A/N: i'm not the anon who said they'd do the fill, so hopefully we'll have a two cakes situation here :) cw for selfhate, shame, internalised transphobia, unvoiced suicide ideation ---
You wake up exhausted and you force yourself to get up and start the day. You make yourself look into the mirror, and you don’t wince, instead you make do. You have to. (The moustache is a joke with yourself, you tell yourself, even though you’d never admit it out loud.) You make and eat your breakfast mechanically and maybe you pick the boring choices, because it doesn’t matter, and your son’s favorite cereals go stale in the pantry but you can’t bring yourself to eat them alone and like, it’s fine, this one has more nutritions anyway, and it doesn’t matter. You go to work and you act normal, sharing jokes with Hen and Chim and clapping Buck’s shoulder and you try to ignore Gerrard who does you the favor of returning the gesture. If you are more distant lately mostly everyone understands, gives you space, it’s okay. Everyone else got their own shit going on. Things between Hen and Chim are awkward, with Hen’s kid living at Chim’s house and like, you understand, but you can’t listen to it right now. You’re good at your job, competent, capable, your hands are sure and they do exactly what they should, your head is clear and focused, your body primed for this and it works. At work you function, a perfect mimicry of normal. At work you don‘t feel wrong, because at work, you are in control. At work you manage to perform miracles. You come home to an empty house and you can’t even cry. You can’t make yourself do anything, so you just sit there, like a puppet with no strings. You’re tired again, but you can’t bring yourself to go to bed. There is just so much nothing ahead of you. And you keep remembering today, how your hands were steady and sure on the boy. No shakes to betray the nerves. Even though there were some nerves, you can admit that much now, it is a difficult procedure even under ideal circumstances, with so much that can go wrong. The human body is a fragile thing, so much more so when it’s a kid’s. You keep remembering the way Hen looked at you. Then that perfect moment when the kid’s pulse steadied. Elation and relief hitting you like a punch. And then that hazy voice. That word. Dad? But the boy didn‘t mean you, you know, you know. But the word still shocked you, reminded you just how much you miss that word coming from another voice, another boy, and normally it doesn’t hit you that much at work. But it doesn’t leave you alone. You don’t always take your work home, but you can never help it when it’s kids. You feel like you have to do something, anything, some insane urge to… You tell yourself you just want to help, and that it isn’t a compulsion to fix something because you‘re too scared to fix your own situation. Because obviously you‘re not scared. But you are not entirely successful with it. So you dig and call in some favors until you have a name, an address, and you just leave. You find a father who is ashamed of his son and because of that he won’t even be close to his kid when said kid needs him most. Always sons and fathers. Of course, of course. It‘s not the same, of course, nothing could ever make you ashamed of your son, the fierce pride you feel for him every day is only maybe matched by how much you miss him now. You miss him so much you feel like you‘re losing it. You can’t imagine not wanting to be close to your son. And still, he is 800 miles away because you— You use the pain to build a bridge. You know it’s not the same. But still, the story is familiar. Your father‘s eyes are in your head, all seeing, the way you could never measure up, could never reach the goal he set for you. And you know your father falls short too, that he was wrong to set it in the first place, even. It doesn‘t matter. Because something about you is wrong. Always has been. You step into the shower and here you close your eyes and wash yourself with almost mindless efficiency. Military habit you’d say, water conversion, something people can nod at should they ask—which of course nobody ever does, but it feels better to have that reasoning, just in case—in truth you just hate lingering on it. The body. You don‘t know why it started again now, but you shouldn‘t be surprised. It always comes when you feel least in control. Always when you‘re at your worst. That fault in you pervades everything and you can never rid yourself of it. ~~~ So maybe it‘s not so surprising that after your shower you walk to your closet, carefully not thinking about what you will pick out. Carefully refraining from using a word for any of it. (After Shannon died you inherited all her things. Books, pictures, assorted odds and ends, clothes. All her clothes. It took you a while to deal with all of that, figuring out what would be the few things remaining of her in the world or just your lives. You donated or tossed out most of her clothes. You should have donated or thrown out all her clothes. But you couldn‘t. It was like a compulsion that was stronger than you, an unspecified need.) So now you’re alone in the dark of your house, naked, touching a sundress with shaking hands and you can’t do it. You want to, but you can‘t. Shame coats you inside and out. Maybe Kim was the divine punishment for keeping the dress, for wanting it. (If you were the sort of person to believe in that sort of thing, which of course you aren‘t. Because that feels like a cop out, like making excuses.) Three months ago, your life was almost entirely on track. A job you loved, the best kid in the world, a fun girlfriend who was easy to be around. Of course you ruined it. Your hands are still trembling, the dress is getting wrinkled up but maybe the fabric forgives that sort of thing, you don’t know. It‘s so nice to touch. Kinda textured, airy, soft. You‘re almost nauseated with want. (Shannon knew. You don’t know how or what or how much but you know she knew, you saw it in her eyes and you’re not thinking about it, but you keep remembering the look in her eyes and—) You hide the dress back in your closet and get dressed quickly. Then you go and sit in the dark kitchen and wonder if this is it. If you really need to stick around. But you have a kid who already lost his mother and you‘re never gonna do that to him. Not that you were thinking of anything, because you don’t get to do that. You‘re handling it. ~~~ Most of the time you’re not thinking about it. You built your life and it’s fine, most of the time. But when you do think about it your heart starts racing and it’s almost like a panic attack, and it feels like your brain is trying to devour itself with want and dread and shame and this all encompassing sadness—you’re so scared of going insane. Of this being it for the rest of your life. And you can’t even put it into words, not even in the privacy of your own head, you just know you’re wrong. It’s not just because of Christopher. It should be. It feels wrong to be sad about something that isn’t about him, it feels selfish. ~~~ You wake up exhausted the next morning. And the next. And the next. Bobby comes back. Hen and Karen get their kid back. Buck brings a corpse to work. Hen and Karen almost lose their other kid, and it’s horrible. And you put the Halloween decoration up by rote and take it down by rote. You can’t imagine doing this for the rest of your life. ~~~ You don’t know why you step into the church. How you ended up in the confessional. Only, maybe you hope you’ll get your punishment and it will be— You don’t know. But you don’t receive a punishment and it doesn’t help. You can’t find the right words to explain how fucked up you are anyway. So you just leave. You weren’t supposed to see Father Brian outside the confessional, that wasn’t the plan—you can’t just talk about this out in the open, you can’t— He tells you your mustache is handsome and arches his eyebrow when you tell him it’s a disguise, you meant it as a joke, wanted to make some quib about a mountain man’s beard maybe, but the words die in your mouth because he looks at you—he looks at you like he sees you. Like Shannon did. And you can’t do this but you also can’t move. He tells you to do a small frivolous thing, to find joy. He sees something in you—sees this in you—and he tells you to do something nice? It’s incongruous with everything you ever knew. It’s almost on autopilot that you leave, that you walk into the drugstore and buy some things and you notice that nobody looks at you weirdly, but it doesn’t make sense, that there isn’t some kind of siren going off. You go home still on autopilot, still almost in a thrall. You shave the mustache off. And then you keep going. Close shave for your face. You keep going. Your pits. Your legs. You’re almost shaking with it. You don’t even know if it feels right or wrong. You stop looking into the mirror as you put lotion on your skin, something neutral, but you bought it from the women’s section, and it’s—nobody will know, but you know. It’s an act you’ve seen your mother do often, and then your sister, then Shannon. Neither Ana nor Marisol did that sort of thing in front of you, but you still remember. You also still remember your mother looking at you strangely, whenever she noticed you watching. She wasn’t happy about it. Neither was your sister, she’d call you a freak. But Shannon never minded, she had a morning and an evening routine and you sat and watched and the two of you talked, joked, and she even let you massage the night cream into the skin of her face. It’s weird the way you remember all of this now. You still don’t look into the mirror. But you notice how soft your skin is, hairless, how nice it feels when you rub your legs together. Silky. It feels so good—it’s everywhere in your body, going off like little fireworks. You still don’t look into the mirror but you put on music, loud. So loud it drowns out your thoughts. And you go to the closet and you get the dress out. You breathe in, centered, aware, you breathe out, calm, but with anticipation. Brave, brave, be brave, you whisper to yourself, be brave, nobody can see you. You put it on. The dress feels divine where it touches the soft skin of your legs. Little sparks of joy. The music is full of energy, with a strong rhythm, and you can feel your body’s need to move, to dance. But first, you need to see, you need, you need— You thought maybe it’d be ridiculous, a man in a dress, you thought it would be horrifying, wrong, disgusting. It isn’t. It isn’t. You can’t stop looking at yourself in the mirror. It almost makes you cry. There you are, you think it, which should be nonsensical, but it isn’t. You breathe in and something settles in you, something good, something so much like joy. You stop fighting the smile that wants to break out. You breathe out. And then you dance. You dance around the house. Fun little steps you didn’t know you still remember, little flourishes that should feel wrong but don’t, hip movements, hands, it’s not the way you learned how to dance, but you’ve seen it all the time done by girls at the studio, at parties, in music videos your sisters tried to recreate. The music is loud, your heart pumps, your body moves weightlessly and you are smiling, laughing, moving, you can’t remember ever feeling like this. You never hear the doorbell, or the knock. But you hear the front door opening and reality returning. You whirl around to face Buck. He stares at you. His mouth is open in greeting, but now it just hangs open. In surprise? Shock? The music continues but you stand there, rooted to the spot. You stare at each other. Slowly, still staring at you, Buck closes the door behind him. His eyes flicker up and down your body. He has a six pack of beers with him. You still can’t move. “Ed—Eddie?” You can’t even really hear Buck over the music, but you can read it on his lips. It’s enough to snap you out of it, at least enough to stop the music. Instant silence. Your hands shake. Your entire body shakes. You are flushed, with both exertion and shame, and you feel cold. You want to run. You want to flee to your bedroom, barricade the door. You want to run out the door and never stop running. Brave, brave, be brave, you can still hear yourself, be brave, it’s okay. It will be okay. Buck still stares at you, but his face is open, no judgment, no disgust, some confusion, but. It’s okay. “Eddie?” Be brave, you tell yourself as you swallow the fear, your heart’s still pounding in your chest and your hands are trembling, but you take a breath, and you shake your head. Be brave, you tell yourself when you start crying and Buck almost jumps the couch to hold you. Be brave.
--- i'm very open to constructive feedback/criticism, especially since i'm not trans fem, in fact, not even fem, but i hope i did it justice and that someone likes it :)
FILL: I never fit in (or felt home in my skin)
cw for selfhate, shame, internalised transphobia, unvoiced suicide ideation
---
You wake up exhausted and you force yourself to get up and start the day. You make yourself look into the mirror, and you don’t wince, instead you make do. You have to. (The moustache is a joke with yourself, you tell yourself, even though you’d never admit it out loud.)
You make and eat your breakfast mechanically and maybe you pick the boring choices, because it doesn’t matter, and your son’s favorite cereals go stale in the pantry but you can’t bring yourself to eat them alone and like, it’s fine, this one has more nutritions anyway, and it doesn’t matter.
You go to work and you act normal, sharing jokes with Hen and Chim and clapping Buck’s shoulder and you try to ignore Gerrard who does you the favor of returning the gesture. If you are more distant lately mostly everyone understands, gives you space, it’s okay. Everyone else got their own shit going on. Things between Hen and Chim are awkward, with Hen’s kid living at Chim’s house and like, you understand, but you can’t listen to it right now.
You’re good at your job, competent, capable, your hands are sure and they do exactly what they should, your head is clear and focused, your body primed for this and it works. At work you function, a perfect mimicry of normal. At work you don‘t feel wrong, because at work, you are in control. At work you manage to perform miracles.
You come home to an empty house and you can’t even cry. You can’t make yourself do anything, so you just sit there, like a puppet with no strings. You’re tired again, but you can’t bring yourself to go to bed. There is just so much nothing ahead of you.
And you keep remembering today, how your hands were steady and sure on the boy. No shakes to betray the nerves. Even though there were some nerves, you can admit that much now, it is a difficult procedure even under ideal circumstances, with so much that can go wrong. The human body is a fragile thing, so much more so when it’s a kid’s. You keep remembering the way Hen looked at you. Then that perfect moment when the kid’s pulse steadied. Elation and relief hitting you like a punch. And then that hazy voice. That word. Dad? But the boy didn‘t mean you, you know, you know. But the word still shocked you, reminded you just how much you miss that word coming from another voice, another boy, and normally it doesn’t hit you that much at work.
But it doesn’t leave you alone. You don’t always take your work home, but you can never help it when it’s kids. You feel like you have to do something, anything, some insane urge to…
You tell yourself you just want to help, and that it isn’t a compulsion to fix something because you‘re too scared to fix your own situation. Because obviously you‘re not scared. But you are not entirely successful with it.
So you dig and call in some favors until you have a name, an address, and you just leave.
You find a father who is ashamed of his son and because of that he won’t even be close to his kid when said kid needs him most. Always sons and fathers. Of course, of course. It‘s not the same, of course, nothing could ever make you ashamed of your son, the fierce pride you feel for him every day is only maybe matched by how much you miss him now. You miss him so much you feel like you‘re losing it. You can’t imagine not wanting to be close to your son. And still, he is 800 miles away because you—
You use the pain to build a bridge.
You know it’s not the same. But still, the story is familiar. Your father‘s eyes are in your head, all seeing, the way you could never measure up, could never reach the goal he set for you. And you know your father falls short too, that he was wrong to set it in the first place, even. It doesn‘t matter. Because something about you is wrong. Always has been.
You step into the shower and here you close your eyes and wash yourself with almost mindless efficiency. Military habit you’d say, water conversion, something people can nod at should they ask—which of course nobody ever does, but it feels better to have that reasoning, just in case—in truth you just hate lingering on it. The body.
You don‘t know why it started again now, but you shouldn‘t be surprised. It always comes when you feel least in control. Always when you‘re at your worst. That fault in you pervades everything and you can never rid yourself of it.
~~~
So maybe it‘s not so surprising that after your shower you walk to your closet, carefully not thinking about what you will pick out. Carefully refraining from using a word for any of it.
(After Shannon died you inherited all her things. Books, pictures, assorted odds and ends, clothes. All her clothes. It took you a while to deal with all of that, figuring out what would be the few things remaining of her in the world or just your lives. You donated or tossed out most of her clothes. You should have donated or thrown out all her clothes. But you couldn‘t. It was like a compulsion that was stronger than you, an unspecified need.)
So now you’re alone in the dark of your house, naked, touching a sundress with shaking hands and you can’t do it. You want to, but you can‘t. Shame coats you inside and out.
Maybe Kim was the divine punishment for keeping the dress, for wanting it. (If you were the sort of person to believe in that sort of thing, which of course you aren‘t. Because that feels like a cop out, like making excuses.)
Three months ago, your life was almost entirely on track. A job you loved, the best kid in the world, a fun girlfriend who was easy to be around. Of course you ruined it.
Your hands are still trembling, the dress is getting wrinkled up but maybe the fabric forgives that sort of thing, you don’t know. It‘s so nice to touch. Kinda textured, airy, soft. You‘re almost nauseated with want.
(Shannon knew. You don’t know how or what or how much but you know she knew, you saw it in her eyes and you’re not thinking about it, but you keep remembering the look in her eyes and—)
You hide the dress back in your closet and get dressed quickly. Then you go and sit in the dark kitchen and wonder if this is it. If you really need to stick around. But you have a kid who already lost his mother and you‘re never gonna do that to him. Not that you were thinking of anything, because you don’t get to do that.
You‘re handling it.
~~~
Most of the time you’re not thinking about it. You built your life and it’s fine, most of the time. But when you do think about it your heart starts racing and it’s almost like a panic attack, and it feels like your brain is trying to devour itself with want and dread and shame and this all encompassing sadness—you’re so scared of going insane. Of this being it for the rest of your life.
And you can’t even put it into words, not even in the privacy of your own head, you just know you’re wrong.
It’s not just because of Christopher. It should be. It feels wrong to be sad about something that isn’t about him, it feels selfish.
~~~
You wake up exhausted the next morning. And the next. And the next.
Bobby comes back. Hen and Karen get their kid back. Buck brings a corpse to work. Hen and Karen almost lose their other kid, and it’s horrible. And you put the Halloween decoration up by rote and take it down by rote.
You can’t imagine doing this for the rest of your life.
~~~
You don’t know why you step into the church. How you ended up in the confessional. Only, maybe you hope you’ll get your punishment and it will be—
You don’t know. But you don’t receive a punishment and it doesn’t help. You can’t find the right words to explain how fucked up you are anyway. So you just leave.
You weren’t supposed to see Father Brian outside the confessional, that wasn’t the plan—you can’t just talk about this out in the open, you can’t—
He tells you your mustache is handsome and arches his eyebrow when you tell him it’s a disguise, you meant it as a joke, wanted to make some quib about a mountain man’s beard maybe, but the words die in your mouth because he looks at you—he looks at you like he sees you. Like Shannon did. And you can’t do this but you also can’t move. He tells you to do a small frivolous thing, to find joy. He sees something in you—sees this in you—and he tells you to do something nice? It’s incongruous with everything you ever knew.
It’s almost on autopilot that you leave, that you walk into the drugstore and buy some things and you notice that nobody looks at you weirdly, but it doesn’t make sense, that there isn’t some kind of siren going off. You go home still on autopilot, still almost in a thrall. You shave the mustache off. And then you keep going. Close shave for your face. You keep going. Your pits. Your legs. You’re almost shaking with it. You don’t even know if it feels right or wrong. You stop looking into the mirror as you put lotion on your skin, something neutral, but you bought it from the women’s section, and it’s—nobody will know, but you know.
It’s an act you’ve seen your mother do often, and then your sister, then Shannon. Neither Ana nor Marisol did that sort of thing in front of you, but you still remember. You also still remember your mother looking at you strangely, whenever she noticed you watching. She wasn’t happy about it. Neither was your sister, she’d call you a freak. But Shannon never minded, she had a morning and an evening routine and you sat and watched and the two of you talked, joked, and she even let you massage the night cream into the skin of her face. It’s weird the way you remember all of this now.
You still don’t look into the mirror. But you notice how soft your skin is, hairless, how nice it feels when you rub your legs together. Silky. It feels so good—it’s everywhere in your body, going off like little fireworks. You still don’t look into the mirror but you put on music, loud. So loud it drowns out your thoughts. And you go to the closet and you get the dress out. You breathe in, centered, aware, you breathe out, calm, but with anticipation. Brave, brave, be brave, you whisper to yourself, be brave, nobody can see you. You put it on. The dress feels divine where it touches the soft skin of your legs. Little sparks of joy. The music is full of energy, with a strong rhythm, and you can feel your body’s need to move, to dance. But first, you need to see, you need, you need—
You thought maybe it’d be ridiculous, a man in a dress, you thought it would be horrifying, wrong, disgusting. It isn’t. It isn’t.
You can’t stop looking at yourself in the mirror. It almost makes you cry. There you are, you think it, which should be nonsensical, but it isn’t.
You breathe in and something settles in you, something good, something so much like joy. You stop fighting the smile that wants to break out. You breathe out. And then you dance.
You dance around the house. Fun little steps you didn’t know you still remember, little flourishes that should feel wrong but don’t, hip movements, hands, it’s not the way you learned how to dance, but you’ve seen it all the time done by girls at the studio, at parties, in music videos your sisters tried to recreate. The music is loud, your heart pumps, your body moves weightlessly and you are smiling, laughing, moving, you can’t remember ever feeling like this.
You never hear the doorbell, or the knock. But you hear the front door opening and reality returning. You whirl around to face Buck. He stares at you. His mouth is open in greeting, but now it just hangs open. In surprise? Shock? The music continues but you stand there, rooted to the spot. You stare at each other.
Slowly, still staring at you, Buck closes the door behind him. His eyes flicker up and down your body. He has a six pack of beers with him. You still can’t move.
“Ed—Eddie?” You can’t even really hear Buck over the music, but you can read it on his lips.
It’s enough to snap you out of it, at least enough to stop the music. Instant silence. Your hands shake. Your entire body shakes. You are flushed, with both exertion and shame, and you feel cold. You want to run. You want to flee to your bedroom, barricade the door. You want to run out the door and never stop running.
Brave, brave, be brave, you can still hear yourself, be brave, it’s okay. It will be okay.
Buck still stares at you, but his face is open, no judgment, no disgust, some confusion, but. It’s okay.
“Eddie?”
Be brave, you tell yourself as you swallow the fear, your heart’s still pounding in your chest and your hands are trembling, but you take a breath, and you shake your head. Be brave, you tell yourself when you start crying and Buck almost jumps the couch to hold you. Be brave.
---
i'm very open to constructive feedback/criticism, especially since i'm not trans fem, in fact, not even fem, but i hope i did it justice and that someone likes it :)