Chapter Text
The eldest daughter of Louis Richter cuts her hair in the shitty bathroom of a gas station outside of Guadalajara the same day she runs away from home. She stole some of her cousin Omar's clothes and it's safer, she knows, if she looks like a boy. Little girls all by themselves get hurt. If people think she's a boy, then they won't mess with her. It's not as hard as she thought, cutting it off, and there's something freeing about it. She gets on the bus wearing Omar's clothes and sits at the back with her shoulders hunched. She doesn't have breasts yet, but it's better to be safe. Her hands are shaking. She hasn't been able to stop shaking since she leveled half of Guadalajara. There's an old woman sitting next to her who reminds her of Tía Callida, the old woman who watched her when her step mother was busy, and she almost starts crying. She smiles at her and calls her a nice young man when she helps her with her bag and the words sticks in her brain like a pebble in her shoe. It feels right and that scares her.
She takes three buses to get to Tijuana and gets a hotel room with the cash she stole from one of her uncles, the one who's a little too touchy and always smells like beer. He's an asshole, so she doesn't feel bad about it. At least, not too bad. She still prays for forgiveness when she climbs into bed, trying not to cry, trying not to shake. She wakes up soaked in sweat with tears drying on her cheeks, dreaming of her father calling her mijo and a gun to her head and blood on her mary janes and nothing makes sense. She throws up, and it's all stomach bile. She hasn't eaten in two days. She presses her forehead to the cool bathroom tile and tries to figure out why young man felt so right. Why being a boy seems so much easier. When the man in the suit asks her what her name is, she says Rictor because it's the first thing that comes to mind and it feels better than her real name ever has. It's easier, to pretend. It feels so much truer than the dresses she wore to Church and the long braids heavy against her neck. The more time she spends being Rictor, the less she actually feels like a girl and the more she-
The more he thinks maybe he can just be a boy. And of course, it all goes to shit soon after. The machine the Right hooks him up to hurts worse than anything he's ever felt and he hopes he dies because it's easier than being like he is. Stuck like this, confused and scared and in so much pain he wonders why he hasn't caught on fire yet. It would be better if he just fucking died right here and now. He's accepted it.
And then the X-Men save him. He can't control his powers and they should just put him down after what he did in San Francisco, but they don't. They take him in, like he's not some freak. He's not sure if they know that he's not really a boy, but neither Jean nor Hank ever comment on it. Even after Hank checks him over for injuries and wraps the places on his arms where the machine rubbed the skin clean off, he still calls him son. It makes no sense. Jean can read minds, but when she takes him to buy new clothes, she steers him towards the boys section with a smile. He doesn't get it, but he's grateful all the same. Still, he's stuck playing chicken for the longest time, not wanting to bring it up in case they don't know and they make him be a girl. The very idea makes him feel sick. He could do it, probably, but he'd feel like clawing his skin off (even more than he already does, because he's getting breasts and he hates the fact that his own body is betraying him).
Hank is the one who eventually breaks their stalemate. "Rictor," Hank says gently, when Ric comes to him feeling sick and uncomfortable and wrong. "I have something for you. As you know, Warren needed to conceal his wings in public."
Ric nods, shuffling awkwardly. "Yeah, so?"
"So," Hanks says, "I have done some research, and I have contrived a similar garment that should work for you as you, er, develop physically."
Ric blanches, "Whaddya mean?"
Hank looks at him over the rim of his glasses, "I'm a doctor, young man, and there is a fair bit of overlap between homosexuals and transexuals and mutants. Birds of a feather flock together, as it were. I've often wondered about the scientific implications of such a convergence, but that is for another day."
"Oh," Ric says softly, "So, uh, you know? About me?"
"Yes," Hank tells him. "And I have been looking into other options. I am primarily interested in genetics, but the development of hormone treatments is a fascinating field of study." He grins. "Perhaps, a subject for another time."
Ric scuffs the floor with his sneaker, "So you don't think that- That I'm a freak or somethin'?"
"No more so than the rest of us," Hank assures him. "However, if you wish to continue as you are, we must take some precautions. The world is full of those who do not and will not understand those who are different, and it can be dangerous. The legal aspect will be taken care of shortly, so do not worry about that."
"Oh," he says, chest tight with emotion, "Oh, yeah. Thanks."
Hank waves him off, "It's no trouble." He turns away and grabs a box. "Jean insisted on wrapping it for you," he says with a smile.
Ric opens it, tearing off the brightly-colored wrapping paper (blue, he notes). It looks like a tan tank top, maybe a few shades lighter than his skin. "What is it?" he asks skeptically.
Hank claps his hands, "I am so glad you asked! Your body is developing as it should during puberty, however in your case this is something that causes discomfort and what is known as gender dysphoria. Therefore, this device will bind your chest and render it flattened!"
Ric rubs the fabric between his fingers. It's stretchy and thin enough that it won't show up underneath his shirts. "Cool," he manages. He feels like he's about to cry.
"Just make sure you don't wear it for longer than a few hours, or you'll injure your ribs," Hank tells him.
Ric just nods, overwhelmed.
Things are better, with the binder. Ironically enough, he feels like he can breathe for the first time since he noticed his chest was no longer completely flat. He can finally look himself in the mirror and not hate what he sees. At least, not as much. For a while, things are okay. And then he wakes up in a pool of his own blood, stomach aching so bad he can barely move. He lays there for a while, choking in self-hatred and what Hank said was dysphoria. He hates his body, hates the fact that he can't just be normal for once. He screams into his pillow, filled with rage and disgust and the desire to crawl out of his skin, to just find a new body that actually looks how it's supposed to.
He stumbles to the bathroom and curls up in the bathtub. There's blood on his legs, soaking his underwear and he feels worse than he ever has. There's a razor blade on the counter, and he stares at it for a while, then grabs it. He stares at it, wondering if he can cut whatever's making him feel this way out from under his skin if he tries hard enough. Tabby is the one who comes to get him. She finds him in the bathroom, covered in his own blood and still staring at the razor blade. She shrieks, and Ric almost stabs himself trying to grab her before she goes to get Hank.
"I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm not dying," he tells her.
"You're bleeding!" she hisses. "Where is it even all coming from, what..." she trails off, really looking at him. He shifts uncomfortably. "Ric," she says after a minute, "Are you a girl?"
"No!" he snaps, "I'm not a fuckin' girl!"
"But you have-" Tabby gestures at his chest, then at the blood on his legs.
He hunches, "Yeah, but I'm a boy. Inside." Explaining it makes him sound nuts.
"Okayyyy," Tabby says skeptically, drawing out the word. "Still, you're having your period."
He sets his jaw, hating the fact that he has to deal with this. "I guess."
"Wait here," Tabby says.
"What are you doing?" he asks nervously.
"Omigod, I'm not gonna get anyone. I'm just grabbing some pads from my room, okay?"
True to her word, Tabby brings him some pads, as well as some clean underwear and sweatpants from his dresser. She lets him change, but she's sitting on his bed when he leaves the bathroom.
"So you're a guy," she says, "How does that even work? How did you know?"
"How'd y'know you were a girl?" he snaps back. He's tired, and he still has to change his sheets before someone finds out.
Tabby nods, like that makes sense, "Do you like girls, then?"
"I guess," he shrugs.
"I hope you don't like me," she says wrinkling her nose, "That would be weird."
"Why?" he says, bristling.
She rolls her eyes, "Cause you're like the annoying little brother I never had."
"Oh fuck you," he says, rolling his eyes, but something warm spreads through him. Tabby knows, and she's not calling him a freak.
"Dork," she snorts. "We need to get you some better clothes, though, if you wanna impress any girls."
His throat tightens. "Fine, whatever," he says, pretending not to be happy about it. "But just 'cause I look like a girl doesn't mean you can drag me shopping. I'm still a boy."
"Yeah, I got that," she says, rolling her eyes again.
When they go to school, Jean convinces the principal to give him his own room. And when things get too hard or he's terrified that someone's going to find out, he sticks with Tabby. When they break out to rescue Artie and Leech and they steal clothes, she insists on dressing him up. At first, he's worried she's going to make him look like a girl, but she doesn't. She gets him jeans and a cool leather vest and red sneakers. It's a little bit flashy for his taste (the last thing he wants is to stand out) but it makes him feel like one of those handsome movie stars that Tabby and Skids are always swooning over. He ignores the fact that if he had to choose between kissing Molly Ringwald or Judd Nelson, he'd go with Judd Nelson. Boys don't want to kiss other guys. If he wants to be a boy, then he has to want to kiss girls. That's just how it is.
He meets Rahne and thinks, this is it. This is the girl he's going to marry someday. She's pretty and shy and her wolf form is pretty cool. And for a while, they orbit each other. Tabby doesn't seem to like Rahne all that much, but Ric thinks she's too cool. And then Cable shows up and fucking ruins it all. He tries to ignore the fact that the man who killed his father is right in front of him, he really does, but it reaches a breaking point after Genosha. The fact that Rahne saw him naked just makes it worse.
"How could ye lie t'me?" she asks while they're in that cell together.
Ric feels awful and sick. Cameron Hodge's taunts are still ringing in his ears and he's terrified. At least Tabby already knew. But Rahne, Rahne is a Calvinist and she won't even look at him. "I didn't lie," he hisses, hugging himself. "I really am a boy."
Rahne snorts, "Well, ye d'nae look like one."
"I am, I am," he insists, "My body's just... wrong."
Rahne shrugs, "Ah suppose it's possible." But she still won't look at him.
She stays on Genosha, and it doesn't take long for Ric to snap and leave. He fucking hates Cable, hates the fact that he acts like he doesn't know what he's done. Calls him Julio, like he has any right to the name Ric chose for himself. He leaves a note for Tabby, telling her he's going to find Rahne. Truthfully, he has no idea where he's going.
He just needs to leave.