Disclaimer: I don't own Young Justice.
A/N: Time for another favorite pairing of mine. I'm going to make it two chapters instead of my usual one-shots. Let me know how it turns out.
Title: Identity
Summary: The makeup helped break the illusion.
Pairing(s): Aqualad/Kaldur
Warnings: yaoi, angst, identity crisis, cross-dressing, potential OOCness, enough fluff to kill a horse
When he looked in the mirror, all Conner could see was Superman; his eyes, the color of his hair, the sharpness of his jaw, the way his lips quirked into a smile—it all belonged to Superman.
There were times when he wondered what belonged to him.
Xxx
The first time Conner puts on makeup, it's not by accident but it's not completely by choice. It had been the result of a stupid dare orchestrated by a sugar-high Wally: put on one of the girls' makeup and wear it for the day. Not one to back down from anything or anyone, Conner had accepted and walked into M'gann's room with what he hoped was confidence. He had settled himself at the vanity mirror and glanced over the assortment of shadows and lipstick, eventually settling on red rogue and a glittery black eyeshadow.
He had been slow—methodical. The last thing he wanted was to have Wally laughing at him, and he did want to look . . . presentable at best. So carefully—oh-so carefully—Conner had applied the eyeshadow with a deft hand and filled in his lips with the lipstick like a child colors inside the line of a coloring book. He had smeared a thin veil of lipstick over the top, checked himself once and then walked out.
M'gann had smiled and commented on how good he looked; Artemis nudged him in the ribs and said that it hadn't been a bad job for a beginner; Wally had bowed his head in defeat, and Dick had laughed at him; Kaldur had stared—something sharp but unidentifiable glittering in his eyes.
Later that night, Conner had stared at his reflection. His blue eyes were highlighted by the black eyeshadow, and his lips looked full and shiny beneath the red paint. He had gingerly touched a finger to his lips—eyebrows furrowing together in a look of pure concentration as he familiarized himself with the smooth texture of his lips combined with the lipstick and gloss. Then he carefully ran a finger over the black eyeshadow, feeling the smooth lids and the dryness of the powder.
For a brief moment, something shifted, and Conner drew his fingers away. When he looked down, he saw they were stained red and black.
Xxx
Conner had seen breasts. The G-Gnomes had fed him information about both the male and human body. He had seen naked breasts, breasts concealed sports bras and silk; he'd seen pectorals rippling with muscle or sagging with age; he'd seen a woman's privates as he had seen a man's, and the G-Gnomes had even simulated the feeling of both beneath Conner's lax hands.
Artemis had small breasts, but the tank top she was wearing cradled them perfectly. M'gann's breasts were larger than Artemis', but the fact that M'gann could materialize clothing gave her the advantage of clothing that fit her breasts and hugged them perfectly. However, in the right light, when M'gann moved the right way, one could see the outfit was only another thin layer of skin.
They were both pretty in the sense of pretty that had been imbued in Conner by the G-Gnomes. They both had pretty hair that they liked to tossle; they both had long legs and dainty hands; they both had full lips and breasts and curves and round hips; they both giggled and smelled of sweet things.
So when M'gann pressed herself against Conner—her softness melding against his hard lines and muscles, he found himself jealous but fought the urge to push her away.
Xxx
Conner had once told Black Canary:
"I wanted to be Superman."
Black Canary had smiled at him, leaned forward and gingerly touched his hand. She was like his mother—the only parent he had ever known and she spoke softly:
"You'll never be Superman, Conner. Just be you and it will all work out."
And he had listened. He gave himself to urges that were unfamiliar to him.
Xxx
He knew he wouldn't look good in a dress. He was too bulky, too muscular; too masculine (too much like Superman) so instead he went with what he knew looked good on him. He went with jeans that hugged his legs and gave him make-believe curves; cool silk shirts that hung off his shoulders; boots that didn't have a heel that made him feel off-balance and cotton panties made of lace.
The first night Conner tried on an outfit with the makeup; he felt nervous and hated it. He had stood in the bathroom for he didn't know how long, leaning against the sink and trying to get his heart rate under control. He wasn't supposed to be like this—flittering at the sight of his own reflection like a groundhog that has seen its shadow. If he was ever going to be Superman, he needed to be brave like him. Superman wouldn't run from this.
(But something deep inside told Conner he would, and that pleased him; to know there was something that not even Superman could handle—even with all his power.)
Conner closed his eyes, pushed off against the sink, turned sharply on his heel and walked into his bedroom. There was a full-length mirror by the closet, and after a moment of hesitation, Conner walked up to it.
He had dressed in a cut-off jeans that hugged his ass like a second pair of hands; the shirt was black but cool—one sleeve hanging off the shoulder; he had painted his eyes a deep blue that seemed to enhance the light blue of his eyes, and his lips glistened with a sweet-smelling lip gloss. The boots had a small heel, but Conner could walk confidently in them.
Conner had touched the mirror's cool surface and stared at himself for what felt like hours.
For once, he didn't feel like Superman.
Yet, somehow, he was still unhappy.
Xxx
Conner was hard muscles and lines—a straight arrow with an upside-down triangle for a chest. His arms and legs bulged with muscle, and even though he'd never grow stubble, Conner's jaw was a hard edge. He wasn't graceful like Artemis or M'gann, and he wasn't graceful like Wally or Dick. He was made for power—raw and angry. He was meant for destruction.
Even though the makeup made his face soft, it couldn't take away from everything.
But it was enough; just enough to break the mask of Superman's face and reveal Conner Kent—the boy hidden beneath the skin.
As Superboy, Conner felt like a copy.
As Conner Kent, Conner felt human.
Xxx
He dressed in the quiet darkness of his room—the only witness to his transformation the walls and ceiling and bed. He would stare at himself—his true self—and greet him as if he were a person from a distant memory.
Sometimes, if he hadn't been careful enough, M'gann would ask him why there was red in the craigs of his lips, and Wally would point out the dark circles on his eyes were from the shadow hadn't been wiped completely off. He would pass them both off as insomnia and blood from chewing his lips.
If anyone knew the truth, they didn't show it and Conner was content with that. He felt no need for wigs or false breasts. The makeup and clothes were enough—just enough to break Superboy's skin and reveal Conner Kent.
And though he wished to be Conner Kent, and just Conner Kent, Superman's blood was in his veins, and he couldn't disappoint.
He couldn't disappoint. . . .
Xxx
Sometimes, in the cool hours of darkness, Conner dreams of Kaldur.
Touching him softly on his lips smeared with rogue, on his painted eyelids, kissing him with a mouth that knew control and where to go. He dreams of Kaldur touching him through soft blue panties, working him to a hardness that was almost painful. He dreams of Kaldur kissing his face, whispering words in a language that Conner can't understand.
(Although, he's pretty sure that Kaldur is saying something about beauty.)