Disclaimer: Not mine, and if it was, Munch would actually wear his uniform, although perhaps not in these circumstances.
A/N: I'd just like to thank the Munchkins for in a way inspiring this. You guys are great, and I hope you don't cry too much.
It's hanging on the back of my door, still in the dry cleaner's bag. I haven't the heart to look at it just yet. I mean, sure, it's been hanging in my closet since I came to New York and got it, but... I don't want to face it. Maybe that'll make it seem true, make it real, and that's the last thing I want it to be. If it were true, if it were real...
I shake my head and turn my back on it, to go into the bathroom and take a shower. I don't have long. As I step into the shower, I close my eyes, letting the hot water pound my skin, let it try and take away the dull pain I've been feeling these past few days. I stay in the shower longer than usual, trying to convince myself I don't have to go. I don't have to do this. The towel feels rough as I get out of the shower, into a steam filled bathroom. The tile is cold beneath my feet as I put on underwear and a t-shirt and walk out into my bedroom, my eyes drawn again to the bag hanging on the door.
It's time.
I walk over and slowly take off the bag, as if something precious and dear to me lay beneath and this is some great ceremony. Which I guess isn't all wrong. The blue thread feels different, alien, to my fingers. I haven't felt this fabric in a few years. Haven't had occasion to.
I take the pants off the hanger, sliding into them and fastening them up. They're crisp, lines neat and sharp exactly where they should be. I take the jacket off and place it gently on the bed, as if it would break. I take the dress shirt, white, and put it on, buttoning each button slowly, looking down as I do so, even though it isn't necessary. I tuck it into the pants and slip the tie about my neck, doing it up fast. I look at the jacket lying on my bed for a minute before picking that up, too. These buttons I do even slower, watching as my fingers slide them into the holes, the gold buttons, shiny and new looking. I straighten the collar in the mirror, looking at the nameplate and commendation bars on my lest chest, over my heart.
Brushing my hair into a passable state, I pick up my hat, sliding it down over my head. Haven't worn a hat like this in years, not for any extended period of time anyway. Since I was walking a beat back in Baltimore, in fact.
And, as I look back to the bed, I realize there's only one thing left.
The white gloves.