A/N: I felt about due for a crackfic, so have at thee, my lovelies! This song was originally recorded for Jerry Springer: The Opera (Yes, they made an opera. Just go with it.) However, I much prefer the remix cabaret artist Alison Jiear recorded. Find a live version, if you can. It really helps convey the club atmosphere. And obligatory warning, if you missed it before: Drag queens, discussion of non-binary gender, and, like, a ton of F-bombs, dude. Just a TON. Enjoy!

EDIT: It has come to my attention that songfics are against the rules. I was not aware this rule was actually enforced, but it is my fault for flouting the rules in the first place. My bad, guys. I'm afraid I had to delete the lyrics. The story in its original songfic glory will be posted on my deviantART page in short order, where I go by seikodelic. Thank you and have a nice day.

The music pounded in his ears, some mashup Stanford had mixed special just for tonight. Vert could feel the throbbing bass vibrating his ribcage. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and cheap perfume, and the heat of the bodies writhing on the dance floor made him dizzy. Vert didn't know if he wanted to be here anymore. He wasn't so sure when he was first invited, either, and the night only got more confusing once he and his friends arrived.

Two weeks before, Stanford had announced he was commissioned to mix tracks for a special event at a local nightclub. He would not be deejaying, as they had an in-house emcee, but his work would still be used. He let his friends know that he'd be going to watch and invited them along, and most of the Battle Force 5 were eager to have a night off. What Stanford had failed to mention was the very particular clientele to whom the club catered.

Vert jumped with a start at the sudden contact and whirled round to see glamorously long black hair and a slinky dress. He caught the other person as they wobbled in their heels, spilling their drink.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't see you there, uh…" Vert looked them up and down, noticed the lean hips and the wide shoulders, and felt a jolt of uneasiness. "Uh, Miss…? Or, um. I'm sorry, I'm not sure what to call you."

"Call me he, call me she, just as long as you call me," the queen said with a sly wink, his voice as deep and rough as the bottom of a whiskey barrel. He leaned closer to Vert and smiled. "Thank you so much for catching me, dear. In these heels, I would have broken my neck. If there's any way I could ever…repay you…"

There was a surprisingly strong hand on his shoulder, each finger ended in a manicured nail. Vert was thankful for the dimly lit atmosphere, knowing that he had probably just paled several shades. "I, uh." Vert swallowed nervously. "Just, uh, think nothing of it. Happy to help. Gotta go."

And with that, he scampered away, cursing his confused boner.

A dude in a dress. That was a dude in a dress! Not a girl, a guy! He shouldn't have been excited by that! When they pulled into the lot outside and he saw the sign advertising the place as The Queen's Palace, he was uncomfortable, thinking he was walking into a gay bar. A moment after that, realizing he was in a full-blown drag club was downright terrifying. Vert was straight, absolutely, positively not interested in men. He occasionally ended up in bed with men after a few too many drinks, sure, but that didn't mean anything. That was the alcohol. Vert loved women, and that was that.

But right now, he was sober as a judge. And there were some cute girls at this place, but there were also a number of males who were in drag, as well as a few people whose gender he could not positively identify. And realizing that he found almost all of them insanely attractive was a very scary thought.

As the musical styling of Stanford Isaac Rhodes IV pulsed through the clubs speakers, Vert slowly made his way through the crowd. He was petrified. The Queen's Palace was packed with people, all of them dancing and laughing, making connections. No one there was afraid of who they were. Each and every person there, at least for the night, was showing the world their true self. They were alive. They were beautiful. They were free.

And for some reason, that really turned him on.

Vert let the music move through him and breathed deep, the scent of Virginia Slims and Chanel No. 5 mingling with the usual bar smells. The heat of the bodies around him enveloped him, and he began to relax. That was when he saw her…him…her? That was when he saw the person from before take the stage.

The floor-length sequined gown echoed the glamorous styles of the 1970's, the halter straps leaving the back completely exposed and the neckline slashed to the navel. Under the hot stage lights he couldn't tell where the makeup ended and where the person began. He had no idea whether he was looking at a man or a woman, or a person who had been declared one at birth, only to later identify as the other. Or perhaps someone who identified as a third more ambiguous gender. Or however that was supposed worked; Vert wasn't entirely sure.

But the way they—and he continued to mentally use gender-neutral pronouns here, unsure of what to call them—the way they danced was amazing. The elegant legs kicking up, higher than should be possible in those platform heels, the way the dress flowed through the air when they twirled. A nearly impossible backflip. The light sparkling off of the diamond necklace and cuff-bracelets dazzled him. Each fluid motion conveyed pain and loss and determination to be happy again, and it was all perfectly choreographed to Stanford's music.

He didn't know who she or he was, but Vert ached for them. He was so lonely sometimes. He had to be a man and fit in with the rest of his small town. Keep his head down, do what others were doing. He couldn't let them see what was in his heart. Later, he had to suppress his feelings to better care for his teammates. They needed him, and he had to be strong and stoic for them. He had to be responsible. He had to run his 'garage' and be 'normal.' He had to hide who he was, even from himself. But at that show, he came to a startling conclusion.

Vert Wheeler wanted to make sweet tender love to a drag queen.

Well, he still wasn't completely gay. But he was definitely leaving his options open.

"Everybody give it up for Stella Rose!" the emcee's voice cheered through the speakers. Well, at least Vert now had some idea of what to call her.

"Hey, Stella," he called out as she mingled back into the crowd.

Her startling green eyes stared out from under his false eyelashes, questioning.

Vert smiled. "Remember when you said you'd repay me?" he asked, offering his hand. "How about a dance?"

She watched him cautiously, hesitating before she took his hand.

He realized who she really was after another drink and an hour of dancing. Vert could laugh about it now. It seemed so obvious in retrospect, the way Stanford had been so eager for them to see the club. The blonde should have known he was up to something.

As he lazed about in the Brit's bed, remembering the previous night's experience, he stared at the wig on the dresser. Amazed, captivated.

"Vert?" Stanford asked with concern, not daring to snuggle closer. "Is… Is something wrong?"

Vert smiled and cuddled his lover. "You might wanna lose that wig," he said. "You look much cuter as a redhead than as a brunette."

Stanford scoffed, chuckling even as he was so affronted. "You weren't complaining about my looks last night."

Vert kissed him, and Stanford could feel the smile on his lips. "C'mon, Stella," he said fondly. "Let's get some breakfast."