Page 43 of Hero Worship

"Let me buy your next set," I said without hesitation. The offer felt natural, another way to take care of what was mine.

He paused, meeting my eyes in the mirror. "You don't have to do that."

"I want to." My hand found his hip, steadying us both. "If this is what makes you feel like you, then it's worth every penny."

His smile in the mirror was soft, genuine in a way his usual masks weren't. "You really mean that, don't you?"

“Of course I do,” I said.

Xander stared at me for a long moment before turning back to the mirror. “Okay, I’ll make you a list. But no complaints when you drop a couple grand at once. I’m serious. The good stuff isn’t cheap.”

While he worked through his skincare routine, I began laying out our equipment for the day. Each weapon needed to be carefully concealed, the placements precise to allow quick access without compromising his cover. The ceramic blade went against his inner thigh, positioned so the slit in his dress would provide easy access. The garrote wire was disguised as a delicatebracelet, the ends weighted with what appeared to be decorative charms.

"Can I ask you something?" I kept my voice gentle, watching him work vitamin C serum into his skin while I checked the edge on a second blade. "Something that might sound ignorant, but I want to understand."

Xander's . "You want to know why I can't just be a feminine man."

The directness caught me off guard. I set down the knife I'd been examining. "I... yeah. I mean, why did there need to be a whole new gender? Men can wear dresses, can wear makeup. Why isn't that enough?"

His hands stilled for a moment before resuming their practiced movements. "It's not new. Non-binary people have existed in cultures throughout history. Two-spirit people in Native American tribes, Hijra in South Asia, Fa'afafine in Samoa." He reached for his moisturizer. "Western culture just forgot there were options besides male and female."

"Okay, but..." I struggled to frame the question respectfully while loading a slim pistol with subsonic rounds. "What makes it different from just being gender non-conforming? From being a man who rejects masculine stereotypes?"

"Because I'm not a man rejecting masculinity." They turned to face me fully. "I'm someone who exists outside that whole binary system. It's not about clothes or makeup. Those are expressions, not identity. It's about who I am at my core."

"I don't understand," I admitted, setting aside the gun to give him my full attention.

"Think of it this way," he said, turning back to apply his sunscreen. "When you look in the mirror, you know you're a man, right? Not because of your body or your clothes, but because that identity feels right to you?"

I nodded, watching him check the concealment of the thigh holster.

"Well, when I look in the mirror, neither 'man' nor 'woman' feels right. It's like... being handed a form with only two boxes to check, and knowing neither one fits you. Not because you're rejecting the boxes, but because your truth exists outside them completely."

The analogy helped, but I still had questions as I helped him adjust the knife sheath. "But you present femininely. You use he/they pronouns. Isn't that contradictory?"

"Gender is performance art," he said, carefully blending his primer. His eyes lit up with that intensity he got when discussing fashion or combat, the look of an artist describing their medium. "Some people perform masculinity, some perform femininity. Me?" A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. "I'm creating something entirely new. My gender isn't male or female. It's a masterpiece I'm constantly refining. The clothes, the pronouns, they're just different brushstrokes in a larger work of art."

"So when you wear dresses and makeup..."

"Sometimes it's tactical. I use people's assumptions against them. Sometimes it's because I like pretty things. Sometimes it's pure spite." His smile turned sharp as he checked the line of his dress, making sure it concealed everything while still allowing access. "But none of that defines my gender. I'd still be non-binary in combat boots and a tactical vest."

I moved closer, drawn by the intensity in his voice. "And the dysphoria you mentioned? About body hair?"

"That's... complicated." He focused intently on blending his foundation. "Some non-binary people have physical dysphoria, some don't. For me, body hair feels wrong. Makes my skin crawl. But that's my experience. It's not universal."

"Thank you," I said quietly. "For explaining. For being patient with my ignorance."

"You're trying to understand. That's more than most people do." His smile softened. "Besides, you claimed this body pretty thoroughly this morning. Figured you deserved to understand who you were claiming."

I caught his wrist gently, turning him back to face me. "I knew exactly who I was claiming." I held his gaze, letting him see my certainty. "A beautiful, deadly, complicated person who transcends every category I thought I understood. My Xander."

His breath hitched, pupils dilating. But before he could respond, I nodded at his extensive collection of products. "Now, are you going to explain what all these things do, or do I have to guess?"

The tension broke as he laughed. "God, you really are new to this, aren't you?" But he started explaining as he worked, his voice taking on that passionate quality he usually reserved for discussing fashion or combat techniques. Each product was a different medium in his artistic arsenal: primers creating the perfect base, contour powders sculpting light and shadow, highlights adding strategic brilliance. I watched him section and style his hair with the precision of a sculptor, each strand placed to create an effect that looked effortlessly tousled but was, in fact, carefully crafted performance art.

Together, we went through final weapons checks, transforming each piece of tactical gear into part of his performance. A second blade nestled at the small of his back, the sheath custom-made to look like part of the dress's architecture. Each weapon placement was choreographed like a dance move, every line of concealment considered like a brushstroke in his deadly masterpiece. One wrong angle, one visible tell, and the illusion would shatter.

"The marketing team at Lucky Losers would kill for footage of this," I mused, watching him check the final effect. "The world's deadliest honey trap getting ready for a night out."

---