She believes that sometimes you have to relax. Sometimes you have to stop, and think, and just turn off the anxiety in your world that makes it hard for you to see the bigger picture. Sometimes you have to make goals. It's more than just focusing on things like a winning football team, or being liked at school, or avoiding Sue Sylvester.
Sometimes it's about focusing on the small things – her amaryllis, which bloomed for the first time in a sweaty locker room with no natural light; her confetti-painted toenails under her utility sports socks; her favourite pair of shorts. How beautiful she really is when she smiles, and despite her masculine features, the fact that she never forgets her bright red lipstick.
And sometimes it's focusing on others besides yourself. A kid that just got out of juvy. Another in a wheelchair. A ragtag team of football players from different walks of life and different ways of thinking. And you have to win all of their respect.
Will Schuester taught her to look inward, but being honest, she doesn't like him for his cleverness or vast insight. Will is flawed, almost amazingly so. He doesn't think beyond the end of his nose. He's inappropriate and he needs to look at his behaviour. She would never act like he does with a student, especially vulnerable students like Finn Hudson or Rachel Berry.
But she admires the way he can let it all go to throw himself into his passions. To sing with the kids, even when it's not kosher. To occasionally look beyond his own problems to make someone else feel better. She disapproves strongly with the way he chases Emma and he knows it, but he's able to make her forget that by sharing the latest sports scores with her, or taking her out for wings and beer on a Wednesday night when she really should be figuring out football plays and scheduling her lesson plans for her next week of freshman P.E. classes.
But mostly she appreciates that he calls her by her name. Shannon is a name she hated as a child, and paired with a name like Beiste and the looks she was dubiously blessed with, she almost preferred to be called by her last name, especially when it was said by the guys she hung out with. It was a sense of belonging – of knowing she was breaking barriers by keeping up with men in sports and showing that women could even beat them at their own games.
Later, though, she started to hate it. Okay, she'd proven her greatness. She'd proven she was just as good or better at a sex that wanted to tell her she wasn't good enough. Now she wanted to be acknowledged not for whom she could be and who she could beat, but for who she was. And "Beiste", while it worked in the workplace and on the football field, didn't lend itself to romance, or womanliness, or softness.
Will, for all his faults, seemed to see through that. And when he kissed her, he managed to let her know that she was important in every way that counted – as a woman, and keeping up with men.
She tries now not to fantasize about him. He would never go for her. But she tries to imagine how his hands would feel on her body, or how he would make love. She tries to imagine it, and then laughs at herself – because who could ever love a woman like her?
She's seen his ex-wife. Blonde, pretty. Delicate. She sees Emma Pillsbury-Howell: tiny, vulnerable. Someone who needs him. For all Shannon is, she doesn't need Will, or anyone else for that matter, to take care of her.
But she'd like to be noticed. She curls her hair carefully every day, makes sure her lipstick is perfect, and she wears mascara. And she talks to Will, trying to keep her voice gentler, less harsh – trying to find any semblance of warmth in his own tone, in what he says. They keep it to sports, though, until one day in the locker room.
She has this problem where she cries. It's extremely annoying, not to mention inconvenient, because it tends to happen right after Sue Sylvester's Cheerios practice. It's funny how watching a squad of girls who will never have to deal with the same shit that you've had to deal with can be really upsetting. It's not even like this can be changed. It can't even be changed and she still gets upset.
She sometimes hates herself for being so weak.
Shannon wipes under her eyes, gently, trying not to tear the paper towel across the delicate skin. Once, she had gorgeous eyes; now, they're buried in pillows of fatigue. Tired of life, mostly. No matter how much cover up she wears, the circles always bleed through. And today is no exception – after a humiliating interlude with Sylvester in the gym, and then never forgetting that Will's stupid Glee club uses her to "cool off" – she is done.
She hears the door, vaguely, but is concerned with trying to ensure her mascara doesn't run all over her face. When Will speaks, she actually startles, a streak of pale black crossing one cheek in surprise.
"Oh. You're crying."
"It happens." She shrugs it off, but he creeps closer, almost like he can't see her without coming right into her personal space. She feels inordinately annoyed, but allows it.
"Shannon. God, I'm so sorry."
His voice – that fucking pitying voice – the one that makes her heart squeeze and her fist clench; THAT voice. She whirls to face him, suddenly, not caring that he can see that she's been crying, again.
"Shut up, Will." The words blow out of her mouth angrily, and he looks taken aback, that stupid look on his face that makes her simultaneously want to hit him and kiss him. He raises his hands in surrender, and she suddenly feels bad.
"I'm sorry," she begins roughly, hearing her voice scrape the air, "but you don't get it. Okay? You don't. You've always been well-liked, been popular . . ."
"How do you know what I've always been like?" There's a hint of anger in his voice, now, but she shrugs. She isn't in the mood to play nice with his feelings when hers are constantly raw.
"You're a pretty boy. Pretty wife, member of the football team, Glee club champion – of course you were popular. And everyone likes you here. No one gives you the side-eye, except for Sylvester, and she's a bitch to everyone."
If he is surprised at her harsh words and insults, he doesn't show it. Instead, he sits heavily on one of the benches, crossing his hands between his knees, and looks up at her.
She then briefly wonders what it is he's seeing. A red-faced woman who stands 6'2" and weighs 250 lbs? Probably. Does he also see those little things, the feminine things?
Does he care at all?
She shrugs off her self-reflection and tries to lower her voice. "Look. It's been tough. Even after the apology – your . . . concern – it's still tough. I still live my life, every day."
"We all do. We all live our pain. You've got to stop letting everyone else have power over you."
She throws the paper towel to the floor, and it bounces weakly off the dirty tile to land by Will's loafer. Shannon stamps her foot, she clenches a fist, she almost punches the wall, until she realizes that none of that makes her feel better, and none of it breaks his honest gaze.
So, she begins to cry again. And this time, he reacts.
He stands about two inches shorter than her, but she can tell he's stronger than she is. His arms wrap like bands around her chest, holding her up against him. She feels his warmth through the ridiculous vest he wears and for a second – but only a second – she contemplates resting her head on his shoulder.
Inappropriately, he rubs her back. She doesn't stop him.
"Shannon, I can't be who you want me to be. I'm sorry."
Somewhere back in her head, she hears the words, and she acknowledges them, and wants to tell him that this isn't who she wants him to be. Sure, she's lonely, but she doesn't need Will Schuester to love her, even if she does have a crush on him. And her ears close, because she doesn't want to hear those embarrassing words, that he's found her secret and knows her pain.
He still holds her, but he pulls back, so he can look into her eyes. "But I can always be your friend. Always. And I promise, I'm not going to leave you to the mercies of anyone here."
Knowing he's right doesn't take the stab of pain away, but she wipes her eyes, tries to smile, and straightens her polo shirt.
"I can always use support. Thanks, Schuester."
He looks past her bravado and kisses her on the cheek, sending a shock like lightning through the soles of her feet. For a brief second, she knows she's letting her desire show, and she almost feels bad at the answering sadness in his eyes. He wants to be who she wants him to be. Maybe that's worse than him totally rejecting her.
He pauses at the door and watches her crack her neck, bounce on the soles of her feet, and wait for her next class to come in.
Then he smiles – the self-assured Schuester smile he gave her the first time he met her – and despite herself, she grins back.
When he leaves, though, she crumples the paper towel in her fist and vows to never let Will Schuester that close again.