Archive of Our Own ^beta

Jane is not where he was five seconds ago. Jane is not where he should be.

Jane is not what he should be.

Jane is wearing a skirt. A skirt and a blouse.

No. No, wait, it’s a dress. It’s a gingham dress, and there’s an apron on top. His hands are too small, too soft, like they’ve never seen battle in their life. Larger than most women’s hands tend to be, he thinks, but still not right. And there is the weight of lipstick on his mouth, of his light brown hair curled and fastened back with bobby-pins, bundled up and collected at the base of his skull. And of tits. Fuck, those are tits.

He still feels broad-shouldered (though not as much as he should be) but the rest of his body is smaller, thinner. Shorter. Softer. Except his stomach is swollen, firmer, so much more than any man’s stomach has any right to be. And Jane knows, with absolute certainty, the terrible disgust it fills this smaller, dress-wearing version of himself with. He doesn’t want this. Not for a second.

This is not his body. His body has not been this thing pretending to be him for years, not since Medic took it upon himself to make him whole. But in this place, Medic is not here. Maybe, Jane thinks, the Germans still have a hold on him. Maybe not. He could help him, if only he were anywhere but here. Woman-Jane’s thoughts, from what concrete things Jane can pick out, seem to agree: he cannot serve America, not while he is here. And what here is, well…

What surrounds Jane is a brightly-tiled kitchen. In a house. A stock suburban house, he thinks, maybe like any other in Missouri or Iowa or Ohio or Indiana or wherever it even is that he is right now. The colors are too loud, too suffocating. He doesn’t want to think about it. But there’s a countertop and a sink before him, and a soapy pan clutched between his fingers. The nearby smell of chicken-pot-pie wafts to his nose. Dark spots cloud at the edge of his vision like mold.

“Darling,” says a voice, and it’s a man’s voice, but it definitely isn’t Jane’s. “[     ], my darling.” And the word before darling is a static burst of emptiness, but it isn’t really a word so much as it’s hardly much of anything at all. A gap. A part of Jane thinks that maybe he’s better off with the static. 

And the him that exists right now feels, in his mind, a shuddering fear and a hatred so palpable he can taste it. But it isn’t Jane’s emotion so much as it’s the sensation coming from the Jane that breathes and feels right here and now, although he understands the feeling anyway. Right now, it is part of him.

Kill him, please, God, whisper the buried corners of woman-Jane’s brain, and Jane himself is inclined to agree. Because none of this is right. And oh, God, he wants to take this bastard’s neck between his hands and squeeze, but he knows he does not have the muscle he should have, not when he is cooped up in this suffocating little house with a thing growing in his stomach and a leery-eyed man over his shoulder.

“Oh, Norm, you’re back early,” woman-Jane’s voice says, trembling, and although Jane senses the words vibrating in his throat, he knows he has no part in them. There are bits and pieces of this voice that do sound like him, but in no other circumstance would he be able to guess it was his own. “Dinner’s not quite ready yet.”

And the man — Norm, apparently — is approaching, his breath hot against the bare flesh at the base of Jane’s neck, his arms tautly wrapping around him, his hands tightening greedily on his stomach. Woman-Jane’s body wants to shudder, but it doesn’t. It knows better than that by now.

“Oh, [     ],” Norm whispers into woman-Jane’s ear, and there’s that burst of static again. There is an undercurrent of malice to his voice — a low, dangerous note that fills Jane with dread. “What did I tell you about going and messing with my guns, hmm?”

And although Jane has no idea what he’s talking about, woman-Jane certainly seems to. Because there’s a sharp strike of terror, more than palpable, and it’s as if all a sudden the pan has fallen with a clang from woman-Jane’s soft, pruny hands and clattered into the sink. And Norm’s arms are growing terribly, possessively tighter around him, and it’s starting to hurt. And Norm is a military man, above all else. And there is a subtle little kick in Jane’s stomach.

And there’s a panicked breath coming from him, and then another, and another, all in a woman’s low alto, and Norm’s voice is becoming dreary and muffled, and the ugly suburban house is bleeding into itself. The doors are growing wispy white hairs. The windows are melding into the walls. And something smells like it’s burning.

Is the sitting room to the left of the kitchen or to the right? Is Jane’s dress baby-blue or pastel yellow? Is the burgeoning parasite in his gut a boy or a girl? What color is the tile, again? Is he five months along, or eight? Is Norm a blond or a brunet? When did Jane last go to church? Did they name the creature Bonnie or Abe? 

In which part of Norm’s head did Jane put a bullet?

How many years did it take for him to finally do it?

And Jane tastes blood.

He blinks. His eyes feel sandpaper-dry. The whistling of cicadas cuts through the low droning in his ears. There are no more walls.

He is outside. That’s the dark night sky right in front of him. That’s the cold wind of the New Mexican mountains, sharp against his rough cheeks.

He looks down at his hands. They’re large, sun-kissed, covered in scars. He’s wearing a set of blue military pajamas.

His chest and stomach are muscular and flat. He can sense the weight of his cock again.

“Jane,” says a voice, deep and gentle. The heavy sensation of a warm hand settles on Jane’s shoulder. “Jane.”

He turns his head — there’s Tavish, right there, looking concerned. He’s sitting on the grass in his red slippers and pajama pants, taking swigs from his midnight whiskey flask with the other hand. 

“Y’alright, lad?” he asks. “Ye were just…starin’ off inta nothin’. Didnae even blink.”

“Yeah, Tav,” Jane says, maybe a little hoarsely, but it’s his own voice that comes out this time. Jesus, fuck. “Just…remembered something.”

“Ah.” Tav winces. “It wisnae a good thing, was it?”

“Not in the slightest!”

“Well,” Tavish says, hand now settling on Jane’s cheek, “it’s over now, aye? Cannae hurt ye anymore.”

Jane shrugs, hums. “That is true.” Forcefully, he grabs Tavish and thrusts him face-first into his chest (which sends them both further into the grass), patting him firmly on the back. “And you’re here now, private!”

“Aye,” Tav responds, muffled. His right arm comes up to pat Jane’s back in return, his left looping affectionately around his waist. “That I am. An’ I wouldnae change that for the world.”