TITLE: Because
AUTHOR: TNC
EMAIL: bitchorama@diaryland.com
RATING: No rating, really.
DISCLAIMER: Insert standard statement of non-ownership here.
SPOILERS: zippo.
________________________________________________________
I don't know why I can't believe him.
He gets this frustrated look in his eyes sometimes. The thing you've got to understand about these eyes is that they are sharper than diamonds, they cut into me, through me, surround me anytime he glances my way. He's told me that I have a way of looking at him that makes him almost uncomfortable; it's the unpredictableness, he doesn't like not knowing what's going to come next. I can't say I enjoy surprises, either. I'm not a good poker player. I can't hide what's in front of me when the stakes are high.
"Just once, just one damn time, I wish you would see yourself the way I do," he told me one evening. His voice was tense, and I knew he had the look in those eyes, but his arms never gave him away. He is strong, so very strong in so many ways, but he takes great pains not to hurt me. Ever. And then was no exception, he was cradling me like I was a piece of porcelain and it's not very often I allow myself to feel that delicate. That breakable.
But he won't tell.
A sigh, and he leaned in, not so much a kiss as resting his lips against the skin by my ear, next to my jaw. His arms went lower, from my shoulders to my waist, never breaking contact. I think, does he even know he does that?
"Do you realize you do that?"
"Hmmmm?"
"You don't break contact with me," I tell him, "not once after the first time you touch me."
A smile forms against my face.
"I never knew," he says honestly. "It's just natural."
"Such a good boy."
"That's me." Pause. "So, you believe me?"
I guess I don't believe him because if I do, when I do, letting him go will be that much worse. And I have to look out for myself. Who else will? It's because it has always been my nature to need cold, hard proof of things and til then my opinion could always be considered negligible.
He doesn't even need to specify what it is exactly he's referring to because I already know. This song and dance we do, I've known the steps for months now and we could take this act on the road. No, not an act. Bad choice of words.
"I don't know, Clark," I breathe out. "I don't know."
He turns my face toward him, that hand that expands over most of my head. It's warm.
"I love you," he says so sincerely that it makes me ache all over. The tremoring begins, from the inside out, and if he notices.......well, he notices.......he's too much of a gentleman to bring it up. A class act.
And there I was, naked with him, in bed, talking about a class act when I have allowed it to get this far without a single consideration to the fact that I couldn't wrap my brain around love.
"What can I give you to prove it? The sky?"
"No," I say, a small smile.
"I would die, I mean it. I would stand in front of a train."
"I know."
"Do I have to change?"
He meant this, sincerely, every syllable.
"If you changed, *I* would put *you* in front of the train," I said, trying to make my voice sound menacing which was useless because of the tears slowly streaming down my cheeks. He kissed them all away, mostly away, before continuing.
"You could tell me that you lied to me, and I would still be true to you," he says now, and I'm suddenly wracking my brain, trying to remember if I had lied to him. Which I shouldn't have to do. Remember, that is.
"And you're so, so beautiful," he continues, that hand roaming from my face to my chest, not grabbing, just rubbing gently and soothingly. "If you weren't---if something happened tomorrow, I wouldn't care. I just wouldn't care."
I nod now, words are a moot point.
But he takes a deep breath and looks at me, his own eyes filled with tears. "But I can't do this forever. I'm tired. I can't.......keep trying to make you believe me. I don't know what else to do or say to make that happen."
Now that I do believe him, it's not like before. Not even close. I still see him occasionally, he almost acts like we don't know each other or that we did, and it was in another life. I let him pretend. I write him letters almost every day, seal them, stamp them, address them and never mail them. One day I'll open them and re-read them. It's so stupid, all of it. I had believed him, not because of all he's doing now or did then.
I believe he loved me because he told me so.
AUTHOR: TNC
EMAIL: bitchorama@diaryland.com
RATING: No rating, really.
DISCLAIMER: Insert standard statement of non-ownership here.
SPOILERS: zippo.
________________________________________________________
I don't know why I can't believe him.
He gets this frustrated look in his eyes sometimes. The thing you've got to understand about these eyes is that they are sharper than diamonds, they cut into me, through me, surround me anytime he glances my way. He's told me that I have a way of looking at him that makes him almost uncomfortable; it's the unpredictableness, he doesn't like not knowing what's going to come next. I can't say I enjoy surprises, either. I'm not a good poker player. I can't hide what's in front of me when the stakes are high.
"Just once, just one damn time, I wish you would see yourself the way I do," he told me one evening. His voice was tense, and I knew he had the look in those eyes, but his arms never gave him away. He is strong, so very strong in so many ways, but he takes great pains not to hurt me. Ever. And then was no exception, he was cradling me like I was a piece of porcelain and it's not very often I allow myself to feel that delicate. That breakable.
But he won't tell.
A sigh, and he leaned in, not so much a kiss as resting his lips against the skin by my ear, next to my jaw. His arms went lower, from my shoulders to my waist, never breaking contact. I think, does he even know he does that?
"Do you realize you do that?"
"Hmmmm?"
"You don't break contact with me," I tell him, "not once after the first time you touch me."
A smile forms against my face.
"I never knew," he says honestly. "It's just natural."
"Such a good boy."
"That's me." Pause. "So, you believe me?"
I guess I don't believe him because if I do, when I do, letting him go will be that much worse. And I have to look out for myself. Who else will? It's because it has always been my nature to need cold, hard proof of things and til then my opinion could always be considered negligible.
He doesn't even need to specify what it is exactly he's referring to because I already know. This song and dance we do, I've known the steps for months now and we could take this act on the road. No, not an act. Bad choice of words.
"I don't know, Clark," I breathe out. "I don't know."
He turns my face toward him, that hand that expands over most of my head. It's warm.
"I love you," he says so sincerely that it makes me ache all over. The tremoring begins, from the inside out, and if he notices.......well, he notices.......he's too much of a gentleman to bring it up. A class act.
And there I was, naked with him, in bed, talking about a class act when I have allowed it to get this far without a single consideration to the fact that I couldn't wrap my brain around love.
"What can I give you to prove it? The sky?"
"No," I say, a small smile.
"I would die, I mean it. I would stand in front of a train."
"I know."
"Do I have to change?"
He meant this, sincerely, every syllable.
"If you changed, *I* would put *you* in front of the train," I said, trying to make my voice sound menacing which was useless because of the tears slowly streaming down my cheeks. He kissed them all away, mostly away, before continuing.
"You could tell me that you lied to me, and I would still be true to you," he says now, and I'm suddenly wracking my brain, trying to remember if I had lied to him. Which I shouldn't have to do. Remember, that is.
"And you're so, so beautiful," he continues, that hand roaming from my face to my chest, not grabbing, just rubbing gently and soothingly. "If you weren't---if something happened tomorrow, I wouldn't care. I just wouldn't care."
I nod now, words are a moot point.
But he takes a deep breath and looks at me, his own eyes filled with tears. "But I can't do this forever. I'm tired. I can't.......keep trying to make you believe me. I don't know what else to do or say to make that happen."
Now that I do believe him, it's not like before. Not even close. I still see him occasionally, he almost acts like we don't know each other or that we did, and it was in another life. I let him pretend. I write him letters almost every day, seal them, stamp them, address them and never mail them. One day I'll open them and re-read them. It's so stupid, all of it. I had believed him, not because of all he's doing now or did then.
I believe he loved me because he told me so.