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Summary: "She would go to the Ball tonight, against their wishes, and these clothes now served as the alternative - she couldn’t use Mother’s gown, so she would go in her Father’s suit." (a "Cinderella" fic with Cinderella/Princess!Charming)

Categories Author Rating Chapters Words Recs Reviews Hits Published Updated Complete
Movies > Other-SciFi/FantasysmolderFR1555,4140133,02814 Dec 133 Jan 14No

chapter one: pile of pink and white

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Cinderella is owned by Disney.
This is one of the prompts I picked up over on the DisneyKinkMeme that ended up longer, so I decided to post it as it's whole story instead of with the other bits in the "Twisted Nostalgia" collection. The prompt was: The stepsisters destroy Cinderella's mother's dress, but the mice mended her father's suit as well. So Cinderella wears the suit to the ball instead (possibly going by horse instead of the carriage). Don't mind if it's an AU with no fairy godmother, don't care whether it's a Prince or Princess Charming. Would looooove a genderqueer Cinderella.

chapter one: and unceremonious pile of pink and white

Cinderella takes but a moment, after the four of them depart from her, to stare at her reflection in the mirror - to stare at herself wearing her mother’s destroyed dress. She does not reach out to touch the so badly treated garment for she fears that if she does as a secret part of her wishes to – hold the torn shreds of the only thing she has left of the woman who died birthing her close to her, close her eyes and hug them as if they will hold her back and offer some comfort – all that will happen is that she will break down in tears.

And that will do no good for anyone.

So, she takes this solitary moment before she deliberately takes the devastated dress off, leaves it unceremoniously in a pile of pink and white upon the floor, and turns her back on the sight (casting it from her mind as well). She still has a Ball to go to after all; this is only a stumbling block on her way there.

And so it is with renewed purpose in her heart that she walks away from one ruined path and opens the drawer to another – to another set of clothing her dear mice friends lovingly restored.

Her Father’s.

It is with a bit of awe that she runs her fingers over these garments; they bring such warm images to her mind, she can still picture him dressed in clothes of these sorts (memory hazy, until she can’t be sure of it, filled in so many times with her repeated daydreams – of the life she had before he died and everything changed, when things were simple, when she knew she was loved).

It is with an excited smile, like a child playing dress up that she slides off her heeled shoes, discards the slip she had been wearing under Mother’s fancy dress and reaches for the deep blue trousers. (Glad she had secretly bathed earlier – it would not do to put on these things dirty, but bathing now would make her even later.)

She slides the white collared shirt over her head, buttoning it up to her neck. She begins to tuck it in but frowns at the excess room around the waist of her trousers – until more searching reveals a belt. The grey vest that comes next, presses down her breasts, giving the illusion - when she walks over to the mirror to see - that she is perhaps simply slightly a lad, broad in the chest and slim in the waist.

The idea makes her grin, and she reaches for the rest of the costume, getting the hand of tying the ascot about her throat after the third try – the rich brocade fabric (blue, gold, and silver in a small pattern of stars) uncommonly smooth to her work callused fingers. There is even a gold pin in the drawer, with her family’s old house crest, to be placed at the center of the knot.

(Oh, she must leave out a full plate for the mice – not just scraps, a full meal with deserts and everything. They certainly deserve it.)

Lastly is the jacket; Father had not been a large man – and as Cinderella had come of age she had grown rather tall (almost un-seemingly so) for a woman. The coat slid onto her easily (‘as if she was meant to wear it’ a part of her whispers), settling about her shoulders, the heaviness of it a comfort to her. She absentmindedly smoothed the lapels as she gazed upon the now completed look in the mirror.

When she had first seen these garments, Cinderella had secretly thought them a good precaution - spare clothing in case things somehow got even worse here with her step-family. (Something she hadn’t thought possible at the time.) They would be a set of clothing that could hide her, in that worst case scenario, where she might have to run.

But things had gotten worse, their cruelty increased – and Cinderella did not wish to ignore it and simply live like this the rest of her life. She would go to the Ball tonight, against their wishes, and these clothes now served as the alternative - she couldn’t use Mother’s gown, so she would go in her Father’s suit.

And, perhaps that meant she would go as a man.

The thought wasn’t as jarring as it should have been. Cinderella felt intrigued instead, thought of it as a sort of puzzle; she bit her lip tilting her head.

And abruptly picked up the sharp scissors that had been lain on top of the dresser containing the adjusted clothing and after looking at her reflection carefully for only a moment longer Cinderella cut off her hair at the base of her neck with very little sentimentality for her locks . Carefully then, she trimmed here and there attempting to make her coif look presentable (and not like it had just been done that night with tailors sheers.)

Sitting up straight again she brushed loose hair off her face and shoulders. Pleased with her work, she grinned at her reflection – and was surprised at the joyful, almost playful expression that crossed the man's face in the mirror. Cinderella knew her features would never appear masculine but there was something about this reflection of herself that felt far more comfortable than the one in heels. Perhaps it was because it was her Father’s clothing she was now wearing – he, whom had always made her feel safe and loved - instead of her Mother’s – whom she had never had a chance to know.

It didn’t matter really, with boots upon her feet (multiple stocking making up the sizing difference) she left the home she had known for so long (in happy and trying times) and closed the door on that life. (After leaving a veritable feast out for her tiny friends who had always been so kind to her, of course.) And with bright blue eyes hopeful, and lightness in her chest, she began the trek towards the glowing castle in the distance.
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