'Men don't cry, Lindsey.' That's what my father used to tell me. Not mad at me - not mad so much as disappointed. Like I was supposed to be a better man that he, and when I wasn't, he was disappointed in himself for not raising me right and so sorry because I was going to end up just like him - a weak sniveling man who can't do anything but joke when they take away his home.
I came home from school crying once and never again. My father took me into our small bathroom and he cleaned me up, then - and I still remember this - he pushed my unruly hair out of my eyes and held my face in his hands, "Are you a man, son?" I nodded. "I thought so. Men don't cry, Lindsey." I tried to protest, but he continued, "Men don't cry over their situation, Lindsey. They change it, they endure it, but they don't cry about it." And he stared directly into my eyes for a long moment, like he was making sure I understood what he was saying. "Now let's do something about it."
I didn't cry after that. When we lost the house, I didn't cry. When my first girlfriend dumped me, when I broke my arm, when my best friend died, I didn't cry. When my father told me that I was the man, that I had to take care of my mother and sisters, I sat there all alone, holding my dead father's hand with them in the other room being consoled by the neighbors, and a few silent tears slipped down my still smooth cheeks. I haven't cried since.
But sometimesI don't want to be a man. I don't want to have all this responsibility and I certainly don't want people depending on me. Sometimes I just want to hide from the world and depend on someone else for a change. Let someone take care of me. At the same time I'm afraid to let go of the control. Afraid that it will escape me, or, worse, I'll be forced to accept that I never really had it.
Change it or endure it. My father didn't want me to be like him, so he tried to teach me how to be a man. Change your situation or endure it. Guess what, dad? I've done that. I've spent my whole life doing that. I made it. I'm a fucking man. My fucking wardrobe costs more than everything we ever had. And I'm still just white trash. I'm just like you.
Sometimes I think they can tell. Lilah looked down on me because of it. Daddy paid her way through college. But she looked at me and she hated me, because she was forced to tolerate working with me. Like I wasn't good enough.
But, fuck, when Angel looks at me, it's so much worse. Sometimes I still see the contempt, his hate for what I am, or at least what I used to be, but then there's the pity. That's what I hate the most. I can endure or change contempt and hate and teasing and pain, but fuck, I hate the pity.
Cordelia pities me, too, but it's not as bad. With Angel, it's this righteous holier-than-thou thing, but with Cordelia, it's more personal. She's so fallen from gace. She thinks we have something in common. I'm still not sure if she likes me.
Hell, they barely tolerate me.
But Wesley, he's one of those people who gives everyone a second chance. He never looks at me contemptuously and he never did. He's just so gentle, when he touches me, he sends this electricity through me. Hell, he does it just by looking at me. Sometimes I don't like how he makes me feel - like I'm not in control, like he is.
"Lindsey! Lindsey, clear off the couch!" Cordelia comes running in, followed by Angel, who's supporting a weakened, bleeding Wesley. OhGodWesley.
"What happened?"
"It's nothing, really."
"The Camara demon, Wesley here thought he could take it."
"And I nearly did, thank you."
"Thought? Wait. I thought you were doing recon."
"So did I."
"The reconnaissance revealed the need for immediate action."
"You could have warned us."
"I did."
"'Stay close' is not a warning!"
"You seem to consider it more than adequate."
"I can handle myself. I didn't mean it like that, Wesley..."
"I want to go now, Lindsey." I slip my arm around his slender waist as he leans against me, weakened from battle and hurt by Angel's words. I don't look at Angel as we leave, and I don't smile in grim satisfaction as Cordelia berates Angel. She's not afraid of him, and I like that.
"Wes?" He looks up at me from the couch in our apartment and makes one of those charming inquisitive sounds, the one that makes my entire body tingle. There's so much I want to ask him - what the hell were you thinking? how could you do that to me? what are you trying to prove? do you even realize that we didn't kiss goodbye this morning? that you could die any day and I'd be left all alone again? "Are you sure you're all right?"
Then he smiles at me, a small one, through the pain, and I know he'll survive at lease one more day. We remove his shirt and I clean and bandage his wounds, all very carefully, methodically.
"I'll get you a clean shirt."
He catches my hand as I stand to leave and asks, "What's wrong?"
I want to tell him everything's fine. That's not true. I want to push him against the back of the couch and kiss him until he can't see straight. But I can't do either. All I can do is stand there, paralyzed, staring into his eyes.
I'm crying and he's holding me and I feel like such an idiot because here I am blubbering like a baby with a guy who was nearly killed only hours ago holding me and whispering comforting sounds into my hair. His hands are on my back now, cool and gentle, like a breeze on a on hot day, you can't get enough, and that just makes me cry harder.
"Shhh. It's okay. It's okay." I can feel him kissing my hair, he does that alot, I think he likes how it feels. "Don't cry, Lindsey."
Men don't cry, Lindsey.
"It's all right. Calm down."
Men don't cry.
"Men don't cry." His hands stop on my shoulders and he pushes me back. I look up and him and I see it. That look of disappointment, not in me, but in himself. And that hurts me more than anything else.
He pushes my hair back and wipes at me cheeks with his thumbs and it feels like forever before he actually says anything. "Yes, they do." No melodramatic speech, no laughing at me, just a calm statement.
I see the tears in his own eyes as he leans forward to kiss me, but veers off instead, so that his cheek rests against mine and he whispers, "I pray I never give you reason to do so again, but I will think no less of you if you do cry." Then, so quietly, "I love you, Lindsey."
I came home from school crying once and never again. My father took me into our small bathroom and he cleaned me up, then - and I still remember this - he pushed my unruly hair out of my eyes and held my face in his hands, "Are you a man, son?" I nodded. "I thought so. Men don't cry, Lindsey." I tried to protest, but he continued, "Men don't cry over their situation, Lindsey. They change it, they endure it, but they don't cry about it." And he stared directly into my eyes for a long moment, like he was making sure I understood what he was saying. "Now let's do something about it."
I didn't cry after that. When we lost the house, I didn't cry. When my first girlfriend dumped me, when I broke my arm, when my best friend died, I didn't cry. When my father told me that I was the man, that I had to take care of my mother and sisters, I sat there all alone, holding my dead father's hand with them in the other room being consoled by the neighbors, and a few silent tears slipped down my still smooth cheeks. I haven't cried since.
But sometimesI don't want to be a man. I don't want to have all this responsibility and I certainly don't want people depending on me. Sometimes I just want to hide from the world and depend on someone else for a change. Let someone take care of me. At the same time I'm afraid to let go of the control. Afraid that it will escape me, or, worse, I'll be forced to accept that I never really had it.
Change it or endure it. My father didn't want me to be like him, so he tried to teach me how to be a man. Change your situation or endure it. Guess what, dad? I've done that. I've spent my whole life doing that. I made it. I'm a fucking man. My fucking wardrobe costs more than everything we ever had. And I'm still just white trash. I'm just like you.
Sometimes I think they can tell. Lilah looked down on me because of it. Daddy paid her way through college. But she looked at me and she hated me, because she was forced to tolerate working with me. Like I wasn't good enough.
But, fuck, when Angel looks at me, it's so much worse. Sometimes I still see the contempt, his hate for what I am, or at least what I used to be, but then there's the pity. That's what I hate the most. I can endure or change contempt and hate and teasing and pain, but fuck, I hate the pity.
Cordelia pities me, too, but it's not as bad. With Angel, it's this righteous holier-than-thou thing, but with Cordelia, it's more personal. She's so fallen from gace. She thinks we have something in common. I'm still not sure if she likes me.
Hell, they barely tolerate me.
But Wesley, he's one of those people who gives everyone a second chance. He never looks at me contemptuously and he never did. He's just so gentle, when he touches me, he sends this electricity through me. Hell, he does it just by looking at me. Sometimes I don't like how he makes me feel - like I'm not in control, like he is.
"Lindsey! Lindsey, clear off the couch!" Cordelia comes running in, followed by Angel, who's supporting a weakened, bleeding Wesley. OhGodWesley.
"What happened?"
"It's nothing, really."
"The Camara demon, Wesley here thought he could take it."
"And I nearly did, thank you."
"Thought? Wait. I thought you were doing recon."
"So did I."
"The reconnaissance revealed the need for immediate action."
"You could have warned us."
"I did."
"'Stay close' is not a warning!"
"You seem to consider it more than adequate."
"I can handle myself. I didn't mean it like that, Wesley..."
"I want to go now, Lindsey." I slip my arm around his slender waist as he leans against me, weakened from battle and hurt by Angel's words. I don't look at Angel as we leave, and I don't smile in grim satisfaction as Cordelia berates Angel. She's not afraid of him, and I like that.
"Wes?" He looks up at me from the couch in our apartment and makes one of those charming inquisitive sounds, the one that makes my entire body tingle. There's so much I want to ask him - what the hell were you thinking? how could you do that to me? what are you trying to prove? do you even realize that we didn't kiss goodbye this morning? that you could die any day and I'd be left all alone again? "Are you sure you're all right?"
Then he smiles at me, a small one, through the pain, and I know he'll survive at lease one more day. We remove his shirt and I clean and bandage his wounds, all very carefully, methodically.
"I'll get you a clean shirt."
He catches my hand as I stand to leave and asks, "What's wrong?"
I want to tell him everything's fine. That's not true. I want to push him against the back of the couch and kiss him until he can't see straight. But I can't do either. All I can do is stand there, paralyzed, staring into his eyes.
I'm crying and he's holding me and I feel like such an idiot because here I am blubbering like a baby with a guy who was nearly killed only hours ago holding me and whispering comforting sounds into my hair. His hands are on my back now, cool and gentle, like a breeze on a on hot day, you can't get enough, and that just makes me cry harder.
"Shhh. It's okay. It's okay." I can feel him kissing my hair, he does that alot, I think he likes how it feels. "Don't cry, Lindsey."
Men don't cry, Lindsey.
"It's all right. Calm down."
Men don't cry.
"Men don't cry." His hands stop on my shoulders and he pushes me back. I look up and him and I see it. That look of disappointment, not in me, but in himself. And that hurts me more than anything else.
He pushes my hair back and wipes at me cheeks with his thumbs and it feels like forever before he actually says anything. "Yes, they do." No melodramatic speech, no laughing at me, just a calm statement.
I see the tears in his own eyes as he leans forward to kiss me, but veers off instead, so that his cheek rests against mine and he whispers, "I pray I never give you reason to do so again, but I will think no less of you if you do cry." Then, so quietly, "I love you, Lindsey."