Notes: This was written before I ever consciously connected it with the idea of fanfic, as part of a series of vignettes about the male body for an English project. Triple drabble.
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She thought it was easy for me to stand there and tell her I was alright. She knew I wasn�t. Knew it in her mind, and in her heart, and in her soul. But she believed when I told her no, I�m not afraid, I don�t hurt at all, I don�t need you to worry about me.
I needed her to be ok for me. I needed her to look at my body, my scarred body covered in a flimsy hospital gown, which would never be whole again, and I needed her to believe that I was going to be alright. Because if she didn�t believe it, this woman who had been there for every important moment in my life, if she didn�t believe it, how could I?
What happens now? her blue eyes asked me as they sparkled with tears. How do I reconcile myself with the fact that you have been shot? Shot. It�s a word that applies to other men. Men in the movies, men in wars, men who aren�t me. There are people who do this for a living, you know. On the President�s Secret Service detail, there�s this guy whose job it is to jump in front of the bullet. That�s not me. Shot is a word for other people.
She doesn�t want me to see her crying. But I do. I see it, and in a strange way it makes me feel better. She�s crying because she�s helpless. Because for the last two years it has been her job and her mission and her duty to help me, and now, when I need help so badly, there is nothing she can do. But this crying, it helps. She does it for me, because I cannot, will not.
It�s not a man�s place to cry.