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My hair looks nice long. Jon hadn’t had the time for a haircut in a while, and when he caught a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror, it was beginning to reach his shoulder blades.
He recalled when he had it long in university- Georgie had convinced him to grow it out as part of the ‘punk’ vibe they were going for. He’d been fond of it back then, too. Although, he did eventually cut it short- a little too short- and he’d been keeping it pretty consistent since then.
Until now, he thought, running his hand through the strands. He briefly considered cutting it, but decided against it. He didn’t have the skills to cut his own hair, he didn’t want to ask Melanie or Basira, (Daisy, bless her, was still far too shaky to even be an option) and he really did not like going out in public anymore. Besides… he quite liked this.
Jon paused on his way to the breakroom. He’d been intending to make himself some tea, but walking past Sasha’s old desk, he noticed Melanie stuffing things into her bag quite hastily.
“Going somewhere?” he asked hesitantly.
Melanie glared at him- intentionally or not, Jon didn’t want to know- and sighed. “Just home.”
“Oh. Er, it’s,” Jon glanced at the clock. 11:13am. “early, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, well,” Melanie said. “I’m not feeling great, so, I’m going home.”
Jon frowned. It couldn’t be the slaughter again, could it? Or- or maybe she’s being targeted by the spiral, or-
“H-how do you-” Jon stopped himself. No more questions. “I’d, er, like to know how exactly you feel unwell.”
Melanie scoffed, looking back down at her bag. “Why do you care? It’s none of your business.”
“I know. I’m sorry, I-” for someone who worked with words, Jon really was quite terrible at them. “I just… I’m worried this could be… er… a repeat of the bullet incident?”
Melanie closed her eyes in frustration, tilting her head up. “No, it’s not. I’m fine.”
“A-are you su-”
“Oh my god!” Melanie exclaimed, throwing her hands up. “Fine! I’m on my period. There. Happy?”
Surprised by her outburst, Jon didn’t respond for a painfully long moment.
“And, my cramps are worse than usual, so, yeah,” Melanie continued. “It’s woman stuff. Now can you leave me alone?”
Jon took a careful step back. “Right.”
“Sorry for wounding your fragile male ego by talking about my monthly cycle or whatever,” she said, “but I’m going home.”
“No, of course, that’s- that’s perfectly alright, I just,” Jon looked away. “I worry.”
“Fuck off.” Melanie swung her bag over her shoulder and left, not sparing Jon a second glance.
He knew Melanie was right to be mad at him- for past and present actions, but that didn’t stop the weird feeling bubbling in his chest.
Woman stuff. Jon knew plenty about woman stuff. He was quite experienced with woman stuff, in fact. (Although he couldn’t think of a single example to make this true, the thought did comfort him.)
The final straw was the woman on the tube.
Her skirt was purple and white, in a pretty floral pattern, and it reached her mid-shins. It was a nice skirt, really. It complemented the woman’s skin tone, and it matched the purple extensions on her braids.
The problem was that in university, Georgie had owned one just like it. And Jon, alone in her dorm and just a little drunk, had tried it on, only once. He was so surprised by how much he liked it that he hadn’t even entertained the idea of wearing one since.
Because he was a man, and men shouldn’t wear skirts. There was a trans woman who had lived in Bournemouth after Jon moved away; he remembered visiting his grandmother, and her going on about how disgusting it was, for a ‘man’ to be parading ‘him’self around in makeup and dresses.
Jon remembered meeting the woman, once, and complementing her hair. He also remembered Georgie convincing him once to try eyeshadow, and him crying when he got home.
The woman in the floral skirt moved a hand defensively over her bag, and Jon realised he’d been staring.
He chastised himself for giving into the Eye, but shot the woman a weak smile and looked away. He tightened his grip on the pole he was leaning on as the train doors opened and closed and the train started moving again.
Jon couldn’t stop thinking about her skirt. It wasn’t the exact one Georgie owned, but it was similar enough that every time Jon saw it in the corner of his eye he was reminded of Georgie’s dorm room, the fabric billowing around his knees as he spun around. Every time his gaze drifted over, he remembered posing like Jean-Bernard Duvivier’s portrait of Thérésa Tallien in front of Georgie’s full-length mirror.
The automated voice announced Jon’s stop, and he prepared to leave, sparing one more glance at the woman before he left.
The train door opened, and Jon made his towards it.
“I like your skirt,” he told the woman, ducking into the sanctity of the station before he could see her reaction.
Jon hastened unusually to the rest of his flat; he usually payed his surroundings no mind anyway, but the idea of being seen was especially unbearable today.
He stopped abruptly, however, in front of the charity shop he’d walked past a hundred times. He’d never been in before- so there was no way anyone inside would recognise him- and, well, he supposed they must have a skirt in his size, mustn’t they?
Jon remembered his Grandmother insisting he got his hair cut regularly. He remembered her angry ranting when someone had mistaken him for her Granddaughter. He remembered her funeral, his old neighbours telling him how lucky she’d been to have such a wonderful grandson. Such a good young man, they’d said.
He also remembered Georgie’s skirt, and her mascara, and her hair ribbons, and all the things he’d tried for himself when he was alone in her dorm, and pushed the charity shop door open with much more effort than should be required for a door.
Forty-five minutes later, Jon left with two skirts neatly folded in a paper bag and a renewed sense of shame.
He speed-walked the rest of the way home, desperate to escape the watching, knowing eyes of passerbys. It didn’t matter that there was no way they could know. The fear of it was enough.
Before all of this, before everything, Jon used to have a routine for getting home; he’d put his bag and coat by the door, remove his shoes, wash his hands, set out his files and laptop and get to work, with some leftovers or takeout if he felt like it.
Now, on the occasion he did come home, his bag and coat went on the couch, and his work went untouched till he needed it. Food was a rare necessity. Sometimes trying to eat felt like swallowing sand; often he didn’t even try.
Jon took one of the skirts out of the bag. It was a black tiered skirt, down to his ankles. He left the other in the bag, the brown one that only reached his knees. He went to put the black skirt on- removed his trousers as an afterthought- refusing to look down at it as he did.
There was a full-length mirror in his closet- it had been in the bathroom, until Jon couldn’t handle seeing his own eyes and had to move it- which he gingerly took to the living room, making sure to angle it away from himself until he set it down.
He stepped back, taking it in. He expected to be hit with a wave of disgust, or shame, perhaps- and that’s not to say the feeling wasn’t there, but it took a backseat to the pure joy he felt at the sight. He once again thought of Thérésa Tallien, though he knew nothing of the woman herself, portraits of her were ingrained in his memory. He spun around, watching the fabric spread out and fall back in, and he laughed- actually laughed, for the first time in months.
But he paused, and he thought of what would happen were his Grandma alive to see this.
The shame came back, but the images of Tim’s painted nails and Gerry’s makeup pushed to the forefront of Jon’s mind- whether by the eye or his own subconscious, he was unsure- made him think maybe it was a little okay.
He wondered what Daisy would say. He pictured her asking him, if Martin did the same thing, would you be disgusted? And he thinks the answer is no.
He didn’t try on the other one, he didn’t think he could in that moment, but he set aside the one he was wearing and even forced himself to eat a bowl of (expired) cereal for dinner.
When Jon woke up the next day, he actually put effort into his outfit, which he hadn’t done in quite a while. He put on the black skirt, pairing it with a grey What the Ghost shirt- unisex fit, he’d stolen it from Georgie’s closet- and black socks. He wore his nice loafers, too. He’d stopped wearing them after the worm infestation, not wanting to get them dirty, and he’d been wearing ratty old joggers since. He found a white pearl necklace in a drawer- not real pearls, the eye said- and looped it around his wrist twice as a bracelet.
Oh, Jon thought, looking in the mirror, I look nice.
You look like a woman, he also thought, though he knew it wasn’t true. Would it be so bad, though? So horrible to be seen as a woman?
He banished the thought, taking his bag and leaving the way he came the night before. He was aware people were staring, and he hated it, but he knew he deserved it and pretended not to notice.
When he walked into the institute, if Rosie noticed, she didn’t say anything, and Basira and Melanie rarely looked up when he walked in, meaning he got to his office without a single comment. Jon sighed in relief, sinking into his desk chair.
He recorded a statement, absently, almost on autopilot, and as he finished the last line, someone knocked on his door.
“Statement ends,” he said hastily. He clicked the recorder off. “Come in.”
Daisy entered. She didn’t say anything, but dropped into the chair across from his desk with a magazine. Jon leaned forward. She seemed to be reading an article about the healing properties of pineapple juice.
“High in vitamin C,” she muttered. Jon hummed in agreement, then went back to doing as much work as he could without recording.
After an indeterminable number of minutes, several magazine pages having been turned, Daisy asked for the time.
“Oh, er,” Jon said. “Almost twelve.”
“Lunchtime, then,” she replied. “You bring anything?”
“No.”
“Me neither. You know, I’ve been wondering if we could get lunch delivered to the institute,” she continued.
“Tim sent a pizza once,” commented Jon. “To Martin. During the whole worm thing.”
Daisy doesn’t respond; she knows better than to do so when Tim or Sasha, or Martin, God forbid, are brought into it. “I’m gonna try,” she said eventually. “Thai?”
“Sure,” Jon said. “You should ask Basira if she wants something.”
“Not Melanie?”
Jon shivered. “I feel like if I even say her name she’ll come in and kill me.”
“Bullet’s gone,” said Daisy.
“I know,” Jon replied solemnly. Daisy said nothing again.
“I’ll ask anyway,” she said eventually, leaving Jon’s office.
In her absence he managed to record another statement, and she didn’t come back in until he was done. He already knew how she could tell; if you got close enough to the door, you could just barely hear him; and Daisy’s ears were specially trained.
When she came in, she was holding a pack of cards. “Go fish?”
Jon smiled weakly. “Sure.”
Daisy, for a reason Jon couldn’t parse, preferred to play card games on the floor, so she dropped cross-legged and waited for Jon to follow. He got up from behind his desk, and Daisy’s eyes immediately snapped to his legs.
Oh. Right. He’d forgotten about that. He tried to mask his nervousness, taking a few tentative steps towards where she sat.
“Nice skirt,” she said eventually.
“Thank you,” Jon replied, his voice clipped.
“So, are you…” Daisy gestured vaguely for a moment, clearly unsure how to ask the question. “Do you want to be a woman?”
Jon’s response was almost immediate. “I don’t think so,” he said slowly. “But I don’t quite think I’m a man either.”
Daisy considered this for a moment, then gestured for Jon to sit. He did.
“Neither, then?” she asked.
“Or both,” Jon muttered. “I don’t know.”
“Right,” Daisy replied, splitting the cards. “So what should I call you then? He, she?”
“Erm.”
“They?” Daisy suggested.
“They, I suppose,” Jon replied. “Although I don’t think I’d mind either way.”
“’Kay. Still Jon, then?”
“Yes.”
All things considered, Daisy was surprisingly okay with it. Not that Jon had expected her to freak out, but they’d at least expected more questions. They stayed silent, though; they knew not everyone would be so accepting. They were grateful for the small mercy.
It was around eight minutes until Daisy got a text saying their delivery was almost there.
“Suppose I’ll go pick it up,” Jon said, leaning forward to read the message. “You can stay down here.”
Daisy often didn’t like to exist in the institute alone these days, so she followed them out to the main area, but not up the stairs into the lobby.
Daisy stopped next to Basira’s desk, letting Jon ascend the stairs to the lobby alone. They sometimes struggled with talking to people normally, so she thought this would be good for them. Quick, thirty second interaction and they’re out.
“What the fuck?” Melanie said as soon as the door closed.
Daisy turned to look at her. “Wha’sup?”
“Why is Jon in a skirt?” she practically spat.
Daisy shrugged. “Looks nice.”
“He was in a skirt?” Basira asked, looking up from her book.
“Yeah, it was weird,” Melanie replied. “What, is he, like, a woman now?”
“Melanie, him wearing a skirt doesn’t make him a woman.” Basira closed her book. “Men can wear skirts.”
“I know that,” Melanie grumbled.
“Suits them, though, doesn’t it?” Daisy mused out loud.
“Jon’s still a he,” Basira said, “A piece of fabric doesn’t change that.”
Daisy shook her head. “Nah. They told me, it’s they.”
Melanie snorted. “What, high and mighty Jonny Sims actually asked you to call them that?” Daisy noted that, although she was insulting them, she did in fact use the correct pronoun.
Daisy shrugged again. “I asked.” Basira reopened her book.
“Means you can’t try and kill them anymore,” Daisy joked. “It’s transphobic.”
“I’m not transphobic,” Melanie responded defensively.
“No-one said you were,” said Basira, not looking up.
“I’m not though.”
Daisy held up a placating hand. “We know.”
“Someone should tell Martin.”
Jon looked up from the statement he was labelling. “What?”
Daisy returned to her sudoku. “That you’re not a man. I think he’d want to know.”
Jon’s shoulders sank. “I want him to know. But…”
“You can’t find him anywhere?” Daisy supplied.
“I can’t find him anywhere,” they echoed.
“Well, if I find him, I’ll tell him,” she said.
Jon sighed. “Thank you, Daisy. I appreciate that.” She hummed in response.
She actually did find Martin a few days later, in some hidden corner of the archives stuffing folders into a box. He was surrounded by some kind of mist- fog, Jon’s statements would suggest- and she constantly felt the urge to look away from him. She resisted.
“Martin.”
He startled as though he hadn’t heard her coming, even though she had definitely bumped into a cabinet well within his earshot. He made eye contact with her, gingerly placed the statement he was holding into his almost-full box, then broke eye contact. “What do you want?” he said coldly.
Daisy ran a hand through her hair. “Just thought I should tell you something.”
Martin’s patience was clearly thinning, or at least he was trying to make it seem that way. “What?”
“Jon’s trying something new,” Daisy tried to explain it plainly, “Like, trying new clothes and pronouns and stuff. Thought you’d wanna know.”
“Oh,” Martin replied, clearly not knowing how to respond to that. Daisy gave him a second, and when he didn’t say anything she continued.
“Their name’s still Jon, obviously, but we’ve been using they/them. They don’t know if they like that yet.”
“Okay,” Martin mumbled. “Um, cool.”
“And they’ve started wearing skirts,” Daisy added. “I think that’s everything.”
Martin nodded. “Um, thanks for telling me?” He sounded genuine for a moment, but resumed his detached demeanour only a second later. “If that’s all, you can leave now.”
“Alright. No need to get hostile,” Daisy joked, but Martin showed no sign of amusement. She gave up on trying to get anything out of him and turned on her heel.
“Let me know if any of that, er, changes, or anything.”
Daisy almost thought she imagined it, even more so when she looked back and Martin had resumed his menial folder-stuffing, but she also thought that no matter how much he tried to make it seem like the opposite, Martin truly cared for Jon.
“Will do,” she said to a brick wall, turning and leaving for real this time.
Then she found Jon in their office, stapling together blank pieces of paper. She spent a moment deciding whether to ask or not, decided not to, and then changed her mind. Jon was confused by the question, took a second look at the paper, and sighed.
“It’s… it’s written in invisible ink,” they explained. “It’s usually only readable under UV light.”
“But you have freaky eyes,” Daisy responded.
Jon made a face at the phrasing, but conceded. “I have freaky eyes.”
After a secondary explanation that they had read the entire statement without realising it was invisible ink, Daisy remembered what she came in for.
“I talked to Martin,” Daisy told them.
The stapler went silent when Jon stopped moving. “You saw him?”
Daisy nodded. “He was putting statements in a box. Probably taking them back to wherever he works nowadays.”
Jon put the paper down, squeezed the stapler twice, set it down, picked it back up, set it down again and began picking at their nails. “Did you- er- was anything said about-”
Daisy could tell they were simultaneously trying to figure out how to ask the question and also how not to make it a question at all, so she cut in. “I told him about your whole gender thing.” She was beginning to understand how difficult it was to phrase.
Jon visibly relaxed, then tensed, and had stubbornly been refusing to stop looking directly at Daisy’s face since she walked in.
“He took it well, I think,” Daisy continued. “I mean, knowing him, it’s unlikely he’d have a bad reaction. He’s just acting dumb for whatever bullshit he’s doing with Lukas. He thanked me for telling him then asked me to leave.”
While she’d been talking, Jon had once again picked up the stapler. They put it down. “That… sounds right,” they murmured solemnly.
“Men are dumb,” Daisy said, in an attempt to lighten the mood, and she succeeded in getting a weak chuckle out of Jon. “Do you mind if I put on The Archers?”
Jon groaned. “Please don’t.” She did anyway.