Pat's not here."
"She's in Edinburgh for the Festival, honeybunch," Simon said with ineffable patience. "So we're using you instead. Here we are - there's your alley. We'll be along shortly."
---
Blimey, thought Roger, there's that damned cop again. I'm going to be picked up for loitering on suspicion of... they're going to think I'm a bloody hooker.
The same uniformed policeman passed him no fewer than three times. Each time, he smiled as girlishly as he could and tried very hard not to look like a Scarlet Woman. If he got pinched in this getup he would have to die. There could be no question of bail or escape or even of lawful release. He would die, plain and simple. How did the Saint always get him into these kinds of situations? Why didn't he ever just say "sod off, you lunatic"?
Well, because you couldn't say such things to the Saint. While he was there, explaining things in that sweetly reasonable tone, it all made, if not perfect sense, then at least a certain amount of logic.
It was different after he dumped you off the running board and left you in an alley in a dress. It stopped feeling rational, somehow.
Roger had just made up his mind to go jump off the nearest bridge if that bobby passed him again when a door in the alley opened. He turned and recognized the fish he was supposed to be baiting. Oh, blinkin' lovely. What did Simon expect me to do with him?
Luckily the question was moot, as the fish was followed by the sharks, in the form of Simon and Norman. The latter, who had not yet seen Roger's getup, was momentarily stunned into stillness, which nearly blew the lid off the pot, but Simon managed to do something one-handed, and then he and Norman, with the fish supported between them, were blowing past Roger to the mouth of the alley, where the Hirondel appeared and paused just long enough for them to get in.
"Well, honeybunch, are you coming?"
Roger broke free from his own stunned stillness and took off running, although he broke a heel on the way. He just knew those stockings had gotten laddered too, damn them.
Norman was still staring at him with wide eyes and a suspicious tic about the mouth, making it evident that only the greatest depths of self-control were keeping him from braying like a donkey.
Simon was relaxed in the corner, of course, smoking the inevitable cigarette.
The fish was laid out on the floorboards.
"What the hell goes on here?" asked Roger, thoroughly lost.
Simon pulled out a handkerchief and extended it. "Does this smell like chloroform to you, darling?"
So help him, he almost sniffed it.
Unconsciousness would have been a mercy. Especially when he glanced up into the front seat and realized that the driver was that bobby who'd passed him three times, and that moreover the bobby was Pat.
"You!" Roger sputtered. "You're supposed to be in Edinburgh! Why aren't you? Why did you two even ask me along? And - and - why me? Why couldn't you have made Norman wear the dress?"
Simon looked at him in polite surprise. "Why, old sugar-maple, you know Norman wouldn't have fallen for it."
Roger sank into the darkest corner of the back seat. "Oh, tear in a bucket."
